Via Dolorosa(65)

The man spun halfway around before collapsing to the street. He arched his back when he struck and gathered his hands up under his head as he lay, face down. Insanely, the only thought rushing through Nick’s mind at that moment was what had happened to the man’s cigarette—he hadn’t seen it come loose from his lips yet he hadn’t seen it leave his mouth during that slow motion, fifteen-hour, double-feature, end-of-the-world plummet to the cobblestone street. He hadn’t—

Had—

Something whizzed past his head. Instinct yanked him out of the way. A second later he heard what sounded like someone dropping a crate of eggs. And he remained, trying to assimilate that sound and piece it into the reality of the world around him, even though he was watching it all unfold right in front of him, and he could see it all with his own eyes: Isabella directly above the Pygmalion crumble, swatting at the back of the man’s head and the quivering hump of his spine with the old man’s ukulele. The victimized instrument, after only a single blow, surrendered into a gangling ensemble of clapboard and frets, held together by the sinews of copper-plated strings that twanged with each strike administered to the nearly unconscious drunkard between Isabella Rosales’s feet.

Time caught up. Nick jerked forward and grabbed her by the shoulders, dragged her backward. Several feet away now, she was still swinging the ukulele. And screaming profanity in Spanish. Kicking at him, too—although it did not appear that any kicks actually connected. Hysterical, her swinging arm continued to work at nothing. Nick grabbed her around the wrist (and pain exploded and raced up his own arm, although he was drunk on enough adrenaline to hardly notice at the moment) and guided her under control. He had to pry her fingers off the ukulele. As he held her against his chest, afraid to release her, he could feel how fast her heart was beating and how deep her breaths were. The ukulele crumbled to the pavement like a skeleton. She would hyperventilate for sure if he didn’t calm her, didn’t get her under control…

“Come on,” he said. His voice had no tone, no description: it was neither a yell nor a whisper. “Come on, come on, come on, come on…”

They staggered away from the scene, just as the other two men, Leslie Hansen and Ben, overcame their initial shock and wandered over to their fallen friend. A casual crowd of bar-hoppers was now gathering around. It was a crime scene.

“Calm down,” he said to her, and pulled her back down a dark, narrow alleyway. There was hardly any room to stand and face her, the buildings on either side were so close. But it was the only place of refuge. He looked at her and realized how much taller he was. “Are you crying?” he said. “Don’t cry.”

She drummed a hand on his chest. She wasn’t crying—she was laughing.

“I think…I knocked it out…of his mouth, all right,” she managed between great, whooping breaths. “I think I knocked it out…like a goddamn…a goddamn…” But she couldn’t stop laughing.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. He could feel laughter building in him, too, although admittedly he could find nothing funny about what had just happened. There was no source to the laughter, nothing he could familiarize himself with; yet it hastened to come. “Yes, you knocked it out all right.”

“Yes,” she said, and kissed him.

“I think he swallowed the damn thing,” he said, kissing her back.

“You sized him up pretty good, too.” Kissing.

“Thank you.”

“You can certainly size people up, my Nicholas,” she nearly cajoled.

“You can certainly size them up and you can certainly bring them down.”

“You brought him down,” he said.

Still kissing.

This is drunken adrenaline talk with Isabella Rosales from Spain, his stupid, wasted mind spoke up. Hearts beating, racing.

He kissed down her neck. She pushed herself harder against him. Her hair smelled strongly of sweat and it was wet and matted to the nape of her neck, the sides of her face. There was sweat everywhere: it sprung from the both of them and bled into their clothes. Spanish words, whispered, filtered into his ear. Drunk. He understood none of it and it was spectacular. The words seemed to flow. They did not collide like English words. Spanish was different—more enigmatic. He could not tell where one word ended and another began. It was the beauty of the mystery. Then she said something else—something in English, definite English and he felt something cold explode within him. He pulled away from her with such force that he slammed his back against the brick alley wall.

Her face, still very close to his, with sudden eyes, asked, “What is it?”

“What you said,” he stammered.

“What did I say, darling?”

He was aware of her hand still at the base of his neck. He shook her off him.

“What did I say?” she repeated.

“You know,” he said. “You know what you said.”

“Tell me,” she pleaded. “I said nothing. What did I say?” Those eyes would not leave him. “What did I say?”

“You said…you said, ‘Have baby. In stomach.’ You said it.”

She just stared at him.

“You said it,” he repeated. “I heard you. You said it in my ear. Clear as day.”

“Nicholas,” she said, and her dark head began to shake very subtly from side to side, “I said no such thing.”