Calling Out

by Rae Meadows

I can’t tell if his slight accent is really British or some affectation.

  “I’m Roxanne,” I say, irritated that he hasn’t immediately let me in from the winter night. The frosty wind nips my ankles.

  “Oh,” he says. “Yes.” The door is still only open a foot or so. “I see. You’ll have to take off your shoes out there, I’m afraid.”

  “Okay,” I say. The cement landing sends deadening cold into my feet, and I stand like a flamingo trying to keep one of them warm. “Uh, may I come in?”

  “Yes, of course,” Harold says. He pauses before opening the door to allow my passage. “Let me take your coat.”

  The house has a worn sterility to it: no books, no magazines, no photographs, no tchotchkes. Nothing on the surfaces, and nothing out of place. There is a shabby institutional couch, its pillows perfectly aligned, an old Zenith television, dust-free and reflecting the room like a fishbowl, and a small black acrylic coffee table. The drab loden-colored carpet is flat, as if it had been recently shorn.

  “Can I offer you some water?” he asks.

  Harold stands with his hands on his thighs, leaning forward like a butler ready to serve. The fleshy lobes of his big ears, his ample nose, and his large, unruly hands seem incongruous in the sparse room, and Harold himself appears uncomfortable in his body.

  “Yes, please,” I say. “If it’s no trouble.”

  I would guess from the lines on his face he is in his mid-fifties, though his old cardigan, trousers, and slippers give him a more elderly air.

  As he shuffles off to the kitchen, I sit on the middle cushion of the couch—my self-assuredness receding— cross my legs, then uncross them, put my hands in my lap, then lace my fingers, without the slightest idea of how to act for this man.

  “Your name again, miss?” he asks when he returns, handing me a glass.

  “Roxanne.”

  “Well, Roxanne. I guess I’m supposed to pay you now, is that it?”

  I smile and look down at my lap. From an old billfold, Harold pulls a stack of twenty-dollar bills; all facing the same way, all seemingly ironed, and hands them to me one at a time.

  “You know I’ve never done this before,” he says.

  “Well then, Harold. I’m the lucky one,” I say, trying hard to sound genuine. “I get to take you on your maiden voyage.”

  After I call in, we sit side by side on the couch without touching while I ask him questions about his job (bookkeeper for an accountant), if he’s married (no), if he has kids (no), where he’s from (Pocatello, Idaho), about his hobbies (jigsaw puzzles, crossword puzzles, birdwatching). I look for clues in his demeanor about what to do next but he gives no hints, not even a raised eyebrow or a suggestive narrowing of his eyes.

  “So, Harold,” I say after fifteen minutes of polite chatting. I should just let the clock tick down but I feel like he’s paying me to take the lead. “What would you like for me to do for you this evening?”

  He squints and frowns, the parenthetical lines around his mouth slacken, but then he turns to me with a naughty grin.

  “I’ve been so bad,” he says. “And I think it is now time for my punishment.”

  He must have been too timid to reveal this predilection on the phone or else Kendra would have sent him S&M Samantha. Doing everything in my power to stifle a smile that threatens to spring up, I stand with my hands on my hips and act like I know exactly what I’m doing.

  “Is it? Is it time?” he asks.

  “Harold. Go to your room. Now.” I point out of the living room. “I’ll be back to deal with you in a minute.”

  “Should I crawl?” he asks, looking up at me with a demure downward tilt of his head.

  “Yes,” I say. “Of course you should.”

  In the kitchen I look for any nonlethal implements that might be put to use—a wooden spoon, a meat tenderizer, a tray of ice cubes, a rolling pin, a ball of string. I start laughing at my collection, and have to clear my throat with vigor to stop before I reach the bedroom.

  Harold has stripped to his boxers, undershirt, and black socks, and he is on all fours on the floor at the foot of the bed. My first reaction is not that he looks ridiculous—he does—but that he is a sad man. I unload the kitchen utensils onto the bed; its threadbare quilt pulled taut with angular, military-style corners. I opt for the spoon, slapping it against my palm.

  “Good boy, for doing as you were told. But that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” I say.

  I nudge down one side of his underwear, exposing the almost translucent flesh of his left buttock cheek. I graze the skin with my fingers before landing a light smack with the wooden spoon. And again, harder, turning his pale skin pink. Another crack of the spoon and a low, animallike moan escapes from him. The meat tenderizer proves trickier, as it bounces off his butt. I order his shirt off and drag the jagged head of the mallet against his back.

  Harold says, “Oh, oh, oh,” with the slow rhythm of a mantra, so I gather I’m doing what he wants. He doesn’t open his eyes or move away.

  Before the ice melts on the bed, I take the tray and hold it to the soles of his feet, for lack of any better idea, and he starts and whimpers but I hold the ice steady, amazed that he is paying me for this.

  “I know I deserve it,” he says. “Make me pay. Make me suffer.”

  I pull his boxers down to his knees and slap him as hard as I can muster, leaving my palm stinging. I slap him again and again. His skin quivers with the blows. With each hit I feel more in control and invigorated. Adrenaline surges through my veins. It is as if a part of me has come out of hibernation, and I welcome it.

  “I want to see you crawl, Harold. Like the big baby you are,” I say. “Crawl!”

  He obeys, crawling on his hands and knees in a circle, looking over his shoulder at me with that big, square face of his, with the fear and bafflement of a toddler, and I wonder if I’m damaging this man forever. He scoots around the perimeter of the room and I use the spoon like a riding crop each time he passes by. His knees are rugburned. His forehead is damp.

  “Stop,” I shout. “Now go to the corner and don’t move until I say so.

  Harold wedges himself against the corner walls, his boxers tangled up around his knees. Red striations run down the length of his back. I kneel behind him and rake my fingernails across his shoulders.

  “Don’t you dare turn around,” I whisper. “I mean it.”

  “I promise,” he says. His breathing is quick and rasping.

  Just as I claw my nails into his skin, Harold ejaculates onto the wall. And then I’m startled by the sight of tiny droplets of blood beading up within the finger-wide scratches on his back.

  “Oh my god. I’m so sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Let me get something to clean you off.”

  “It’s okay,” Harold says. “Really.”

  When the phone rings, I answer it.

  “You have five minutes,” Kendra says.

  By the time I hang up, Harold is zipping up his pants and his countenance has regained its former imperviousness.

  “Thank you,” he says, and extends his hand for me to shake it.

  “You’re welcome,” I say, no longer in command, “I’m sorry about…I hope it was enjoyable for you.” “Yes,” he says, “quite.”

  He pulls open his wallet and hands me a smooth twenty. I feel bad taking more of his money but I know he would feel worse if I tried to give it back. I want to ask him what exactly he is paying me for, if it’s the only way he can find solace, if he’s always been alone, where he finds joy, if he feels worse now that it’s over, if he thinks I pity him or if he cares.

  I want to give Harold a hug, but that’s not an option. He helps me put on my coat, then swiftly leads the way down the hall to the door.

  “Good night,” I say. “Thank you.”

  He looks past me at the brightly lit houses of his neighbors.

  “I like your door knocker,” I say.

  The side of his mouth curls in the tiniest upt
urn.

  I slip into my cold shoes on the landing. As I step down onto the little path, I hear the multitude of locks clack with a satisfying finality behind me.

  For so long I have felt a constricting mantle of fear and limitation. But now I sense it ease. I feel like a ball of rubber bands, and that one more has just been peeled away.

  chapter 12

  When I get up the next morning, I find Ford swaddled in a Mexican serape on the floor leaning against the couch. He gives me a straight-lipped attempt at a smile and I feel distanced from him in a way that I’ve never felt before. Despite my justifications, I can’t shake the sense of having betrayed him. We haven’t even discussed the escorting—that being my thing with Ember. I fill the coffee pot with water.

  “Hey, Jane?”

  “Yeah?” My breath quickens at the threat of a confrontation I’m not ready for.

  “You know you really should think about giving up coffee,” he says. “It’s bad for you.”

  This from a guy whose girlfriend has a serious cocaine habit.

  “Uh huh,” I say, avoiding his veiled instigation.

  “It’s not like we’re eighteen anymore.”

  “Where’s the missus?” I ask.

  “We got in a fight this morning. I suppose she told you she’s not going with me.”

  “She mentioned it last night.”

  “She’s all yours now,” he says. His eyes shine in the reflection of the window.

  I’m both excited and contrite about this prospect. I pour a cup of coffee mid-brew and the machine drips and spatters until I return the pot. I sit next to Ford and cover my legs with the ratty blanket.

  “Maybe it’s the best thing for now,” I say.

  He gives a skeptic snort.

  “Where’d she go anyway?” I ask.

  He shrugs. His eyes, which have always looked impossibly young, are red-rimmed and have gray-blue circles beneath them.

  “I guess it’s not so easy having a crazy girlfriend,” I say.

  A huge icicle hangs precariously from the rain gutter and drips a determined stream against the side of the window.

  “We don’t talk anymore,” he says, “I mean, you and me.”

  “I’ve been busy,” I say.

  “So you have.”

  I sip my coffee. It’s watery and too hot.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Are you?” he asks.

  I look down into my mug and feel the steam on my face.

  He breathes out through puffed cheeks.

  “I have an idea. Let’s take a walk,” he says.

  It’s another bright day infused with a false sense of impending spring. We walk down to First South and turn west toward downtown, dodging falling chunks of snow from the canopy of oak tree branches above the sidewalk. I hold Ford’s hand, cracked and rough from working on the house in the cold. I wait for him to talk.

  “I’m tired out, Jane,” he says at last. “I’m tired of us. You. Me. Ember. Ralf.”

  “Even Ralf?”

  “He’s part of the mess.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh come on. He’s so clearly in love with you,” Ford says, dropping my hand. “He speaks of you with this reverent praise. But I wouldn’t want to be the one to tell him about your change of career.”

  My face is hot. I feel the weight of my body drain into my feet.

  “I knew he had a crush,” I say meekly. “But what was I supposed to do, not be his friend?”

  “You could start by not cultivating his adoration. I’m sure it feels nice to be the object of it, but have some mercy. It’s not like you don’t have McCallister to fawn over you.”

  I am stung by his hostility.

  “Huh,” I say, trying not to cry.“That means a lot coming from someone as evolved as you.”

  Ford steps off the sidewalk into the snow to let a couple with a double stroller pass. I keep walking. And then walk faster, wanting to leave him behind.

  “Jane,” he says. “What are you doing?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Wait,” he says, jogging to catch up with me.

  I turn away and dab at my eyes. I’m angry but something in Ford’s biting encapsulation resonates and fills me with shame.

  “Hey. I’m sorry,” he says. “Stop for a second, will you?”

  “Since when did you become so judgmental?” I ask, crossing my arms across my chest.

  “I take it back,” he says. “Okay?”

  I sniffle and rummage for a tissue in my pockets. Ford hands me a bandanna.

  “Thanks,” I say blowing my nose.

  “I’m just upset,” he says. “Everyone else’s problems seem so much easier to solve than my own.”

  I offer him back his handkerchief and we laugh and I put in my pocket.

  He takes my hand. I let him. We resume walking together toward the granite spires in a tenuous truce.

  “I’ll tell Ralf about the escorting,” I say.

  “Maybe you should,” he says. “Or maybe you shouldn’t. I don’t know.”

  We cross over to the sunny side of the street and walk past the tuxedo rental store and the violin-making workshop.

  “More violins are produced here than in any other city outside of Vienna,” I say.

  “I’m leaving the day after tomorrow,” Ford says.

  This is not a surprise but it brings with it a sudden realization that Ford may be my last link to rationality, that his presence has the power to make everything normal again.

  “Maybe you should stay,” I say too softly, unable to commit to being reeled into safety.

  “I have to make sure the trailer hasn’t been carried off by a pack of wild coyotes,” he says.

  The promise of the post-Ford unknown with Ember is both scary and seductive. I fear what I crave.

  “You should take Ralf with you down to Moab,” I say.

  “You wish,” Ford says, putting his arm around my shoulders.

  We walk through the immense iron gates of Temple Square into the well-manicured grounds. Camera-toting Mormon tourists snap away at the tabernacle, the temple, the ecclesiastical murals in the visitors’ center. Young tour guides in shin-length skirts and long coats crisscross the square with their smiling groups in tow.

  “I know she has a problem,” Ford says. “But I don’t think there’s anything I can do about it. She’s impossible to get to. I think I’ve gotten in and then all of a sudden, she slips away again.”

  “Yeah, but that’s also what you love about her,” I say.

  Invisible speakers around the square broadcast Mormon hymns at near-subliminal levels, noticeable only when the wind stops. The accompaniment makes the square feel like a religious shopping mall.

  “So why are you doing the escorting thing anyway?” he asks. “What’s that about?”

  “You’re the one who suggested it to me in the first place, remember?”

  “I was just showing off. Trying to provoke you,” he says. “I didn’t really think you’d do it.”

  The block of Main Street the church purchased from the city is as neat and contained as a Parisian park. We stop at a bench and Ford lights us each a cigarette, smoking being a habit he has adopted since arriving in Salt Lake.

  “You shouldn’t worry about my moral compass,” I say.

  He shrugs. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Have you ever felt like who you are isn’t really who you are?”

  “Huh?”

  “I mean that the you that goes about your day is incongruous with the real idea of you that you’ve lost track of?”

  I’m interrupted by a freckle-faced teenager with a skateboard under his arm who stands in front of us, the sun like a halo behind his head.

  “Excuse me, folks,” he says.

  I make a visor with my hand to see him. “Yes?”

  “No smoking here, I’m afraid,” he says, pointing to a small sign in a flowerpot a few feet away.


  “We’re outside,” Ford says. “It’s Main Street, for god’s sake.”

  “Just the rules,” the kid says. He stays until we have stubbed out the cigarettes, then picks up the butts from the ground and tosses them into the trash can.

  “Have yourselves a pleasant day,” he says. He drops his skateboard and rolls away.

  “I have to get to work, anyway,” I say.

  Ford sighs. “Well, I guess I’ll see you later.”

  *

  After her latest disappearance, Jezebel has resurfaced and watches Judge Judy as Albee bites the ankles of her jeans and scampers after a tennis ball under the couch.

  “Hey,” I say, happy to see she’s alive. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Around,” she says. “I heard the big news. You slut.”

  She takes the gooey ball from the puppy and throws it at me. I dodge it and laugh.

  “Albee has gotten bigger, I think,” I say.

  “Do you want him? I can’t deal anymore. Not that he isn’t so cute.” She grabs his muzzle and kisses him. “Cuter than the ass-face I had to see this morning.”

  “Watch your language,” Mohammed says, the door slamming behind him. “This is a place of business.”

  The dog barks from under the couch.

  “I will not tell you again,” Mohammed says, pointing at Jezebel. “Do not bring that animal here.” He sneezes three times in a row. “I mean it. You are on the thin ice, young lady.”

  Mohammed touches my shoulder with his finger. “So being an escort is not such a horrible thing now?”

  “It’s okay,” I say.

  “Oh, you have a strip-o-gram tomorrow. In the police outfit.”

  Jezebel laughs but I am stupefied. Strip-o-grams are so rare I haven’t even considered the possibility. The humiliation rises in my throat.

  “Mohammed, please,” I say with growing urgency. “You have to get someone else.”

  “Don’t even look over here,” Jezebel says.

  “You will do it,” he says to me. “And that is it.” He erupts into another series of sneezes. “Take that dog away now!”

  Jezebel gives him a mock salute, and when he turns, she rolls up her middle finger from her fist before she scoops up a squirming Albee and makes for the door.