Whenever You Call (3 page)

J
ENNY, UNLIKE ME, HAD a passion for good eating. If I really wanted to entice her away from work, and get her complete attention, I made reservations at a great restaurant for dinner. Two days after my decision to quit writing, I waited for her in the Back Bay’s wonderful French restaurant, L’espalier, on a Thursday night. Jenny was late, but I’d expected that, so I’d told her the reservation was at seven-thirty when it was really for eight o’clock. I’d also informed the maitre d’ that she’d be arriving in an electric wheelchair, and he’d given us a table in a corner, with the other chair removed to make room for the wheelchair.

A bottle of burgundy sat uncorked and breathing on the table before me. I really wanted to pour myself a glass, but I was trying to be polite and wait for her. I looked up and saw her gingerly making her way through the dining room. I smiled and gave a little wave. As usual, Jenny defied expectations. She wore a dazzlingly red silk halter top that made her white skin and white-blond hair leap out in contrast. Her features defined the quintessential WASP look. Other than the fact that Jenny was crippled, she was actually perfect. Brilliant mind, deep soul, gorgeous face, spectacular hair, great taste, humble and proud, both, in spirit. Quite the package. Men had literally toppled for her, either in spite of her disability, or because of it.

Jenny said
because of
, and she would have nothing to do with love.

She also argued that until the last couple of years, I’d given her plenty of material for a living a romantic existence vicariously.

She engineered an effortless parking job at the table. I stood up and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek.

When I sat down again, I immediately poured the wine for both of us. We sipped and rolled it around in our mouths.

“Nice,” Jenny said.

“I’ve got a lot to tell you,” I said, “so do you want to decide what you’re having before I start?”

She picked up the menu and raised one pale eyebrow, without saying anything.

We perused the menu and the waiter came over to announce the evening’s specials. After several careful questions, Jenny ordered the foie gras to begin, and the braised lamb as an entree. Since I didn’t want to bother thinking about it, I asked for the same thing, which made Jenny nuts. She promptly canceled my copycat order and got something completely different for me.

“This way we can try each other’s,” she explained. “By the way, I thought you knew better than to order the wine ahead of time.”

“You seemed awfully glad to have it here.”

She smiled. I was forgiven.

Jenny picked up the wine glass and extended her arm toward me. “Shoot.”

I told her about going to Au Bon Pain and seeing The Sky, pausing for a brief mention of my conversation with Isaac, and then continuing with the Missed Connection posts.

“You never heard back after that second one?”

I shrugged, trying not to show how disappointed I was. “It’s only been a couple of days.”

“He
did
say that he found women writers too too.” She sipped her wine and fiddled with the silverware. “Maybe he meant it.”

“What a great segue into my next bit of news.”

“My goodness, hell’s a-poppin’.”

“I quit my job.”

She practically screamed. “What?”

“I’m not going to be a writer anymore.” I picked up my wine glass, a tad defiantly. I knew Jenny would grill the bejesus out of me, and I wasn’t particularly looking forward to the experience.

“So, you’re giving up the profession everyone dreams about, for—?”

“A regular kind of job.”

“Nine to fucking five, excuse my language?”

“If need be. Maybe it’ll be a night job or something.”

Our first course arrived at that moment.

Jenny said dryly. “Guess I’ll be picking up the check from now on.”

“I’ve got enough money, you know that. There’s the royalties on the last three novels, all of which are still in print.”

She pointed her fork at me. “Not for long.”

We both took careful bites and chewed thoughtfully.

After I’d swallowed without really tasting anything, despite giving an appearance otherwise, I said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re the one who told me that publishers build a writer by slowly creating a demand and readership, almost like you’re a brand. The minute you’re no longer
building
, won’t they give up on you?”

“I guess they might.” I stared at her. “The thing is, Jen, I’m sick to death of writing.
I don’t want to do it anymore
.”

“Then you shouldn’t.”

“You mean that?”

She nodded and tried to look enthusiastic for me. “We could brainstorm job possibilities. What about teaching?”

I tilted my head and stared blankly out at the dining room. “I don’t know about that.”

The waiter cleared our appetizers and poured more wine.

I said, “I can’t solve everything all at once here. Tell me what’s going on with you.”

Jen smiled. “My big news is that I’m planning to murder my mother, but this time I mean it.”

“You look like you mean it,” I said. Indeed, her lovely face had twisted like a pearl-pink seashell. “What’d she do this time?”

“Arranged a blind date, including the actual time
and
date, to some guy whose mother she played doubles with at the club.”

Oh, by the way, Jenny came from mega-wealth.

“You’re forty-eight years old! Hasn’t she figured out that she’s not allowed to do that?”

With a dry smile, she said, “Sure, except that I’m a forty-eight year old
cripple.
Big difference.”

I burst out laughing. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Exactly what my mother thinks.” She giggled, but didn’t make it to a full laugh.

Our entrees arrived and we took a moment to contemplate the display. Jenny had ordered me sea bass, which arrived looking like it was wrapped to go under the Christmas tree. I poked here and there, trying to figure out the best way to unwrap the damn thing. Finally, I plunged my fork in, watching awestruck as the whole edifice collapsed. Made me feel quite destructive.

I allowed Jenny time to taste, critique, and applaud her dinner before trying to return to the subject of the blind date. I didn’t think her mom should pull this kind of stunt, but I
did
sympathize with such a desperate mother-act. There had been moments in our long friendship when I’d dreamed of locking Jenny in a closet with one of the men who admired her. Leave ’em in there, with only bread, cheese, and champagne for twenty-four hours. Jenny was, as far as I knew, a virgin. This struck me as monstrous, though, obviously, it was none of my business. If I had to guess, and it would
only
be a guess, I’d say Jenny didn’t find it monstrous at all.

“I assume you nixed the plan?” I said finally.

“Do you remember at
one
of your weddings—”

I interrupted, “Very funny.”

“Yup, anyway, I think it was to husband number two, and my mother told you that you couldn’t wear that beautiful red gown you’d bought for the occasion—”

I nodded and sipped my wine, wishing I could forget.

“Because she said red was absolutely
not
appropriate for a bride, even if it was a second marriage?”

“Umm,” I muttered.

“And you actually
listened
to her, except with only two weeks until the wedding, you ended up with that hideous dress from Filene’s Basement—”

“You never told me it was hideous!”

“I did, actually.” She grinned, enjoying my discomfort. “If you recall, I looked awful, too. Mom made me wear that blue and white eyelet dress better suited for a five-year-old and, unbeknownst to me, she decorated my wheelchair for the trip down the aisle so I appeared to be riding some kind of Bride mobile, you know, like the Pope mobile?”

We started laughing louder and harder than is entirely correct behavior for a fancy restaurant. For the first time, I noticed that the dining room was filled with elegant people. I reached over and gripped Jen’s arm. “Stop it!”

“Moral of the story: it’s very difficult to say No to my mother.”

I thought, Especially if you don’t really want to.

“When’s the big date?”

“This Saturday.”

“I assume he knows you’re in a wheelchair, right?”

She opened her beautiful eyes wide. “I sure hope so.”

“Are you going out to dinner?”

Jen shook her head. “Nope, he’s got tickets to the ballet.”

“Wow.”

“He probably didn’t think about how sensitive I might feel at watching a bunch of beautiful ballerinas dancing on their long legs.”

I slapped her arm this time. “He’ll realize it right in the middle of the performance. If you peek at him, he’ll be blushing furiously.”

She put both hands over her mouth, trying to control the snorts of laughter.

“Well, maybe it won’t be too bad—what’s he do for a living?” I said.

“I’m not telling you.”

“What?”

She repeated, “I’m not telling you.”

“Oh shit, he’s a writer.”

“Bingo.”

“Would I know his name?”

“Nonfiction—a journalist—writes political stuff. His name is Tom Callahan.”

“Actually, I think we have the same publisher. What’s he look like?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Nice, at least in the book’s photo.”

I could see she was dismissing him already. “Maybe you should keep an open mind. Life can change when you least expect it.”

“Yeah, like my best friend, the almost-famous writer, is no longer a writer and instead I’m going to have to tell everyone she’s joining the Peace Corps.”

“Exactly.”

I drove my ancient Volvo station wagon home and parked it on the street in front of my house. I’d been imagining a book contract any week now and having the funds to buy a new car, something smaller for maneuvering in a city. Not that I really cared about cars.

Inside my house, where I’d purposely left a few lights on, I turned right into the bedroom. The mahogany four-poster bed that came with renting the house because the owners insisted that it couldn’t be taken out, dominated most of the room. A black chintz-covered wing chair was in the corner, with a small table and brass lamp next to it, and a tiny fireplace. The window on the front of the house was draped by full-length blue and white striped raw silk that I’d extended three feet on either side so that most of the wall now undulated from the open window’s night breeze.

I tore off my clothes, hung them up hurriedly in the wardrobe and tiny closet, then dashed down the basement stairs naked. I turned on the taps full-blast and started filling the bathtub. While I waited, I went to check my e-mail. To my surprise, there was an e-mail from someone I’d never heard of, whose name was Rabbitfish. Befuddled, I stared at the word, trying to figure out if it was really possible that I was receiving an e-mail from a person named Rabbitfish. I checked the subject line and saw that it read “Anon415467.” That’s when I realized it was an e-mail sent in answer to one of my Missed Connection’s posts. I had also posted a message about the jogger running in front of me the other day, who’d turned into the cemetery. So,
Rabbitfish
could be either The Sky or the jogger. Somehow, I just knew it was The Sky.

I don’t know how I knew. Guess I’m smart.

I sat in my chair without moving a muscle. I remembered that my post had asked how he’d known Isaac was a former husband. I thought, who
was
this guy? With such few words, mere strokes, he exuded insouciance. Why should that be appealing? How could dispassion seem so passionate?

I started typing.

Guess so.

I hit the send button. He would now have my name, Rose Marley, but I wasn’t worried about it. My phone number and address were unlisted. No harm could come to me through e-mail.

I lit the candles around my subterranean bathroom and prepared for a long soak, during which I would meditate. Five years earlier, it had seemed as though every magazine, newspaper, book, and person brought up the subject of how good meditation was for finding peace and tranquility. So, in one gigantic puddle-jump, I’d read the articles, bought the books, and begun to meditate. I actually liked it, although it had taken awhile to figure out my best method was in this old bathtub. Just before getting into the tub, I remembered to run back to my computer and tune into the internet Wiccan channel, which usually broadcast the kind of hypnotic, rhythmic music that sounded like the earth’s heartbeat, or something equally bizarre. I recognized that I rather looked down on the Wiccan movement, not to mention its music, but hey, the beat worked for meditating.

Since I was at the computer, I clicked on the Mail icon, expecting no answer from Mr. Sky Rabbitfish. Yet there was. I swallowed with excitement and tried to remind myself that I was forty-eight years old, far too mature for these kinds of love palpitations.

Playing hard to get, are we?

I jumped out of the chair and paced up and down, aware of the way my breasts bounced around. This guy made me
very
conscious of my body’s many parts, especially since I was naked. A quick half-dozen retorts popped into my mind and I almost typed one of them right away, but in a show of self-control, or maybe fear, I walked back into the bathroom, calmly switched off the overhead light, and climbed into the tub. Because it was such an old bathtub, and located below ground level, it reminded me of a sarcophagus. In a good way, of course.

I sank beneath the hot water, all the way up to my neck, which meant I floated slightly. At five-five, I was almost too short for my toes to touch the far end of the tub and there was always a moment when I felt like I was in my own private swimming pool, about to sink beneath the surface of the water. I lay still, thinking.

Basically, I had to conclude that something quite weird was going on. I didn’t actually know that this man was The Sky, with whom I’d briefly corresponded through Match.com. Just because he’d answered my post on the Missed Connection board, and commented that he’d seen my former husband sit down with me, also didn’t mean anything. Maybe I’d been wrong when I was so sure that the man at Au Bon Pain was The Sky. Or maybe I was right, but the man answering my MC post wasn’t the
same
man. Not only was this weird, it was
complicated.
Some other guy could have seen me at exactly the moment when Isaac sat down.