Calling Out (15 page)

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 upturn.

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.

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.

The phone rings and Mohammed retreats into the
back room.

“Good evening,” I answer. “How may I help you?”

“I'll take double D, nice ass, redhead.”

“McCallister. I can't talk now.”

“Are you avoiding me?”

“What gave you that idea? Moving to Utah?”

“I mean it. When can we talk then?”

“Tomorrow I guess. Call me at home.”

“Have you become some guy's ninth wife?”
“Not yet,” I say.

“You're getting weirder, Jane. I'm worried.”

Mohammed storms back in yelling in Arabic on his
cell phone. He snaps the phone closed and puts his hands
against the desk to steady himself, breathing noisily
through his mouth.

“I think I am getting high blood pressure,” he says. He
places his hands on his chest like a grieving soprano, then
leaves without another word.

I am sent on my first double with Jezebel to a new client,
in for the night from San Francisco, at the Marriott across
from the convention center. On the way to the hotel,
Jezebel bounces around in the car like a giddy schoolgirl
on the way to a dance. I feel like the chaperone. Albee yips
in the backseat.

With his mustache and bushy mullet haircut, the guy
doesn't look like he's from San Francisco. He's both lewd
and jumpy, stammering as he says, “You girls'll have to
fight over who gets me.” Jezebel emits a truncated courtesy
laugh, then turns to me and rolls her eyes. He undresses
immediately and sits on the bed, his legs splayed, hair
everywhere. Jezebel whoops and starts to dance. She takes
my hand and spins in, kisses me on the neck, and spins out.

There is something off about this guy. He's shifty and
forced in his interactions with us. His words don't match
his face.

“Come on, you two, suck me,” he says, looking at the floor but holding his
penis.

My disgust must register on my face because Jezebel
swats my butt then grinds against me with her pelvis. I
dance with uneasy halfheartedness as I take off my coat,
then my sweater.

Jezebel is mesmerizing in her abandon. She's already
down to her underwear—polka-dotted—and matching
bra, making full use of the room space. One minute she's
jumping on the bed and the next she's bending backward
over him. I might as well not be in the room at all.

“Come on, Roxanne, join in,” she says in a Betty Boop
falsetto. She lifts my shirt over my head, then unzips my
pants and peels them to the floor.

“Yeah, take it all off,” he says, rubbing himself. I catch him quickly glance
at the window. “Come on, little girl,” he says to Jezebel. “Don't you want to
feel it?”

“Oh, you're so big and hard,” she says, reaching over to him on the bed.

“Jezebel,” I say, but she is already moving her hand up and down his penis.
I stand and watch, mute and ineffectual. One minute, then two. He looks at me
when

he ejaculates.

Before Jezebel has even wiped the semen off her hand, the man reaches for his
pants, and something metallic catches the light.

“You're under arrest,” he says.