Sacrament

ii

'How longs this going to take?' Will asked Koppelman next time he came around.

'What, to get you up and about?'

'Up, about and out of here.'

'Depends on you. Depends how hard you work at it.'

'Are we talking days, weeks-?'

'At least six weeks,' Koppelman replied.

'I'll halve it,' Will said. 'Three weeks and I'm gone.'

'Tell your legs that.'

'I already did. We had a great conversation.'

'By the way, I got a call from Adrianna.'

'Shit. What did you tell her?'

'I had no choice but to tell her the truth. I did say you were still feeling woozy, and you hadn't felt like calling up all your friends, but she wasn't convinced. You'd better make your peace with her.'

'First you're my doctor, now you're my conscience?'

'I am indeed,' he replied gravely.

'I'll call her today.'

She made him squirm.

'Here's me going around in a fucking depression thinking about you lying there in a coma and you're not! You're awake, and you don't have the fucking time to call me up and tell me?'

'I'm sorry.'

'No you're not. You've never been sorry for anything in your life.'

'I was feeling like shit. I didn't talk to anybody.' Silence. 'Peace?' Still silence. 'Are you still there?'

'Still here.'

'Peace?'

'I heard you the first time: you are an egocentric fucking son of a fucking bitch, you know that?'

'Koppelman said you thought I was a genius.'

'I never said genius. I may have said talented, but I thought you were going to die so I was feeling generous.'

'You cried.'

'Not that generous.'

'Christ, you're a hard woman.'

'All right, I cried. A little. But I will not make that mistake again, even if you feed yourself to a fucking pack of polar bears.'

'Which reminds me. What happened to Guthrie?'

'Dead and buried. There was an obituary in The Times, believe it or not.'

'For Guthrie?'

'He'd had quite a life. So ... when are you coming back?'

'Koppelman's pretty vague about that right now. It's going to be a few weeks, he says.'

'But you'll come straight home to San Francisco, won't you?'

'I haven't made up my mind.'

'There's a lot of people care about you here. Patrick, for one. He's always asking after you. And there's me, and Glenn-'

'You're back with Glenn?'

'Don't change the subject. But yes, I'm back with Glenn. I'll open up your house, get it together for you so you can have a real homecoming.'

'Homecomings are for people who have homes,' Will said. He'd never much liked the house on Sanchez Street; never much liked any house, in fact.

'So pretend,' Adrianna told him. 'Give yourself some time to kick back.'

'I'll think about it. How is Patrick, by the way?'

'I saw him last week. He's put on some weight since I saw him.'

'Will you call him for me?'

'No.'

'Adrianna

'You call him. He'd like that. A lot. In fact that's how you can make it up to me, by calling Patrick and telling him you're okay.'

'That is the most fucked up piece of logic.'

'It isn't logic. It's a guilt-trip. I learned it from my mother. Have you got Patrick's number?'

'Probably.'

'No excuses. Write it down. Have you got a pen?' He rummaged for one on the table beside his bed. She gave him the number and he dutifully jotted it down. 'I'm going to speak to him tomorrow, Will,' Adrianna said. 'And if you haven't called him there'll be trouble.'

'I'll call him, I'll call him. Jesus.'

'Rafael walked out on him, so don't mention the little fuck's name.'

'I thought you liked him.'

'Oh he knows how to turn on the charm,' Adrianna said, 'but he was just another party-boy at heart.'

'He's young. He's allowed.'

'Whereas we

-are old and wise and full of flatulence.'

Adrianna giggled. 'I've missed you,' she said.

'And quite right too.'

'Patrick's got himself a guru, by the way: Bethlynn Reichle. She's teaching him to meditate. It's quite nostalgic really. Now when I see Pat we sit cross-legged on the floor, smoke weed and make peace signs at one another.'

'Whatever he's telling you, Patrick was never a flower-child. The summer of love didn't reach Minneapolis.'

'He comes from Minneapolis?'

'Just outside. His father's a pig farmer.'

'What?' said Adrianna, in mock outrage. 'He said his Dad was a landscape artist

-who died of a brain tumor? Yeah, he tells everybody that. It's not true. His Dad's alive and kicking and living in pigshit in the middle of Minnesota. And making a mint from the bacon business, I might add.'

'Pat's such a lying bastard. Wait till I tell him.'

Will chuckled. 'Don't expect him to be contrite,' he said. 'He doesn't do contrite. How are things going with Glenn?'

'We putter on,' she said unenthusiastically. 'It's better than a lot of folks have got. It's just not inspired. I always wanted one grand romance in my life. One that was reciprocated, I mean. Now I think it's too late.' She sighed. 'God, listen to me!'

'You need a cocktail, that's all.'

'Are you allowed to drink yet?'

'I'll ask Bernie. I don't know. Did he try and put the moves on you, by the way?'

'What, Koppelman? No. Why?'

'I just think he was smitten with you, that's all. The way he talks about you.'

'Well why the hell didn't he say something?'

'You probably intimidated him.'

'L'il of me? Nah. I'm a pussy-cat, you know that. Not that I would have said yes if he'd offered. I mean, I've got some standards. They're low, granted, but I've got 'em and I'm proud of 'em.'

'Have you considered becoming a comedienne?' Will said, much amused. 'You'd probably have a decent career.'

'Does this mean you meant what you said in Balthazar? About giving it all up?'

'I think it's the other way round,' Will said. 'Photography's done with me, Adie. And we've both seen enough bone-yards for one lifetime.'

'So what happens now?'

'I finish the book. I deliver the book. Then I wait. You know how I like waiting. Watching.'

'For what, Will?'

'I don't know. Something wild.'

CHAPTER II

The following day, inspired by the conversation with Adrianna, he pushed his physiotherapy harder than his body was ready for, and ended up feeling worse than he'd felt since coming out of the coma. Koppelman prescribed pain-killers, and they were powerful enough to induce a pleasant lightheadedness, in which state he made his promised call to Patrick. It was not Patrick who answered the phone, but Jack Fisher, a black guy who'd been in and out of Patrick's circle for the last half decade. An ex-dancer, if Will's memory served. Lean, longlimbed, and fiercely bright. He sounded weary, but welcomed Will's call.

'I know he wants to talk to you, but he's asleep right now.'

'That's okay, Jack. I'll call another day. How's he doing?'

'He's getting over a bout of pneumonia,' Fisher replied. 'But he's doing better. Getting about a bit, you know. I heard you had a bad time.'

'I'm mending,' Will said. Flying, more like. The pain-killers had by now induced a more than mild euphoria. He closed his eyes, picturing the man at the other end of the line. 'I'm going to be there in a couple of weeks. Maybe we can have a beer.'

'Sure,' Jack said, sounding a little perplexed at the invitation. 'We can do that.'

'Are you looking after Patrick right now?'

'No, I'm just visiting. You know Patrick. He likes having people around. And I give a great foot massage. You know what? I hear Patrick calling. I'll take the phone through to him. It was good talking to you, bro. Give me the nod when you're back in town. Hey, Patrick? Guess what?' Will heard a muffled exchange. Then Jack was back on the line. 'Here he is, bro.'