by Lisa Patton
Surprise, surprise. The pipeline has sprung a leak.
“Why?”
“Haven’t you learned anything?” she says. “A: You’re being way too eager. B: We still don’t know if he’s married or not. And C: He might have a dang disease.”
“Alice! I’m not going to bed with him. I’m just returning his call.”
“Can’t you let him call you back? Hold on, I’m getting Virginia on the phone with us.”
When Alice explains to her what’s happening Virginia’s just as adamant. “Absolutely not, Fiery. Let him call you back.”
“But suppose Edward finds out? I’m already taking a risk as it is.”
“No, let him chase you. You be the one girl in the world who doesn’t call him back,” Virginia says.
“There’s something I haven’t told y’all. I admit it. I kind of can’t stop thinking about the guy,” I say.
“I don’t care. Let him call you back.” Alice is unbending.
“Easy for y’all to say. Suppose you two were single, in love with a man who’s decided that he lives too far away from you to make the relationship work, and a dang rock star calls, albeit probably just to say hello, but still—he calls. What would you do?”
They both reiterate it again. Neither would dial the number.
“Okay. I won’t call,” I say, throwing in the towel.
“Good. I’m proud of you,” Alice says.
“So am I.” Virginia is such a liar. She’d be calling him back so fast, in fact she’d have called him back an hour ago.
“Whatever,” I say, “but I’ve got to go now. Bye.”
I pick up the pink piece of paper again. Read it twice. Three times. Next thing I know, I’m dialing the number. While it’s ringing, I picture Alice with a big ole scowl on her face. Next I see Virginia, not mad, just a little shake of the head as if to say, Couldn’t take it? Quickly, I push the end button on my phone.
Then I imagine Mary Jule with a sweet smile on her face. “Leelee, of course I’d have called him back. I’d have done the exact same thing as you.” That’s when I pick up the phone again and start dialing.
After four rings he answers. “Hello.” His voice is low, like he’s just woken up from a nap.
“Hi, it’s Leelee Satterfield,” I say. The contrast in our voices is the difference between a first soprano and a baritone.
“Who?” His tone is abrasive and abrupt. I consider hanging up on him.
“Leelee Satterfield,” I say again. Now my voice is coy and meek. I’ll be surprised if he even heard me.
“Oh hi, Leelee,” he says, no affect.
Now I’m wondering why in the world I didn’t follow Alice’s advice.
“What can I do for you?” he asks, quite businesslike.
“I’m actually returning your call. I got a message that you called me earlier this morning.”
“No, I never called you.”
Knife inserting into heart. I hate you, Johnny Dial. “Really? Johnny said he talked to you.”
“Who’s Johnny?”
“The morning deejay, here at FM 99.”
“I never talked with him,” he says curtly.
“Actually I meant to say it was Tyler, our intern, who took the message,” I stammer, humiliation lacing my voice.
Silence.
This is all a very bad dream. “Sorry to disturb you. I’m sorry to have called. Bye—”
“How did you get this number? Seriously.”
“I told you.” I can hear my heartbeat thumping inside my ears. “Johnny Dial gave it to me.” What a sick joke he’s played on me. This one is just cruel.
“Well, I’ve gotta jump,” Liam says.
“Okay, well. See you later,” I say.
“Yeah.”
Then the call is over. The line is dead. I stare at the phone in disbelief. What in the world just happened? I burst out crying. How have I been so fooled? Just two weeks ago, Liam White had been a perfect gentleman when he invited us backstage and dropped us off at our car. It just doesn’t make any sense. That’s it. I’m done with Johnny Dial. The guilt I felt yesterday about playing the trick on Stan is suddenly much worse. I’ve been playing on the wrong team.
* * *
After another long day at the office, I pull up in my driveway and the Tupperware/Cutco/Pampered Chef consultant himself is, as always, in his front yard with Luke. I’m starting to think he times his yard duties to coincide with my arrival from work. I simply wave—I’m so not in the mood for Riley—and head around back to the carport. Once I throw the car in park, I hurry my daughters out of the car. Roberta’s in the backyard pawing on the fence and the girls blast through the gate to play with him and climb on the rickety old swing set.
After hurrying inside, I throw open my fridge and reach for a Coke. The chilliness of the bottle in my hand seems to somehow take the edge off. When the doorbell rings, seconds later, I don’t even have to wonder who it is. Popping the top on my Coke as I go, I stroll over to the front door and peek through the peephole.
There he stands, holding something new in his hand. As much as I’d like to ignore him, there’s no use.
After sucking in a deep breath and exhaling slowly, I throw open the door. “Well, Riley. How are you?”
“Just fine.” Seeing it’s the middle of April, he no longer needs a jacket. Today he’s wearing a big button on his Tupperware golf shirt that reads, “Discover the Chef in You … Ask Me How!”
He hands me a part of the newspaper that’s been folded in two.
“What’s this?” I ask, not even bothering to unfold it.
“Your Wednesday circular. You wan over it when you dwove in the dwiveway.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” I tell him, sweeping my hand across of my face, “I don’t usually pick those up until they’ve been run over several times and are soaked in rainwater.”
Riley shakes his head and squeezes his lips together. “You shouldn’t do that. You’re missing out on some gweat deals.” Reaching over to grab the circular back out of my hand, he opens it to show me. “You won’t believe what Kwoger’s got on special this week. I’ve just gotten back with a big load of gwocewies. Let’s see, I got deals on toilet paper, toothpaste, dog food, Wagu—”
I slightly tilt my head to the side.
“Haven’t you ever bought Wagu?” he asks me.
“I don’t think so.”
“You should twy it. It’s the best wed sauce in the world.”
“I’ll have to do that, Riley.”
“Say, I noticed last night that one of your fwont porch lights is out.” He’s pointing to the right side of my stoop.
I move outside to peek at the lantern. “Oops.” Stepping back inside the foyer, I flip on the light.
“See.”
Sure enough, one of the four small twenty-five-watt crystal lights is burned out on my lantern. “Don’t worry about that. No biggie,” I say. “The rest of them still work.”
“I’m pwetty big on always keeping my lightbulbs changed,” he says, ignoring my comment, and reaches up to unscrew the dead bulb. “I’ve switched over to the CFLs. They save all kinds of money per year. I happen to have one wight here.”
When I see the white, curlicue lightbulb he’s removing from the pack I say, “Oh no, Riley. That’s not the right kind.”
“What do you mean?”
I’m not sure how to break the news to him. I might use one for a closet or the pantry but never where someone could see it. “I appreciate it, really I do, but I’ll just get one at the grocery store. Don’t worry about it.” I reach out and pat his arm.
“Like I said, it’ll save you quite a bit of money in the long wun. Actually, you should weplace all your lightbulbs with these.”
As long a day as I’ve had, I can’t hold back from telling him the truth, whether it hurts his feelings or not. “I’m going to be honest with you, Riley. That’s not the kind I use. I mean, I’m not sure those CFLs are meant for the decorative light
fixtures.”
“Listen, twust me.” He leans in closer and talks—like he always does when he’s trying to make a point—out of the side of his mouth. “It’s the better choice.”
It’s not worth arguing with him. I’ll just replace it with a crystal bulb later. “Okay, go ahead.”
“Alwighty then.” It takes him a minute, but once he’s completed his chore he wipes his hands on his shirt, right underneath the large button. “Say, I was wondering, have you had a chance to put your list together for the Pampa’ed Chef pawty? I would like to do a cooking demonstwation for your guests.”
“Honestly? I have not. My house isn’t close to being ready. I couldn’t have a party here anytime soon, even if I wanted to. I’ve got way too much to do in this house.” I have to admit I’m a little disappointed with the poor thing.
“Like what?”
“For starters, I’ve got curtains and pictures to hang, silver to polish, and several more boxes to unpack. There’s no way I can have a party right now.” Really, I’m dying to say, Where are the guests supposed to use the bathroom, Riley? I’ve got two gaping holes in my powder room wall.
“I could help you get your house weady.”
“That’s really sweet of you, but it’s just stuff I need to do myself. I appreciate it, though.” Now I’m backing inside my house and slowly shutting the door.
He steps forward as the door is closing, unrelenting. “Why don’t you host the pawty at my house?”
Oh my stars. I can’t even squeeze that into my brain. “That’s very nice of you to offer but I don’t think so. Tell you what, if you have a party with your own friends, I’ll be happy to come over and buy something.”
Honk honk. Honk, honk, honk. Speaking of friends, here come mine, hanging out the car windows.
Riley whips his head around. “Looks like you’ve got company.”
Virginia screeches her car to a halt halfway up my circular drive and all three bop out of the car. Alice holds a deck of cards over her head and waves. Virginia’s got the wine and Mary Jule is holding a pizza box under a big sack from Pete & Sam’s. I wave back from the porch.
Virginia has left her car radio on and is out in the yard dancing. She puts the wine bottles down and twists till her bottom barely touches the grass. “Twist and shout, twist and shout,” she sings at the top of her off-key little lungs. “Come on, come on, come on baby now.” Alice and Mary Jule join in, “Come on and work it on out, work it on out.”
From out in the yard, Virginia spots Riley’s blue Tupperware golf shirt. “I bet you’re Riley,” she calls from the grass, still dancing.
“I bet you’re wight,” he calls back and turns to me. “Are you having a pawty tonight?”
“Oh no, Riley. They are my best friends. We don’t have parties at each other’s houses. They’re just dropping by.”
“With wine and cards?”
“We don’t need an excuse to get together. It’s just what we do.” I race out to the grass to join them, leaving Riley on the porch. How do you explain a twenty-nine-year-friendship to a guy like Riley in only a few words? Four women who have known each other since kindergarten and, if lined up barefooted among hundreds of ladies all in a row, could pick out each other’s feet. Not to mention our belly buttons or bare bosoms.
With an overexaggerated motion of her arm, Virginia beckons for Riley to join us. “Can you dance, Riley?” she yells over the music.
“Of course I can,” he yells back, cupping his hand aside his mouth.
“Then what are you waiting for?” she yells back.
Riley bounds off the front step and races out to the yard. Virginia shimmies on over to him. “Do you pretzel?”
“You bet I do.” With that, the two finish the rest of “Twist and Shout” pretzeling through my front yard.
After the song is over, Alice, I can tell by the way she’s studying Riley, is absolutely chomping at the bit to ask him about his button. She shuffles right up to him, reads his chest and says, “How can I discover the chef inside me, shoog?”
“Funny you should ask!” Riley says. “I just happen to be performing a cooking demonstwation at a Pampa’ed Chef pawty tonight. It’s a blast.”
“Well good for you,” she says, completely uninterested in Riley’s plans. “Let’s go inside, y’all.”
One look at Riley out of the corner of my eye tells me that he’s not about to let the conversation drop. I can just tell by the way he’s twitching his face from side to side, as if he’s frantic to come up with a way to hawk his wares. “And I’d be happy to do the same thing at your house. If you’d like to host a pawty, I’ll teach you all about discovering the chef inside you.” Riley walks along beside her and never stops talking.
“Let me think about it, shoog,” she says and helps Virginia carry the wine. “Where’s Roberta, Leelee? I’m dying to meet him.”
Once inside, we hole up in the kitchen. Mary Jule heads straight for my pantry and pulls out paper plates and napkins. After doling out the food and calling the girls and Roberta in from outside, something else on Riley’s shirt catches her eye. She studies it a bit longer before her curiosity gets the best of her. She strolls over right beside him and glances toward his neck. “How do you get your collars to stay down like that? My Al’s golf shirts are always turning up on the edges.”
“It’s one of my best-kept secwets,” Riley tells her.
“Do tell, shoog, do tell,” Alice says, and walks over to Riley to get a better look.
“Well, it’s actually vewy simple.” He inverts his lapel—just under the collar—to further explain. “I tack down my collar edges with thwead. That way, they don’t curl up anymore.”
Mary Jule can’t stop herself from reaching up and touching the tip of Riley’s collar. “If that isn’t the most, well the most domestic thing I’ve ever seen. My Al wouldn’t sew a button even if his life depended on it. Good for you, Riley,” Mary Jule says. “Okay everyone. Let’s eat. I’m starving.”
After Riley finally leaves for his cooking demonstration, and once the girls are in bed—after four rounds of spades, I fess up about my phone call to Liam White. As expected, the girls are none too pleased. Mary Jule takes the blame though, and tells the others it was all her fault. I try to put it back on me, helping her not to feel bad. After all, she was not the one dialing his number.
Naturally, the conversation comes back around to Peter. Even though his name seems to be part of my past, they are still willing to talk about him as long as I feel the need. I tell them about the letters I’ve written but never intend to mail. And, as is always the case, they try to convince me that the reason he’s not here in Memphis has nothing to do with me—but everything to do with his job. Mary Jule has beaten me over the head with the same words time and time again. “Men need stability,” she says. “They don’t just do things irrationally; they need some kind of guarantee as to what’s on the other end.” It all makes sense, but my heart can’t seem to let go. I wish I knew why I’m still missing him as much as I do.
* * *
The next morning I’m actually early to work, ready to face Johnny Dial and have the chance to say my piece. It’s still hard for me to believe that I’ve become the latest object of his teasing—when he fooled me the first time the shame was on him, as they say, but now that it’s happened twice, I suppose I’m the bigger fool.
The control room is, as usual, a sloppy mess of half-empty coffee cups and Coke cans. With an aloofness that Alice could pull off even in her sleep, I go about picking up the trash acting cool and distant. It’s not part of my job necessarily, but it’s an excuse for me to be behind the on-air light legally. After pitching over a dozen empties into the corner wastebasket, I stroll over to the audio console, pretending to check his daily log sheets. Johnny, who seems to be oblivious to the fact that I’ve been indifferent says, “Talk to White?”
“Very funny, Dial,” I say, eyes down, flipping agitatedly through the pages. “Har-de-har-har
-har.”
“What are you talking about?”
I shove the log back over to him. “Don’t give me that.”
“Whoa. That doesn’t sound like the sweet Leelee I know.” Normally Johnny prefers to stand while operating the board, but he slowly lowers himself onto the rolling stool. His eyes look like saucers.
“The big hoax you played on me, that’s what I’m talking about.”
“Why would I do that to you?” he says with very convincing sincerity.
“Because that’s what you do. You make a living playing jokes on poor unsuspecting people like me. I don’t know why I ever trusted you,” I say, stepping toward the door.
“I swear to you. I didn’t do that.” He removes his headphones and moves toward me.
“Then why did Liam White act like he never called me?”
“I don’t know.” He turns around to Tyler, who’s across the room. “Hey Tyler, are you sure you talked with Liam White? Are you sure he called for Leelee?”
Tyler turns around from where he’s stacking old records, which are spread out all over the place, leftovers from Stan’s lunch hour requests. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
Johnny shrugs his shoulders.
“Then I just don’t get it,” I say. “He acted perturbed with me for even thinking he would give me a call. I’m telling you, the guy was downright rude. I just wish you could have seen how nice he was to my friends and me at his concert. I mean it, Johnny. Virginia swears he was flirting with me.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, sweetheart. I’m sure that’s hard for you. But think about it. He gave out his phone number. How else would you have been able to call him back? Obviously he’s psycho. You’re much better off knowing that right now on the front end.”
“I’ve already had one jerk in my life. Why would I want to get in line for another? Oh well. Maybe God’s looking out for me.” I pull open the door of the control room and head back to my office, just in time to collide with Edward.
“Good morning,” he says, in his usual insolent tone of voice.
“Good morning to you, Edward,” I reply, and duck into my office.
