Abercrombie's Reentry

Watching Abercrombie perk up after his admission amused Farrell. Ordinarily his friend affected worldly on the way to blasé. Sometimes, though, something unexpected shook those underpinnings.

He mused how Abercrombie might react upon hearing that in years long past when early postings stationed him nearby, relatively speaking, Farrell would race those several hundred miles into T-town. Returned without alerting any of the old gang who'd found jobs and resided there, he'd spy on Ingrid, by then a married mother.

Later when the term gained currency Farrell never considered himself a stalker. Merely curious and observant.

Earlier as students, he and Ingrid had meshed. Imperfectly as it were. Despite finding the other a match, both ironically aspired to lead the other's lifestyle. A military brat, she'd circled the world making superficial connections. After graduation all Ingrid desired was one solid bond and a permanent address.

Farrell grew up in Mallet, Arizona, a copper mining town so close even the most facile friendships often felt incestuous. He wanted out badly. A sheepskin and a commission would let Farrell swim in the vast seas she disdained.

Accommodation was impossible. Each unhappily took his or her road.

Despite conditions, the pressure of Ingrid against him continually seared his dreams. Her hair texture, how her mouth tasted, the sweet contrasts of her breasts and nipples upon his lips and tongue, the scent of her sex, none ever abandoned Farrell.

Ingrid's absence left one deep ache.

She wed a dutiful man who harnessed himself to numb routine and incremental advances. Maybe after 30 or 40 years of fidelity, their grown children might show gratitude; carefully tended investments could permit passable retirement; both would proudly wear white shoes and belts.

When possible during the 80s, Farrell intruded upon her mundane existence. He kept himself inconspicuous (even with field glasses around his neck!) and his cars nondescript. Neither Ingrid nor her neighbors were aware of his dedication.

Ingrid bore three children. Each birth larded pounds she carried obliviously. Farrell wondered how her husband reconciled her increasing plumpness. Being with her daily, did those gains even register? Or had he resigned himself to her inexorable female physique?

Farrell saw she was a good mother. A conscientious shopper. Made her family's patch of desert bloom with plants ill-suited for Arizona extremes. He knew she ought have been doing more. Or if Farrell felt particularly selfish, believed himself deserving of her servility. How did posts in Greece or Japan, or some deployment compare against steady diets of home-cooked meals and welcomed domesticity?

The 1980s faded into the early 90s. His promotions required longer, distant tours. Time and space dissolved Ingrid's hold, dissipating his desire and unshackling both forever.

Farrell described Inez. He spoke glowingly. Although always known as honest, the tenderness in his voice astonished Abercrombie.

"Inez makes me feel alive. Really alive. Vibrant. Listening to myself I have to ask do I sound like somebody who knows he lucked out? Or is that what all men kidding themselves say?"

Abercrombie's laughter carried reassurance. "Not at all! You sound happy. Run like hell with it!"

His friend's encouragement eased Farrell's more nagging doubts. Among his buddies, he felt fortunate Abercrombie first heard the news. Not that Lowery and the others wouldn't have rejoiced, but their approval lacked Abercrombie's heft. He possessed gravity. His nod was sought-after.

Relieved, mood lightened, Farrell told Abercrombie he should thank dumb luck for finding him anywhere near T-town.

"Inez has a week or so before her show, uh, movie wraps. We have plans for afterward. Fly out to San Diego. Rent some wheels. Follow the Coast Highway up to Seattle. Or Vancouver. Maybe if I'm brave enough, meet her people along the way. But you, Ian, what are you doing here during scalding season?"

Had Lowery sat across from him, Abercrombie might've answered "Money!" Instead the past lured him back. His own and persons whose histories coincided with his.

Apparently outside the university's Humanities Department teacher-student mixers had been rare, if not altogether unknown. Before political correctness, sky-high liabilities, gender lines solidifying into ramparts, much more was permitted among mentors and novices. Socialization hadn't yet become a criminal offense.

In loco parentis ably served the immature and defended the cowardly. Those seeing themselves adults, and behaving that way, understood higher admission offered benefits as well as asked further responsibility. Entering full-fledged adulthood added more than subtracted. Yes, occasionally what it extracted was greater, leaving deficits maybe requiring lifetimes to level.

Abercrombie considered himself one who came out ahead. He answered Farrell's question.

"Work. A writing job. One I started about 30 years ago and never even knew. End of junior year I attended a party. Some pal of Downer's, Department Chairman Downs, is blowing through on the way to LA. He'd written a book. Couple of years later I read that book. It's a piece of shit. But it sold like ice in hell. Forget about the sight unseen movie option in his pocket. This no-talent fuck's got a spot booked on Johnny."

"Johnny-fucking-Carson!?" Farrell said. "No-fucking-shit!"

Abercrombie nodded. "That's right. Not only does 'the author' have beaucoup money and all the pussy it rents and dope it buys, but he's been invited to meet Jesus and walk on water with him."

Aroused by someone with narrow degrees of separation from the late talk show host, Farrell topped their glasses and scraped chair legs closer to the table. Abercrombie continued.

"So I figure he and Downs must've been blackmail buddies or something. His stopping by T-town longer than to fill the tank and pee is a big wet kiss for Downs. The university gets some sugar too. Addressing a lecture hall full of MFA suck-ups and choking on some soggy canapés afterwards just wouldn't have made the cut."

It sounded sensible and Farrell nodded in agreement.

"An admin muck either sweet-talked or blew some gallery owner," Abercrombie said. "Duff Scharlach. If I remember correctly he was supposed to be T-town's first New York style art 'maven.'"

Abercrombie rolled his eyes. "I can only imagine what people here thought then. I mean 'New York style art'?"

Having resided in Manhattan for nearly seven years, Farrell was quietly proud his friend felt no need to define "maven." Proof the Arizonan wasn't a rube! Abercrombie tumbled on.

"So, he hosted an invitation-only shindig. Let me say this, though, Scharlach, whoever, was one of those wildly perceptive art mopes who could eyeball dog shit then tell you what GNP figures those turds should fetch 10 years later. Well, that's the guy they got to host."

Both took a glass-draining pulls. Nothing but fumes left in the pitcher, Farrell signaled a waitress. Abercrombie dropped another nugget.

"No one knew about 'synthesis' then. You mention 'synthesis' then and people thought 'science?' The smart ones at least. The dummies'd look at you and think it was a synonym for 'synopsis.'"

Farrell guffawed. Their waitress swooped by with fresh suds and smilingly refilled their glasses. Abercrombie grinned and continued.

"Whatever Scharlach had slapped on the walls wasn't the usual bleached steer skull or cactus. His gallery squatted on a block before gentrification. He's homesteading in an area that's dodgy during daylight -- forget at night. But you had a big-time writer nobody's read in an eye-strain setting that challenged everybody's erudition. It was a circle jerk of dick-swinging commerce and shameless self-promotion. And boy, am I glad I didn't blow it off. ..."