Jumper 1 - Jumper (17 page)

The first message said, "Have you ever considered the security of life insurance? The problems of—" It was a taped computer-driven ad. I stabbed angrily at the advance button and the machine forwarded to the next message.

"Have you ever considered the security of life insurance? The prob—" I hit the advance button again, swearing under my breath. I fully expected the next message to be the same stupid ad.

"Hello, this is Mary Niles, calling for Davy Rice. It's Sunday night around eight o'clock on the west coast, uh, I guess that's eleven, your time. I'd rather not leave a number, but I'll call again tomorrow, that is Monday, evening at the same time."

Mom.

The voice was heartrendingly familiar, unaged, just as I remembered it. Her tone was hesitant at first, then simply matter-of-fact.

What do I say to her?
I played it again, to hear her voice. I found tears streaming down my face and my nose was running, but, instead of getting a tissue from the bathroom, I played the message over and over and over again.

Waiting through the day was bad. I hovered around the phone all morning, on the off chance that Mom might decide to call early, but the tension kept building and building. Finally, I jumped to the Embassy 2, 3, 4 at Times Square and watched two movies in a row, just to turn my mind off.

When I jumped home, the indicator showed one message. I swore and pushed replay, but it was some guy named Morgan asking about a girl named Sheila—a wrong number. Mixed feelings, relief and disappointment at the same time.

I called Millie at seven, six her time, which was early, but I didn't want to miss Mom when she called. I didn't want her to find a busy signal or the answering machine.

Luckily, Millie had just gotten home.

"Your mom called? That's great! What did she say?"

"It was just on the answering machine. She wouldn't leave a number, but she's calling again tonight. That's why I'm calling now, so I'm off the phone later."

"Ah. I'm really glad for you, Davy. I hope it works out."

"Well... we'll see." I was scared shitless, but hope was there, too. "I wouldn't have sent her the letter without your help, Millie. I wouldn't have had the courage. Thanks."

"Hey! You don't give yourself enough credit. Don't put down the man I love."

"I love you. I'm going to get off now. Okay?"

"Sure. I love you, too. Bye."

"Bye." I set the receiver down in the cradle with exaggerated care, softly, tenderly. It was silly, but since she wasn't there to touch like that, I expressed it in hanging up the phone. I laughed at myself.

I was still scared.

The wait from seven o'clock to eleven was worse.

At eight-thirty the phone rang and I snatched it up.

"Have you ever considered the security of life insur—" I slammed the phone down.

Five minutes later it rang again.

"Hi, this is Morgan. Is Sheila home?"

"There's no Sheila here. You've got the wrong number."

"Oh. Sorry." He hung up.

Almost immediately it rang again.

"Hi, this is Morgan. Is Sheila there?"

"It's still the wrong number."

"Oh." Irritation. "I must be misdialing it. She was very careful when she gave it to me. Sorry."

Dickhead. She probably didn't give you her real number.

There was a pause of two minutes; then the phone rang again.

"Hi, this is Morgan. Is Sheila there?"

I paused. Then, in my best Brooklyn accent, an octave below my normal speaking pitch, I said. "Oh, jeez. I'm sorry man. Sheila's dead!" I hung up.

That wasn't very nice, Davy.

I felt guilty, but he didn't call back again.

At nine the phone rang again.

"Have you ever considered the security of life insurance? The problems of protecting your loved ones from an uncertain future?"

This time I let the ad run until I'd written down the name of the company and their phone number. Then I hung up and thought dark thoughts about the misuse of voice-mail system while I looked up their address in the phone book.

At 10:55 the phone rang again.

Oh God ohgodohgod.

I picked it up, licked my lips. "Hello?"

"Davy? David Rice."

I exhaled a shuddering breath. "Hi, Mom," I said in a small voice. "What's happening?"

It was straight out of the past, a slice of childhood. I'd get off the school bus, run up the driveway, pop in through the kitchen door, and say, "Hi, Mom. What's happening?" And she'd say, "Oh, not much. How was school?"

The voice on the other end of the line became as small as mine. "Oh, Davy... Davy. How can you ever forgive me?"

Is there no end to tears?
My eyes stung and I blinked rapidly.

"Mom—I know about the broken bones in your face. I know about the year in the hospital. I don't see that you had much choice. It's okay."

Well, it might become okay.

I could hear the receiver brush her cheek as she shook her head. "You never answered my letters... I must have hurt you terribly."

"I never
got
your letters. How many letters?" I had the old sensation in the pit of the stomach, like when Dad was going to hit me, or when I faced up to Mark, Millie's old boyfriend.

"God
damn
your father! I only sent a couple of long letters from the hospital, but I sent one once a month the year after I got out. Then, when I didn't get answers, I tapered off to four or five a year. The last few years, I just sent presents on your birthday. Did you get those?"

"No."

"That
bastard!
And I left you with him..."

I shifted on the couch, uncomfortable. I wanted her to stop talking about him, to stop reminding me. I wanted to throw up, run away, hang up the phone, or jump. Jump away to Stillwater, jump away to the Brooklyn Bridge. Jump away to Long Island and walk on the sand while the Atlantic rolled storm breakers at the beach.

"It's okay, Mom," but my voice convinced neither of us.

She paused, then said carefully, with a catch in her voice, "Did he hurt you, Davy?"

Don't tell her. Why make her feel worse?
But part of me wanted her to feel worse, wanted to make her feel bad, wanted her to feel some of the pain that a twelve-year-old boy felt. "Sometimes. He used to hit me with his belt, with the rodeo buckle. I missed a few days of school." My voice was matter-of-fact.

She broke then, her voice dissolving into sobs, uncontrollable, and I regretted saying anything. I felt overwhelming guilt.

"I'm sorry," she said between the sobs. "I'm sorry" and "Please forgive me." Over and over again until the words blended with the sobs, like cries of pain and grief themselves, a litany that seemed never ending.

"Shhhh. It's okay, Mom. It's okay." I don't know why, but I'd stopped feeling like crying. A melancholy sadness, almost sweet in its intensity, filled me, and I thought about Millie holding me while I cried. "Shhhh. I forgive you. It's not your fault. It's not your fault. Shhhh."

Finally, she ran down and I heard her blow her nose. "I have a lot of guilt about leaving you. I thought I'd worked through it with my therapist years ago. I
hate
the way my nose runs when I cry!"

"It must be hereditary."

"You too? Do you cry much?"

"I don't know, Mom. I guess some lately. I'm not very good at it. I guess I haven't practiced enough."

"Is that a joke?"

"Sort of."

"What do you do, Davy? To make ends meet?"

I'm a bank robber.
"Oh, I have banking interests. I do okay—I get to travel a lot."
Lies.
More guilt and self-contempt. "What do you do?"

"I'm a travel agent. I get to travel, too. It's very different from being a housewife."

"Travel is a good escape, isn't it?" I said.
As one runaway to another. Do you teleport, too?
I wanted to ask but if she didn't she'd think I was mad.

"Yes. Sometimes escape is what we all need. I've missed you, Davy."

Ah, there were my tears again, just when I thought they'd gone away. "I missed you, Mom." I held the mouthpiece away, but she heard my sobs. I quelled them, though, quickly.

The distress in her voice was palpable. "I'm sorry, baby. So sorry."

"It's okay. I just get like this sometimes. And you're right. I hate the way my nose runs."

A nervous laugh. "You still try to cheer me up, Davy. My own court jester. You're very special."

More special than you can imagine.

I wanted to ask something, but I was still scared, terrified, of rejection. Then she asked it and I didn't have to.

"Can I see you, Davy?"

"I wanted to ask that. I can fly out there this week."

"Don't you have to work?"

"No."

"Well, maybe next time, but I'm going to Europe in a week on a tour, but we fly out of New York and I could take an extra day and lay over."

I laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Well... a friend of mine said if you got back in my life, we couldn't step back into our old relationship, but would have to redefine it."

"He sounds very wise."

"She
is. But the instant you said you could come here, I started worrying about cleaning up my room."

She laughed. "Ah. Well, maybe some things stay the same."

We talked for an hour more. I learned about a man she was seeing, some college courses she'd taken, and the beauty of the upper California coast. In turn I talked about Millie, my apartment, Millie, New York, and Millie.

"She sounds wonderful," Mom said. "I'll call you when I've got my flight information. Are you sure you have room? I've heard about New York apartments and I can afford a hotel."

"Those are Manhattan apartments you heard about. I've got lots of room."
And I'll buy a new bed,
I thought. "If I'm not here, leave the information on the answering machine."

"Okay, Davy. I was really glad to hear from you."

"Me, too, Mom. Good night. I love you."

She started crying again and I hung up.

I had a bonded cleaning service come in on Wednesday. It had been so long since I'd opened the door to the apartment that it stuck and I had to get them to lean on it from outside before it would open. There was a funny expression on their faces when the door finally came open.

"Jesus!" I said. "What's that smell?"

The first of the three women pointed over her shoulder in answer to my question. I looked around her.

Someone had built a nest in the hallway outside my door with newspapers and old couch cushions. There was a coffee can buzzing with flies beside it. By the smell, it was a makeshift toilet, well used.

"Oh, wow," I said, embarrassed. "I don't come in this way."

"No wonder," said the woman. She was a tall black woman with wide shoulders and a streak of gray that went back over her right ear. "I'm Wynoah Johnson, from Helping Hands. Are you Mr. Reece?"

"Yes."

"Okay. I understand you want the deluxe treatment. You want us to start with the stairwell? That'll be extra since it's not in the apartment. It's also what we call 'excessive filth.' "

I felt ashamed for some reason. "Uh, I guess so. I don't care what it costs. I really didn't know about it."

She shrugged. "Okay. You really ought to talk to your landlord. This building got a super?"

I shook my head.

"Charlene," said Wynoah, "get this shit out to the trash."

"Ahhhhhh," said one of the other women, a young Hispanic, "why do I always get stuck with the pee-pee?" She put down her bucket and broom and went downstairs, holding the coffee can at arm's length.

Wynoah was sizing up my living room. I pointed at the outside hall and asked her, "You see that sort of mess often?"

"Too often. When an apartment is empty for a while in some of these buildings where the doors don't shut right, you get squatters and they can't get the water turned on because they don't have a lease. They get chased out and we get called to clean up." She was nodding at the room with its video and stereo equipment, couch, recliner, and bookshelves. "Hell, the way the hall looked, I thought this was gonna be one of those
nasty
jobs. This ain't nothin'. Let's see the rest."

I showed her the spare room, with the computer desk and the bookshelves and the brand-new futon couch I'd bought the day before as a spare bed. My bedroom with a futon platform bed, bookshelves, and a padded antique rocker I bought in Soho. The bathroom and kitchen were both tiny.

"Well, it looks like a lot of dust to me, but nothing too bad. Books collect dust," she informed me in a tone that implied distaste.

It occurred to me that they were the first humans in my apartment other than myself. Even when I'd viewed the apartment, before renting it eleven months before, the broker just sent me over with the keys, not bothering to come herself.

Of course, part of it was paranoia. I still had three-quarters of a million dollars in my money closet. I didn't want people to wonder about that empty space between the kitchen and the bedroom. But another part of it was that it was much easier to bring a book home than a person. A book or a video or a sandwich from the deli... all of these things were comfortable, undemanding things. But they didn't make the place alive, not like people did.

I visited the Hamilton Insurance Company that afternoon, after the cleaning service left. Hamilton Insurance used recorded automated telephone ads, the one that started, "Have you ever considered the security of life insurance?" I stuck my head in their reception area, acquired a jump site, and left without speaking to anyone.

Later, after all of the company's employees had left, I returned and located their automated telemarketing equipment set up in a corner office. I found an employee roster with home phone numbers in the reception area.

An hour later, the equipment was calling the company's employees and playing the ad for them. Over and over and over again.

I went home, to bed, a smile on my face.

At 11 P.M. Mr. Washburn began beating his wife again. There was very little escalation, just two angry sentences and then she started screaming again and I could hear his fists hitting her, wet, meaty sounds.