Whenever You Call

by Anna King

  Ah, the truth.

  The truth was that this Mr. Rabbitfish was like a good story to me. He was all mystery and questions. With cleverness, I should—like any insightful reader—be able to understand the whys and wherefores of the story. It was like making love. I’d always been galvanized by sex simply because it made me dig into a man, reading him from his body, words, and action. Loving was like some great mystery novel, and I was the detective. I’d learned this when I was sixteen years old, and despite having made my share of dumb mistakes over the years since, I still believed sex was all about solving the mystery.

  I was a junior in high school and he was a senior. I was white and he was African-American. I was shy and he was gregarious. I was a virgin and he most definitely was not. Even now, I thought it was a bit of a miracle that we’d found each other, if I believed in miracles, which of course I didn’t. We lived in Northampton, Massachusetts where his father and both my parents were on the Smith College faculty. At least half the kids in each high school class had parents on the faculty at a college in the area, so that hadn’t been enough to bring us together. Really, there was nothing that could have brought us together, except the very thing that did: the cello.

  Over the summer, before school began that year, I’d seen a cello in the window of the musical instrument shop on Northampton’s Main Street. It was in the window for two solid months and I saw it constantly. I’d never learned to read music or play an instrument, and I’d been vociferously against the idea whenever either of my parents tried to suggest it. Still, somehow that silly cello called to me. I finally went in and asked to take a look at it. It wasn’t a good cello (a good cello would never have been kept in a hot window for an entire summer), and I now know it wasn’t a particularly pretty one. I had no idea how to play, but the owner of the shop showed me the bow hold and helped me pull it across the strings. The most gorgeous deep sound filled the shop. I used my summer’s savings and bought the cello.

  I signed up for lessons with a middle-aged woman named Angela Jane Gustafson, whom I was told to call “AJ.” She lived in a messy row house not far from my own messy row house, where I’d wait for my lesson in her living room. When I came out of my very first lesson, Mike was sitting there, with a cello.

  Surprised out of my shyness, I said, “You play the cello?”

  “No.” He grinned. “Do you?”

  AJ said cheerfully, “You’ll both be playing really soon.”

  After my third lesson, at which I’d performed about as poorly as it was possible to perform, Mike passed me on his way into AJ’s studio and whispered, “If you hang around, we could get a burger after my lesson.”

  While I waited, I listened to Mike’s playing through the closed door. He sounded great to me and I concluded that he was one of those people who excelled at life. I knew he was applying early decision to Harvard. AJ stopped him occasionally, and his deep voice carried through the air, just like the music of his cello. I remember those forty-five minutes with perfect clarity because I fell in love for the first time in my life.

  It was funny, walking along Northampton’s dark streets lugging our cellos. Once we both switched hands at the same moment and bashed them together. By the time we’d squeezed into a booth at Mama’s Diner, with the cellos awkwardly standing on end in the corners, we’d moved into some kind of strange kinship. Shy little me knew not only that I’d fallen in love but also that he had, too. It was obvious as we looked at each other. I remember laughing and his flash of beautiful white teeth as he laughed back. I remember wanting to touch his teeth and then leaning across the booth and doing just that. I tapped his teeth with my index finger and he pulled my finger into his mouth.

  We knew.

  And, oh, what we didn’t know.

  Which was, of course, the whole point. So many years later, I sat quietly in front of my computer, but the fever had cooled beneath my flannel nightgown. No more trembling. The best thing to do, I decided, was to ignore Mr. Rabbitfish. He wanted me to react. He wanted me to dig beneath the surface and read him. I would close the book with the title Mr. Rabbitfish and I’d refuse to read. So there. I went to bed and picked up Al’s manuscript for Tie Me to the Bedpost..

  I’d already read the first chapter, and I was pretty sure the book wouldn’t be publishable, but I was also intrigued by it, as I found myself intrigued by Al. Ah, the lure of a pretty face. And there was the strange coincidence that his main character was called Rabbit.

  11

  AL LOOKED PARTICULARLY DELECTABLE the next day. His normally curly blond hair had been plied with some kind of non-greasy goop and slicked back into a tight ponytail. This made his face step forward, as if his cheekbones begged to be stroked. Not to mention those lips. And his nose was delightful. Finally, the green eyes and thick black lashes. I felt something duck and swoon in my chest. A decision was made, though I didn’t really know it until my mouth opened.

  “Let’s have a late dinner next week to talk about your manuscript,” I said. Not only did I intend to sell my bar tending certificate to the other members of the class, I also seemed to have plans to seduce Al by promising a connection to my agent, Stephanie. Talk about low. Luckily, I thought I could spin things with Stephanie in such a way (plenty of sexual details over a drinking lunch) that she wouldn’t kill me.

  It was just that I needed to get laid. Enough was enough.

  Al said, “Ab-so-lute-ly,” in exactly the tone of voice that suggested he was willing to be seduced in order to reach my agent. I imagined him in my bed, tied to the bedposts.

  We sat down in our usual spots and Al passed out the final test, which covered all the drink recipes from the entire week. It was twenty pages long and took me quite a while to finish, even though I knew every recipe cold. For some reason, I had a talent for memorizing drink recipes, a talent that I’d never have discovered if not for the epiphany moment when I decided to become a bartender. I decided this was definitely a good sign and should indicate that I had nothing to worry about when I started my job at The Harvest. I got up to turn in the test, hoping thereby to deflect any attempts by Jelly to get help from me.

  “I got the job,” I said to Al.

  “I know. Ravi called last night to thank me for the referral. She liked you.”

  “That’s a relief to hear—I wasn’t sure what she thought.”

  “She’s gay, so she probably found you so beautiful that she got shy.”

  I lost all ability to speak because the word beautiful had filled my mouth like a soft melting piece of Belgian chocolate.

  Al added, “I could do your timed test now, but I think it might disturb the others trying to complete this first part.”

  I couldn’t decide whether I admired Al’s persistence in acting like my fellow students actually had any chance to earn their certificates, or if, instead, it showed he lacked a sense of humor. My fellow students were ripe for mocking.

  “Okay if I go out to make a phone call?”

  He reached over and touched my hair where it curled against my left shoulder. “Sure,” he said softly.

  I shuddered and walked out to the landing where I called Jen.

  “Online legal complaints are, as you suspected, notoriously difficult to pursue,” she said.

  “I’ll ignore him and never write directly to him again.”

  “For now, that’s probably all you can do. But save all communications from him, okay?”

  “I have.”

  “And if you see him anywhere at all, call me immediately. We’ll get you a bodyguard.”

  “Jen—”

  She interrupted, “You can’t fuck around with stalking. I’m not kidding.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Promise.”

  “I promise.” I paused. “Everything okay with Tom?”

  There was a slight hesitation. “Yeah.”

  “What?”

  “I’m having trouble concentrating at work. As a writer, his time is much more fluid and ope
n-ended—I keep wanting to be with him even when I’m working. It’s ridiculous.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “This is my job!”

  “Doesn’t have to be your job.”

  “Come on, Rose, I’ve only known him a couple of weeks.”

  “That’s a true and legitimate point. Hang on and let things happen as they will. But stay open to everything you’re feeling and thinking.”

  “Fair enough.” She sighed. “Now I gotta get back to work.”

  “Not before you wish me luck on my timed test. I have to make a bunch of drinks at warp-speed. It’s very challenging.” I giggled.

  “Oh, for god’s sakes.”

  “It is.”

  She laughed, too. “Good luck, then.”

  My friendship with Jen has often made me imagine that arranged marriages are the way to go. She was my assigned roommate at Oberlin, freshman year. When she rolled into the room that first afternoon, her mother-from-hell had come before her and her paradisal father followed the wheelchair, with one hand resting on its back seat. Naturally, all my mothering instincts immediately went into high gear as soon as her parents left, and I bustled around doing everything and anything for her. It took her approximately half an hour of forbearance before she spoke.

  “Could you lay off the sorry for the cripple bullshit?” she said.

  I didn’t immediately answer since she’d crushed the bullshit right out of me. Finally, I’d snapped out, “Sure,” and marched out of the room. She caught up with me at the front door. Jen was always catching up with me, or leaving me behind, because she could go so fast in her chair.

  “Don’t be pissed,” she said.

  “I was just trying to be helpful.”

  “Have you ever known a cripple?”

  “Yes,” I said. I opened the front door to our dorm and turned. “Am I allowed to hold the door for you?”

  She grinned and nodded.

  Out on the walkway, still crowded with weeping parents and ecstatic freshman, we wended our way.

  “So who was the cripple?” she said.

  “I don’t like that word.”

  “What word—cripple?’

  “Yeah.” I was having a hard time not laughing.

  “What word would you prefer?”

  Since I couldn’t think of any word that gave a good spin to being crippled, I didn’t answer.

  She said, “Who was the physically disabled person you knew?”

  “Jesus!” I burst out laughing.

  “Jesus cured cripples,” Jen said dryly.

  I knew there were plenty of freshman roommates who ended up loathing the person assigned to them, but I’d gotten lucky with Jen. We went to the student union, ordered coffee and doughnuts (we both needed fattening up) and I told her all about my crippled dad.

  WHEN I returned to the classroom, Al was collecting the tests while singing cheerfully, “Ready or not, ready or not.”

  My fellow students sent him murderous glances.

  He was probably slightly off-kilter as a person, but not so off-kilter that I wouldn’t find him enjoyable for a short period of time. Once wouldn’t be enough, though, unless the first time was somehow disastrous. Best not to contemplate disaster, I decided. Best to imagine positively.

  Al decided that I should do the timed test last. I guess he assumed I would intimidate the others. I didn’t think they were capable of intimidation, actually. Jelly was the best of the bunch, and truly, she was okay. I felt better about selling her my certificate since it was clear that at a run-of-the-mill, neighborhood bar, she’d do fine. In fact, it wasn’t impossible that she’d earn the certificate on her own.

  When it was finally my turn, I started out nervous and got more so, instead of less. I was dashing around on tiptoe, lining up the glasses, grabbing for the booze, pouring and splashing like a madwoman, when a martini glass with a mind of its own (something I’ve always suspected of martini glasses) flew out of my left hand, arced through the air and across the bar as if searching for freedom, and smashed into Al’s gorgeous face.

  He screamed and his hands covered his face. Between his fingers, blood oozed quickly.

  I ran around the bar, clutching a dishtowel, vaguely aware that Jelly had whipped out her cell phone, dialed 9-1-1, and was yelling that we needed an ambulance.

  I placed the towel over Al’s bloody hands, pressing gently. His hands opened and clutched at it. I saw that his right cheek was cut and bleeding, but his eyes were okay. I’d been frantic with worry that pieces of glass might have pierced his eyes and he would be blind for the rest of his life.

  “It’s just your cheek,” I whispered.

  He nodded, understanding the message. The towel moved lower and his green eyes peeked at me. “This has never happened before.”

  “Yeah.”

  We heard sirens in the distance.

  Al said, “I don’t need to go in an ambulance.”

  “Why don’t you let the professionals decide?”

  “Okay.” He looked at me balefully. “You’re something else.”

  I dabbed at the cut, which was still pouring blood. “Might have a scar.”

  “Make me interesting.”

  “Well.”

  “You have to admit, I’m just too handsome. It’s been a problem.”

  I burst out laughing. “Yup, this little accident will make you imperfectly perfect.”

  The sounds of clomping footsteps on the stairs, and Ike directing the emergency personnel echoed around us.

  “You owe me now,” Al said as they swooped into the room and took over.

  They said he needed stitches, but allowed him to walk down the stairs with someone guiding him front and back. When I offered to go in the ambulance with him, he said it would be more helpful if I locked up and called the bar tending school administrator. Tossing me the keys, he also said, “You’re getting the certificate. Don’t say anything to Ravi.”

  Bang went the ambulance door.

  Upstairs, I dismissed the class without saying a word about the promised certificate. I’d managed to get out of that pact with the devil since they assumed a person who cut an instructor’s face with a flying martini glass wouldn’t be passing. I tidied up the classroom and called the school’s administrator. I decided to err on the side of caution and not admit who had caused the accident. They promised to reach Al’s mother and get her to the hospital for him, and they asked me to drop the keys into a padded envelope and send them along.

  Friday afternoon. Nothing to do. Overcast and cool. Matched my bummed mood. I meandered over to Harvard Square and the Au Bon Pain, where I ordered a cappuccino. How was it possible that I’d tossed a martini glass at Al? Just that morning, I’d been admiring his cheekbones and then, boom, I’d damaged one of them. It was mind-boggling. I could call Jen again, but this was one of those times when I avoided being in touch with her, out of shame. I would tell her about it later, after I’d managed to transmute the shame into a funny story.

  So I called my agent, Stephanie.

  I was bowing out of the writing game, not dumping our relationship, though I did feel a bit like I was stringing her along because I knew she was hoping to lure me back soon. The more I stayed in touch, the more I might be saying that I could change my mind. But I couldn’t resist. An agent in a writer’s life is powerful. They’re saying, in this ultimate way, that you have something. They put their faith in you, making the writer a sort of lesser god. Or goddess. Or, well, I’m not altogether sure. Maybe I’d ask her one day.

  “You busy?” I moaned into my cell phone.

  “Not at all!” Steph said.

  See what I mean? She’d never once been too busy to talk to me.

  I told her what had happened. Predictably, she started to laugh.

  “It’s not funny, Steph! I may have marred his beauty. Serious stuff.”

  “This could be a great start for a novel.” She giggled, knowing she was jerking my chain.

  I
t was tempting to whip out a notebook and start writing.

  Instead, I asked, “How’s business?”

  “Horrendous.” She tried to laugh again, but it came out more like a snort of despair. “Publishing just gets more and more impossible.”

  “Nobody reads anymore.”

  “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “What’s happening in your romantic life?”

  “Nothing so exciting as throwing a martini glass at a gorgeous guy.”

  “Try it. Go to your favorite bar, finish the martini, then give it a toss.”

  “If I may play the agent card?” Steph said.

  “Yeah?”

  “You could be a bartender and write something.”

  “Do you think so?”

  She yelled, “Yes, I do!”

  “I promise to ponder.”

  After we hung up, I ordered a brie sandwich and sat back down to eat. I took a huge bite and my cell phone rang. The phone number was unidentifiable, but I thought it might be Al calling from the hospital.

  “Marley? This is Ravi at The Harvest Restaurant.”

  For a moment, I was stymied by the name Marley. Who the hell was Marley? Then I remembered I’d taken my last name as a first name for my incarnation as a bartender.

  I said hello, trying not to panic. Al had decided to let her know I was a maniac with martini glasses. She was firing me before I started.

  “This is a little unorthodox, but I was wondering whether you’d be willing to fill-in tonight? Magus, the regular night bartender just called to say he’s vomiting his guts out and I’ll have to do the job unless …”

  I interrupted, “Sure!”

  My stomach and chest area began to bubble with anxiety. I’d probably start vomiting myself.

  “How soon can you get here? It would probably be good if you can learn your way around the bar, and it is Friday night …”

  “I need to go home and change, then I’ll come right in.” I paused, trying to swallow. I felt like screaming, Are you nuts? It’s Friday-fucking-night and I’ve never been a bartender!

  On the fast walk home, my panic grew. With every footstep, I thought about how I’d tossed a martini glass at Al and actually sent him to the hospital. I had no business standing behind a bar at The Harvest. None. I would probably kill someone. So, once home, I got dressed fit to kill. Knee-length, tight red skirt, slinky black silk top, sheer stockings, and black heels. I drove to the restaurant in pre-rush-hour, the rain spitting sadly at my windshield. My heels clicked dramatically on the walkway up to Harvest’s entrance. I came very close to turning around and giving up on the whole idea of being a bartender. It seemed obvious that hitting Al was a bad sign, and the good sign had been the conversation with my agent, Stephanie. I had the glimmerings of an idea for a new novel.