Calling Out (10 page)

“One of my brothers is in jail for drugs,” Ember says.
“One's in the army in Texas. One is a steamfitter in Milwaukee. He's the most normal. And one's dead. He died
last year when this chick hit him with a brick.”

“I'm sorry,” I say.

“Don't be. He was an asshole. He tried to rape me
when I was twelve.”

Ember has her feet up on the glove compartment
again; her skirt pushed up like a tomboy's, her hair in a
high ponytail, and her hamburger resting on her knees.
She looks ten years younger than she did before her date.

“I miss the idea of my brothers,” she says. “But I don't
really miss them as people.”

I take the long way home, up along the ridge of the
Avenues with a perfect view of the graph of lights in the
valley and the fantastically lit temple glowing at its heart.
Whatever one thinks of Mormon ideology, the way they
took control of this place, bent it to their will, and forced
unforgiving land to make sense is admirable.

“Hey look,” Ember says, pointing up to a streetlight.

For the first time this season, it's begun to snow.

Although I wake up to a glorious white-covered morning, by
the afternoon all the snow has melted in the unrelenting valley sun. As I drive
to work, the last shaded patches are seeping into the ground.

Inside the office, Jezebel and Nikyla are decorating a
fake Christmas tree Mohammed brought in to make the
workplace more festive. Albee drags a wad of tinsel
through their feet.

“I need another box,” Jezebel says, after tossing a
handful of tinsel on the tree without discretion. “This side
is totally naked.”

Nikyla carefully hangs frosted-glass ornaments in
even spaces between the artificial limbs of the tree.

“Maybe if you hung the strands individually, it
wouldn't end up so lopsided,” Nikyla says.

Jezebel moves from the tree and hangs tinsel on
Nikyla's shoulders, head, and breasts, until Nikyla gives
her a playful shove.

“Come on, Rox, help us out here,” Nikyla says.

But the phone is ringing so I skitter over to answer it,
setting up a date for S&M Samantha with a once-aweeker in Federal Heights, before even sitting down.

“I can't believe you pushed that whore instead of me,”
Jezebel says, draping her arm around Nikyla. “I'm totally
broke. Albee is so fucking expensive.”

“You couldn't have gone anyway,” Nikyla says.

“Hey, Roxanne,” Jezebel says. “You should come with
us!”

“Come with you where?” I ask.

“Bachelor party. These guys coming in from L.A. out
at Alta. Come on. It's the best setup.”

“We'll show you what to do,” Nikyla says.

“I don't think so,” I say. “I'm not ready for that.”

“But you're considering it?” Nikyla asks.

“I guess,” I say shyly, though the thought of dancing
around next to these two nubile beauties in a roomful of
chanting drunken men seems scarier and more exposing
than rolling around on a bed with a stranger.

“Oh come on,” Jezebel says, fingering her bottom lip
like a toddler, “don't be a party pooper.”

Nikyla winks at me. “Another time, Rox. When you're
ready.”

“Thanks,” I say.

But as they bustle around, painting their faces,
laughing, spraying perfume, I want to be one of them. I'm
jealous even though I'm not quite sure of what.

“They booked us for two hours,” Nikyla says, “but
since it's early I'm sure they'll want us longer.”

Jezebel says, “As if they would tell two hot naked girls,
‘Okay, you can go now.'”

They set off, done up like party-going teenagers, and
leave me alone with the half-tinseled tree. I turn on a
lamp in the lounge to save the tree from the obfuscating
darkness but it's tilted and more blaringly metal and
plastic in the light. The void from the girls' departure is
heavy and quiet. I start hoping they forgot something and
will come back for me.

When the door flies open, I jolt out of my chair but
it's just Mohammed with a wreath in one hand and a bag
of lights in the other.

“It's looking better in here,” he says.

“Since when do Muslims celebrate Christmas?” I ask.

“Hah. I am an American,” he says, shaking his fist in
the air. He takes a roll of stringed lights from the bag and
hands it to me. “Start at the top of the tree and work your
way down. Next year maybe we'll get one of those fluffy
trees that's all white.”

“Flocked?”

“Flocked. Yes,” he says. “That would be nice.”

He sticks a cluster of plastic thumbtacks into the door
and hangs the pine wreath, already dried out and starting
to brown in patches.

“That new girl quit. Megan who called herself
Pamela. After one lousy date. Can you believe this? I went
out on a limb for her, gave her a chance, and look at the
thanks I get.”

“I think she was pretty traumatized. It took me
twenty minutes to get her to stop crying after the date.”

“What did she think she'd be doing? Dinner and a
movie? That crummy bracelet of hers isn't worth anything. We have to be more careful about who we take on.
I mean this.”

Mohammed straightens the wreath.

“I'll be at the Saharan,” he says.

He shuts the door behind him and a sprinkle of needles falls to the carpet.

Ford, Ember, and Ralf are drinking whiskey in the
kitchen when I get home. Ember is making popcorn while
the other two play chess at the table.

“One big happy family,” I say.

“Jane!” Ember says. “We've missed you.”

She kisses my cheek and hands me a glass. I catch

what looks like envy shadow Ford's face. Ralf smiles up at
me through his shaggy bangs then goes back to concentrating on the board. Ford pulls me onto his lap.

“How's the house going?” I ask.

“We put in the windows today,” he says.

Finishing the house means Ford will leave in a week.

I don't ask whether Ember will be going with him. It
doesn't seem like she'll be going back to waitressing in
Moab anytime soon. From the way she flits around the
kitchen, I can tell she's been into the drugs again. She
comes over and hugs me and puts her warm cheek next to
mine. I drink.

“Are you working tomorrow?” Ember asks. “I am,” she
says before I answer. “I hope you're on. I want you to be
the one who sends me out.”

“Jane,” Ralf says after moving his knight, “did you
know that the Mormons are so well-ordered that they
have three levels of heaven? The Celestial, Terrestrial, and
Telestial Kingdoms.”

“So you're saying I might have a shot?” I ask.
“Even the mere-mortal nonbelievers have hope of
getting into the lowest one, the Celestial Kingdom. I
imagine it's not so bad,” he says, downing the rest of his
whiskey.

“It's heaven at least,” I say.

“You'll do all right,” Ralf says.

Ember plunks down a big bowl of warm popcorn on
the table. We each take greedy handfuls. Ford moves his
rook.

Ember situates herself on Ralf 's lap as if she were a
child, as if it were the most natural thing. He is surprised
though clearly pleased to have been selected as her seat.
The whiskey forms a thin warm layer around me.

“Okay, Jane,” Ember says, biting her lip. “Let's play a
game. For one minute—that's sixty
Mississippis
—I dare
you to stand there and show us your boobs.”

“What kind of game is that?” I ask.

Ford shifts underneath me in the chair. Ralf 's mouth
is open and he's trying not to smile. Ember grins and
throws a popcorn kernel at me. I am torn between panic
and thrill. I take the stage.

It's an odd feeling, all those eyes of anticipation on
me. I'm somehow shamed even in my pre-nakedness. But
I am also the one chosen and I don't want to disappoint.
I feel close to powerless in that spotlight, unable to break
the contract. To fulfill their expectation, I must follow
through. I stand in the middle of the linoleum-floored
kitchen and, without a word, lift off my sweater, then my
shirt, and watch them as they watch me in my bra. Ember
smiles and counts. Ralf is beatific. Ford glances at my
breasts—breasts he's seen before—then looks up and
holds my gaze. But the frosty air that slips through the illfitting windows gives me goose bumps and at once I lose
my nerve.

“I can't do it,” I say.

“Pussy,” Ember says.

“I know it shouldn't be that big a deal. But…”

“It's all right,” she says. “We still love you.”

I pull my shirt back on and ball up my sweater,
tossing it into the corner. Instead of Ford's lap, I opt for
the floor. The stunt has left me feeling provoked.

“Ford,” I say, “I have a question.”

He takes a sip of his drink and crosses his arms to prepare himself.

“What do you really think about Ember being an
escort?” I ask.

He drops his head briefly, resting his chin on his chest
and pursing his lips. Although I know he is angry about
the ambush, he keeps any evidence of it from his face. If
anything, he looks a bit bewildered. He picks up a chess
piece and taps it against the table.

“Interesting question,” Ember says. “I'm curious to
hear the answer myself.”

The tone of the room has darkened but I fight the
urge to lighten it. Ford has yet to utter a syllable.

“Maybe we should go to the movies,” Ralf says under
his breath.

“What do I think of my girlfriend being an escort,”
Ford says, leaning forward, only looking at me. “Well,
Jane, if you must know, I'm not so comfortable with it. In
fact I would rather she didn't do it. Okay? There it is.”

I got what I wanted and now I want to give it back.

“Okay,” I say, having lost my swagger, “okay.”

Ember tries to restore some levity to the mood.
“Okay, okay, okay. That's enough of that.”

She springs from Ralf 's lap, and with her back to us,
she chops cocaine on the counter. I can't look at Ford. My
face burns. Ember snorts everything without offering it to
anyone else.

“Hey, you guys,” Ralf says, “let's do something else.
Come on.”

“Let's just forget it,” I say. “I'm going to go to bed.” I
stand and carry glasses to the sink.

“Bed?” Ember asks, rubbing her nostrils. “I'm not the
least bit tired. Come on. We're going out. I need to be at
the Zephyr at midnight.”

I assume this means Ember has to meet the dealer she
has befriended, thus her sniffing up all of her supply. She
squeezes my shoulder before turning to pull Ralf and
Ford by the hands out of their seats. They wrap themselves in their coats and scarves, and Ember is the first one
out the door.

“Ford,” I say, grabbing his forearm, “I'm sorry. I don't
know why I did that.”

“I have some ideas about why,” he says, “but it's okay.
It should have been said long before tonight.”

He puts his hand around the back of my neck and I welcome the briefest sense of rootedness. And then he's gone.

After they leave, I don't go to bed. Instead I drive farther up into the Avenues to Smith's, the bright grocery
mecca that I find as consoling as my morning coffee. The
wide-aisled, expansive grocery stores of Utah, where space
and bounty are as limitless as the geniality of the clean-cut
checkout clerks, make for ideal places to hide. The pipedin soft-rock songs are so poignant that I sometimes sing
along, misty-eyed, and don't want to be anywhere else.

I stand in front of a wall of glass-fronted freezers in
the interminable ice cream section. It's late and I am
alone. I wonder how many other women have stood here,
desperate for comfort, hoping to find solace in what they
know is bad for them and ultimately unfulfilling. I pull
down a carton of double-fudge brownie, take a plastic
spoon from the deli counter, and start in before the mere
half-mile drive home is over.

I haven't even taken off my coat when I notice white
dust on the counter. I wipe my finger across the surface to
consolidate the remains, then press my fingertip on the
tiny mound and rub it on my gums. The drug hits surprisingly fast and sharp, and I eat the rest of the ice cream
without even tasting it, without even noticing it going
down, with only a vague satisfaction of indulging an urge.

I lick the sticky, chocolate edge of the sweaty carton,
replace the lid, and bury it deep in the trash, under the
eggshells and coffee grounds. As I crawl into bed feeling
sick, I have the dark sensation of having reached a new
depth of solitude.

The office is stuffy and quiet, a strip of afternoon sun
showing dusty through a broken blind slat. I answer the
phone.

“How may I help you?”

“Jane.”

“McCallister.”

“Do you think it's true that organization springs from anxiety?”

“Um, it's possible, I guess. This state is a pretty good example. The perfectly
tidy streets and tidy patriarchies and tidy rules for living. But there's mess
lurking underneath. I read that the majority of murders in Utah are husbands
killing wives.”

“Maybe because they have so many extras,” he says. “McCallister.”

“Just a joke.”

“What brings this up?”

“Maria has become obsessed with neatness. She can't make coffee if there is
anything in the sink. She can't sleep if there's a sock on the floor. But I
know she's just anxious about what happens when we move in together.” “Are you
worried?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”