Calling Out (8 page)

I stuff a dollar in a brunette's G-string and turn back
to Ralf. We sit close in the booth. I don't find him particularly attractive but I consider what it would be like to
kiss him. It seems uncomplicated, a healthy distraction.
He says he will only marry someone who is Mormon. He
brushes a hair from my face as I tell him something about
what it was like to be a copywriter, how meaningless
words became.

“That's so interesting,” Ralf says. “I've never known a
copywriter before.”

I don't know what I used to do all day, hour upon
hour, year after year, looking at words on a screen. I
remember it as if my eyes were at half-mast.

Ford smiles at us, and then casts a worrying look into
the haze after Ember.

“Tell me something about Mormonism,” I say to Ralf.

“Okay,” he says brightly. “Mormon was a guy. He was
the leading Nephite general. He had a son named Moroni,
and Moroni hid a set of golden plates in a hillside. Fifteen
centuries later, the plates were revealed to Joseph Smith.
That's the simple version.”

“‘Plates' as in dinner plates?” I ask.

“More like tablets,” he says. “If you believe that hocuspocus.” He laughs and touches his bandaged chin.
“Moroni is the gold angel on top of the temple.”

“Good to know,” I say.

Ember swoops back to the table and knocks over the
last bit of my drink.

“Whew,” she says, breathless. “I gave out the cards to
four dancers I met. I think they're in. I said I was a talent
scout.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Mohammed will be so pleased. You'll
get twenty-five dollars for each convert.”

“Including me?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.

Ember lays her head against Ford's shoulder and nuzzles his neck. He is rigid for a half second before kissing
her head.Her face has a dewy glow. She catches me staring
at her and leans over to kiss me on the cheek.

“Thanks for letting us stay with you, Jane,” she says.
“It seems like I've known you for eons.”

“Hey, what about me?” Ralf asks.

Ember takes his face in her hands and kisses him on
the lips. Ford smiles but I know the kiss gets him, because
it gets me too.

By the time we stumble into the car it is past two. Ralf
falls asleep with his head in my lap and Ember passes out
in the passenger seat. Ford drives and talks quietly to me
in the darkened rearview mirror.

“It's not like it seems, you know,” he says.

“I don't know how it seems,” I say. “And it doesn't
really matter what I think about it, does it?”

Ford shrugs.

“There's something pretty compelling about always
trying to catch up,” I say. “Chasing that feeling of what it's
like when the person picks you. I understand it, Ford,
believe me.”

“Sometimes I wish I didn't,” he says.

I reach over and touch his head.

We don't bother taking Ralf home. The four of us go
back to my apartment in the quiet Avenues, take off our
shoes, and fall in a heavy, tangled mass into my bed,
nestling like a litter of blind and sleepy kittens.

“Hello, beautiful.”

“Hi, Scott.”

“You sound like you might be under the weather.” “No, just a little tired,”
I say and yawn.

“Not too tired for me, I hope.”

“Of course not.”

“Great. I'll be there in a half hour.”

“Hah,” I say, “Nice try, baby.”

“Maybe I'll drop by one day and you won't even know it's me.”

“Come on now,” I say, “None of that.” My stomach catches. “I don't suppose you'd
like to see a lady?” With Diamond on a date, I scan the dismal list of two:
S&M Samantha with the sour disposition and the new girl, Pamela, who I found
huddled and crying in the tanning closet after her first date. I don't have
the heart to be

the one to send her out again.

“No,” he says, “not really a chance of that.” “I should get going,” I say.

“You shouldn't,” he says, “but I'll let you.”

Just as I hang up I jump at the sound of Ember's voice.

“That sounded cozy,” she says.

“Jesus. Where'd you come from?”

“Door was open. Who was that, anyway?”

“Just a caller,” I say as I get up and check the lock on the door.

Ember walks over to my desk in Ford's old Irish sweater looking fresh and rested;
her hair as lustrous as an oiled pelt, and her face, shiny clean. I sit back
down and

my head feels like a large wedge of clay propped up on my neck.

“I bet you don't talk to all the callers that way,” she says. She starts to
braid a section of my hair.

“Did you sleep all right?” I ask.

“Yeah. That was fun last night.”

“Ford working?”

“He left before I got up. So are you going to hook me up?” she asks.

“You want to do this, just like that?” I ask. “Why not?” she asks.

Ember gathers my hair into her hands and lets it fall on my back. I feel like
I could sleep for a week. When I answer the phone, she listens with a bemused
smile. “Mohammed'll loan you the money in a second,” I say to her after I hang
up. “He'll think he's won the jackpot.” She hugs me from behind and reads Scott's
information sheet over my shoulder.

“Maybe you could send me to that guy, the one you were talking to. He sounds
like fun.”

Ember spins my chair around and with a school-yard giggle, flashes me her small,
perfect breasts.

“Yeah, maybe,” I say, feeling a bit territorial about Scott.

Mohammed charges in and with barely an introduction, whisks Ember back into
his office. A few minutes later, her laugh breaks through the afternoon dead
air. I am flummoxed by the idea of her being able to jump right in, but I can't
tell if it's out of envy for her guts or her beauty or her blitheness.

I'm glad when McCallister calls, because he's after something that he can get
only from me.

“Jane.”

“Hi.”

“Do you think the gay quarterback screenplay should be a comedy or a drama?”

“Comedy.”

“You're sounding particularly dour today.” “Late night.” I know he is curious
but I won't expound. “Really? I was asleep at nine.”

“Do you always have to use your cell phone?” I ask. “I feel like I have to yell.”

“The cell phone is probably best in this situation. Besides, I can hear you
just fine.”

“Because I'm yelling.”

“I have a question for you, Jane. Did we used to talk when we went out to dinner?
I mean have stuff to talk about? Or were there long stretches of silence?” “You
talked,” I say.

“Funny,” he says. “It's not like it feels awkward or anything, the not talking.
I just wondered.”

“Every relationship is different, McCallister.” “So it is,” he says.

“Got to go,” I say.

Ember and Mohammed emerge with jovial smiles. “Write out the checks,” Mohammed
says to me. “Let's

get her out there!” He has the ebullient face of a bornagain evangelist. I can't
imagine what Ember gave him as collateral. He rubs his hands together and practically
skips

out the door.

“So what does Ford think of all this?” I ask. “My sweet Ford,” she says. “Why
should he care? I'm still going home to him.” From her backpack she pulls the
baggie of white powder, significantly depleted from last night.

“Meet me in the bathroom?”

I hesitate but then I follow her.

Diamond buzzes as we're wiping our noses. I get the door.

“That fucker,” she says as she throws herself on the couch.

I try to pinpoint her date in my racing head. “He thinks because he's seen me
before he gets privileges.”

Dale, the school principal, from Bountiful. “He got all grabby and ripped my
shirt before I could get it off. Kept pushing my head down. As if.”

“Where was his wife this time?” I ask.

“Some sort of ward-meeting thing. I don't know how he always gets out of church
activities.”

“Hey,” Ember says, walking into the lounge. “Hey,” Diamond says. “Are you new?”

“Yep. I'm sure I'll see you around.”

Ember smiles and waves to me on her way out. “She's pretty,” Diamond says.

“So are you,” I say.

She laughs and brings the money over to the desk. “Are you okay?” I ask. “Did
he get rough or anything?” “Whatever. I'm fine.”

“How's the tooth?” I ask, to remind her that I know she's escorting again only
because of that.

“It hurts like shit,” she says. She smiles and tosses me a twenty-dollar bill.

When I get home, Ralf is sitting on my doorstep in a
flannel shirt and paint-spotted jeans. His wet hair is combed
back and he shivers, holding his hands under his arms.

“Where's your coat?”

“I left it in Ford's truck,” he says. “I was hoping he'd be
here.”

“Come on in,” I say. “I'll make you some tea.”

He sticks his head through the door before stepping
inside.

“Where is everybody?” he asks.

“I was going to ask you the same thing. Ember came
in to work today.”

Ralf nods and takes a seat at the kitchen table. The
light is bright and sharp and it makes us shy. Through the
window the crepuscular sky deepens to indigo.

“So how come they're called Latter-day Saints?” I ask.

“Because after the apocalypse, we'll be left to frolic,”
he says.

“Peppermint or Almond Sunset?”

“Almond Sunset,” he says with a bashful smile.

I set a steaming mug in front of him and press Play on
my answering machine.

“Hi honey. Well now that we got through Thanksgiving, it's time to think about Christmas. Let us know
when you're coming home. Your sister has requested roast
beef for Christmas dinner. You know your father and I
don't care. Whatever you girls want.”

I press Delete. Ralf smiles.

“Hey, are you there? Pick up. I have to ask you something. Hello? Okay. Talk to you later.”

“Who's that?” Ralf asks.

“McCallister. He's in New York.”

Ralf looks at me with a curious grin and drinks his
tea. He seems to be without guile or pretense, which
strikes me at this moment as being as appealing as fresh
snow.

“You are a mysterious woman, Jane,” he says finally.

I laugh. “Hardly,” I say.

We move into the living room to watch TV—an old
episode of
M*A*S*H
—and sit side by side on the couch,
close, content, and warmed by the tea.

“Hey, feel that?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say and smile.

“Wow. I didn't know you could feel the train from
way out here.”

Ember has taken the name Shena, fittingly exotic, and she
prepares for her first call out. She has tied her hair in a loose knot—no doubt
for the drama of letting it down later—and looks in my closet for a sweater,
opting for a snug black turtleneck.

“It's like I'm getting ready for the Oscars,” she says as
she smudges black eyeliner on her lids. “Sort of.”

I sit on the bed and watch like an envious little sister.

“I hope you get sent to someone decent,” I say.

“I'm not worried,” she says as she coats her already
dark lashes with mascara.

In the other room, Ford drinks beer and reads the
Deseret News
.

“Listen to what the Mormon president says,” Ford
calls to us. “‘Our whole objective is to make bad men good
and good men better, to improve people, to give them an
understanding of their godly inheritance and of what they
may become.' The nerve,” he says.

“What do you have against improvement?” I ask,
walking out into the living room.

“I'll do it by my own rules, thank you.”

“Just because it's not right for you,” Ember calls back,
“doesn't make it wrong.”

“Good God,” he says. “Since when did the two of you
convert?”

When Ember appears in the doorway, Ford winces,
recoiling into his body. She is stunning. The energy
crackles silently between the three of us.

He turns away and drains his beer. She goes into the
kitchen and cuts lines of cocaine on the kitchen counter.
She snorts two of them and I have one. Ford won't join us.

The phone rings as if on cue and a flinch passes across
Ember's face. She quickly hides it with a smile when she
sees me watching. I asked the phone girls to be easy on
her, but the name of the date is no one I know.

Ember kisses Ford's head, then bites the back of his
neck until he scrunches his shoulders and succumbs, and
they giggle and kiss. I volunteered to be Ember's driver, to
make the process less solitary and severe, so I wait for
them to disentangle themselves, jangling my keys.

“Don't wait up,” she finally says to Ford, striking a
screen siren's pose.

Seeing Ford's distress, I almost shift sides but Ember
pulls my hand with all the strength of her wiry, electric
body, and I trip after her to the car.

“Are you freaked out?” I ask, once we've closed the
doors.

I can see my breath in the front seat. Ember tunes the
radio to hip-hop.

“No way. It's an adventure.”

The drug flips a hyperawareness switch in my head
and I am vicariously expectant for whatever the evening
holds. Ember dances in her seat like she is getting pumped
up for a boxing match.

“Be good,” I say. “It's harder than you think to tell
who's a cop.”

She smiles as we drive by the Christmas lights display
in Temple Square, and I smile at good old Moroni on top.
Below him, each tree shimmers with tiny lights setting off
the spotlighted granite spires of the temple.