Whenever You Call

by Anna King

  I never really wanted to wake up, and I didn’t think Al wanted to, either. I’m not sure about him, though. I tried to discuss it a few times. He was willing, it wasn’t that. But we got nowhere in figuring it out, or even articulating what we felt.

  It became for me the utterly unutterable.

  For a writer, this was a strange turn of events. Oh, but I had to remind myself, I wasn’t a writer anymore. Was that why I was having an experience that defied the act of writing? Perhaps, in some messy way, I was doing exactly what I’d set out to do when I quit. Living a real life. Though, paradoxically, its most intense moments didn’t feel like life at all.

  I’d wondered about talking to Isaac about all this when he’d called after my nap, but I hadn’t. I thought he’d say it was divine, in that syrupy way, where he pronounced the word with slow care. But who was I to talk? I’d described it as the Second Coming. Anyway, given Isaac’s celibacy at a Buddhist monastery, I wasn’t sure he’d have appreciated further discussion on the subject of magnificent sex.

  Still, whatever the utterly unutterable was or was not, it wasn’t love. I knew this because of the smile I gave the bald guy. I smiled because he was so good-looking, but also at his deadpan delivery and the clever gleam in his huge eyes. When I was in love, I didn’t allow another man’s charms to undo me.

  I fixed him with my best evil eye. “Not your mother.”

  “Actually, she is my mother.”

  His expression was gentle. It truly didn’t seem as though he was teasing us.

  The Poet said, “Suppose she could be your father’s trophy wife, but in that case I don’t know what she’s doing out with you at a bar on Saturday night.”

  “Dad’s traveling and I promised to keep her company.”

  “Trophy wives travel with their husbands.” I glanced at the Poet, ever mindful of my bar tending duties. “What would you like?”

  He flipped his fat little hand. “Surprise me.”

  I leaned forward and fixed him in my gaze. “No.”

  He tried a little smile. “Please?”

  “No.”

  I could feel the bald guy looking at me, and I was aware that his gaze made me feel strangely interesting, and interested.

  “Okay, a Dewar’s on the rocks,” said the Poet.

  I glanced at the bald guy. “Anything for the prodigal son?”

  He threw back his head with a silent guffaw. I watched his throat swallow air and the way his adam’s apple jumped. Suddenly I wanted to get as far away from him as I could.

  I made the Poet’s drink, delivered it, and walked briskly to the far end of the bar where I deliberately chitchatted with one of the waitresses.

  Somehow, it didn’t surprise me that the next time I turned to look down the bar, I saw the bald guy had left. I ambled along to his empty spot and picked up the three twenties. I grabbed his cocktail napkin, turned my back on the Poet, and examined the napkin before crumpling and tossing it in the trash can. Not a single sign that he might have been Mr. Rabbitfish.

  The Poet said, “He asked me to tell you something.”

  I kept my face still. “Umm?”

  “It was kind of weird—I don’t know if I should pass it along.”

  This was why I didn’t like poets.

  “How’s that Dewar’s?” I said.

  He took a sip. “Excellent.”

  “Don’t you mean auspicious?”

  “Yes, of course, it is an auspicious Dewar’s.”

  He thought I was flirting with him, but if I was going to hear the bald guy’s message, that was the price I would have to pay.

  “I see you don’t wear a wedding band,” said the Poet.

  “True enough.” I nodded. “The institution doesn’t agree with me.”

  “Know what you mean.” He smiled and I could see his crooked yellow teeth. “Would you like to have dinner sometime?”

  “I have a boyfriend.”

  “Then I guess you won’t be interested in what that guy had to say.”

  “Aren’t you under some moral obligation?”

  He sipped more Dewar’s and pursed his lips. I looked to my left and saw a waitress at the far end.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  After I’d poured three white wines and made a vodka martini for her, I grabbed a damp dishtowel and began swiping my way nonchalantly down the long expanse of the bar. I knew it was vital that I appear disinterested in the message, even though I was far from disinterested. It was possible that the bald guy had asked me out for a date or something, though I didn’t know how I could accept or decline when I didn’t know his name.

  When I got to the Poet, I tilted my head back, nose in the air, as if bored by the whole question of what the guy had said.

  “It was quite an enigmatic message,” said the Poet.

  “He probably knew a poet would appreciate an enigma.”

  I actually felt an adrenaline rush of anticipation.

  “I didn’t tell him I was a poet,” said the Poet.

  “You’re pretty recognizable.”

  Bingo. Success was close.

  “He asked you to e-mail him if you were interested.” The Poet shrugged. “I didn’t think you knew him, to be honest, and he wasn’t exactly clear about what you might be interested in. The whole thing seemed flimsy to me.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “I certainly can’t help you—I don’t know him and I don’t want to know him.”

  I grinned and rubbed vigorously at a sticky spot. “That’s rather harsh.”

  “As a poet, I’m naturally intuitive,” he explained in a whispery voice, as if his words were so valuable that they had to be hoarded. “There’s something wrong with that fellow—I’ve no doubt about it.”

  Without answering, I bustled my way down the bar, slowly moving further away from him. I thought there was probably many things wrong with the bald guy, too, but he also excited me. Naughty of me. After all, I did have a boyfriend, who happened to be a really gorgeous man, and a topnotch lover as well. I shouldn’t be interested in any other man.

  But I guess I was.

  I reached the far end of the bar and took a moment to stare into the reception area. I hardly noticed that Ravi was there, her head tucked low over the reservation notebook. I must have spaced out because a droplet of saliva managed to creep from the corner of my mouth, slip down my chin, and fall onto the counter of the bar. Amazed, I looked down and quickly wiped it with my dishtowel. I swallowed the pool in my mouth and licked my lips. I felt my eyelids close, as if in slow motion, and then reopen. A flutter of trembling moved up both arms, from the elbow to shoulder. I looked down and saw that, yes, the skin shook slightly, like a pitter-patter of rain was falling from the ceiling of the Harvest restaurant.

  I wasn’t about to faint, but I did feel odd. Something waved at the other end of the bar, and my head turned to look in that direction. Every movement of my body seemed to be happening by an unseen power, as if a puppeteer manipulated the strings attached to me. It was the Poet’s left hand making an arc in the air. From a distance the thought arrived, He wants to settle his tab. My feet moved. I heard my high heels clicking on the wood floor.

  I ran the Poet’s tab and returned to place it near his empty glass of Dewar’s. I expected him to ask if I was okay. But, no.

  He said, “You’re too sharp to be doing this. What’s your story?”

  Good question.

  “My name is Rose Marley. I’m a novelist of middling fame.”

  Gratified, I watched as his mouth dropped. I almost reached over to cluck him under the chin.

  “But I think I know you!” he said.

  “How auspicious,” I drawled.

  He pointed a finger at me. “You were married to Isaac Goldsmith!”

  I nodded.

  “Why the hell are you bar tending?”

  I stared at his round wrinkled face. Normally, I can be quite fond of round, wrinkled faces, but his skin was the color of
off-white tissue paper that’s been used to wrap one too many birthday presents. Also, spittle gleamed on his lower lip. Now, I knew this was a clear double-standard since I’d been drooling so badly that my own spittle had landed on a surface nearly three feet below my chin. Despite his attempts to flirt and act upbeat, his eyes radiated misery.

  He actually frightened me.

  “Change of pace.” I turned and moved away, to where a waitress stood impatiently, one long fingernail tap, tap, tapping on the top of the bar. It had already seemed like a long evening, and my inner clock kept telling me that things should be winding down, but when I glanced at the computer screen, I saw that it was only 7:30. Hours to go, and we probably hadn’t even hit the busiest part of the evening yet.

  The waitress, whose name I couldn’t remember, said, “Table four is full of assholes.” I looked over to table four and saw two couples, perfectly coifed and dressed in clothes made from fabric that gleamed ostentatiously, as if woven from money. All of them erupted into loud laughter, but one of the men glanced our way.

  “A husband at the table has the hots for you,” I said.

  “No way—they’re being as obnoxious as hell.”

  “That’s because his wife picks up on it, so he’s trying to throw her off track.”

  “They all want vodka martinis, one with Gray Goose, all the others with Kettle One, two with a twist, two with olives, three very very dry, and one medium-dry.”

  “Fuck me.”

  She smiled. “See?”

  I got down to it, and managed to shake out the strange sensations from earlier as I shook, shook, shook the martini shaker. The waitress swept them away on a tray and I watched, admiring, as she moved smoothly, without spilling a drop. By all rights, she ought to get a great tip, but she’d probably be stiffed because the man’s wife wanted to punish her for being young and buxom. She carefully delivered each drink to the correct person. Testing her, and me, they tasted their individual martinis immediately, without even bothering to make a ceremonial clink of their glasses. It was like, Did the waitress correctly place our requests, and did the bartender follow our instructions? During these months at the restaurant, I’d discovered that the human race had an insatiable desire to judge. And, more often than not, to judge harshly.

  This had come as a shock to me because, as a novelist, I was never judgmental of the characters I invented or of my audience, the readers. And I thought this was good. I deserved praise for this, didn’t I? But lately I’d begun to wonder about the point of being a peon to nonjudgmental behavior when no one else was. Maybe I’d been avoiding competition, worried that I’d somehow fail to measure up. Waiting to see how the assholes at table four responded to my martinis, I felt bored by my former attitude. I cared, goddamnit. I wanted them to applaud my martinis or, better yet, leave me a big fat tip. Suddenly, I ducked under the bar and headed in their direction.

  “Hey, everybody,” I said. “Hope your drinks are good. You’re obviously a discerning group—,”

  The two husbands stared at me with great interest. The concept of drooling came up for the third time that night.

  “Excellent martini,” said one with a gigantic smile. White teeth glittered in the candlelight.

  I shifted my weight, so that a hip danced sideways.

  A wife said, “Mine was a little too dry, but I wouldn’t want to complain.”

  “I’d be happy to try again,” I said.

  “No, no.” She wrapped her diamond rings and perfect manicure around the stem of the glass.

  “We aim to please here at the Harvest,” I said.

  As I sashayed back to the bar, a husband called out, “Oh, you do!” I smiled. Despite the wives’ displeasure, I had a feeling that our tips would be fine, indeed. Behind the bar again, I was annoyed to see that the Poet still sat at his place. I picked up my cell phone and checked for messages. Somewhat to my surprise, there was one. I held the phone to my ear and turned my back on the Poet, who was beginning to feel more and more like a pest. Normally, I would have considered it bad form to listen to my phone messages while on duty, but I was trying to teach him a lesson.

  A man’s voice, not immediately recognizable, growled. “Untie me from the bedposts.”

  Because I’m an idiot, I laughed out loud. I knew I should be alarmed in some way, and I didn’t need a Jen lecture about how bizarre this was. But it was funny! Untie me from the bedposts! I was so amused that I almost trotted down to the Poet, to do a little Show-and-Tell. Instead, I listened to the message again. When I checked the bar seconds later, I saw that the Poet was gone, and a slew of newcomers were in his place.

  I bustled around, though in the midst of all the activity, when I would usually be hyperaware, I drifted away. A balloon whose string has been cut, bobbing around the ceiling of the bar. Everything felt slightly odd and off-kilter again. My body moved like the air was sludge. It didn’t bother me until I started to drool again. Indeed, in some ways, I was deeply efficient.

  I swallowed the pools of saliva forming in my mouth, but even so I could feel the damp gathering at the corners of my lips. If I’d had anything to drink, even water, I would have been convinced that I’d been drugged. The rest of my shift that evening passed in this peculiar haze.

  I finally woke up when I stepped outside. The warm summer night crept around me, soft and gentle. I literally blinked and saw Al’s car parked in front, waiting for me. Despite the run-around with the bald guy earlier, I was delighted to see him. I dropped into the worn bucket seat, twisted to face him, wrapped my left arm around his neck, and went in for the kill.

  3

  I WOKE UP IN the middle of the night. Al was stretched along the edge of the mattress, with his back to me. Either I needed to pee, or I’d had a bad dream, from which I was escaping. I opened my eyes and looked at Al’s head on the pillow. His blond curls. I reached with my left hand and touched one curl, looping it around my index finger. It reminded me of my kids when they were babies.

  I rolled over and gently eased my way out from under the sheet and single blanket, hoping not to disturb him. I didn’t want to start making love again, though it wasn’t something I could really object to. I wanted to be alone. I tiptoed downstairs, peed, then pulled on my cotton bathrobe. I almost checked my e-mail, but resisted the urge. Instead, I settled into the corner wing chair. The basement was nearly pitch dark, with only the vaguest suggestion of light coming from small windows at ground level. I crossed my legs beneath me and placed each hand on a knee, palms upward.

  Thoughts skittered around, like the balls on a pool table after a shot. I tried not to let it bother me. To quiet their hullabaloo, I listened to the silence, which is a bit like staring into the darkness behind one’s closed eyelids. How can you see when there is no light? How can you hear when there is no sound? Soon enough, I did hear the roar and whoosh of no-sound, like an endless tunnel. I noticed sparkles and flashes of white lights in the darkness of my closed eyes. My head got so heavy that it lolled briefly to the side. An idle thought rose, about possibly straightening it, but then passed. I felt as if I was at some distance from myself, capable of noting all these little things happening, though not really interested by them.

  It was all rather mundane, in fact, with the lights randomly glinting and the tunnel of no-noise rushing in fits-and-starts, when I started to notice a tiny blue light dancing around the edges of my visual field. I paid attention to it, and that seemed to make it respond by flitting closer and closer to the center of everything. I became fond of the blue light, willing it to stay still and let me look at it for awhile. But such extreme fondness sent it away, just like when you pay too much attention to a man. I actually spoke to the blue light, in my head, “Hey, I’m not saying we have to get married!”

  By golly, it came dancing back, even a little brighter. This began to seem quite strange. Why and how was some blue light acting like it could hear and respond to what I was saying? So, naturally, I freaked. My eyelids flew open and my
head shot upright. I started to breath a little more quickly, though nothing dramatic. I watched, astonished, at what was dancing around in the middle of the darkened room.

  The little blue light.

  It reminded me of the bouncing ball in the old sing-alongs at movie theaters, where the words of the song were displayed up on the screen and a little ball bee-bopped along, hitting each word as you were supposed to sing it. Only, in this case, the blue light just hung there, expectant.

  Out loud, I said, “What do you want?”

  It gave a little jump, which made me jump. Involuntarily, my eyes closed and when I opened them, the light was gone. I unfolded my legs and let them drop. Blood rushed down to my toes and set them to tingling. My hands rubbed at my eyes.

  When I crawled back into bed with Al, I gently wrapped and pressed my body against his. He stirred and let out a funny little groan. I lay very still, not wanting to arouse him. For a moment, I hallucinated the little blue light, twinkling above Al’s body, but then it disappeared.

  Not so Al’s erection. My sexual connection to him existed without seeing or touching his penis. I knew he was hard. Or maybe it was he who sensed me. I’d thought I didn’t want him to wake up, but perhaps I did. Because now, as I experienced his excitement. I felt the faint, delicious stirrings of desire. My legs fell open and I moved my hips against his butt. Slow and languorous. The image that always rose in my mind at this stage in lovemaking was a spoon lifting from a jar of honey, falling thick and golden in a steady stream. My legs, heavy, pinned me.

  He turned towards me in a fluid twist of his body so that we seemed never to disengage or fumble or wonder. My hands rested on his shoulders, then crept to his head where my fingers grabbed his long hair. He slid into me. One minute I was empty. The next, filled by him. Our quiet breathing slowed and seemed, if anything, to die. I leaned into his face and pressed my cheek to his. I imagined I could feel the scar I’d put there, transferring from him to me.