Whenever You Call (4 page)

I kicked my legs and paddled my arms, keeping afloat. Finally, the confusion became too much for me. I sat up in the tub and reached for the soap. After a thorough scrubbing, I scooched down in the water again and used the washcloth to swish off all the soapy residue. I heard the music from the Wiccan station, a plaintive weeping sound like a wild cat stuck in a tree. Finally, I turned sideways in the tub, sitting up with my legs folded beneath me and my hands together in my watery lap. I closed my eyes.

Playing hard to get, are we? Playinghard toget arewe, playinghardtogetarewe, playinghardtogetarewe, playinghardtogetarewe?

So much for emptying my mind.

My eyes flew open and I stared at the candle flickering across the room, where it balanced on the sink. Sometimes, when I had trouble getting into a meditative state, a candle’s flame could help me go into a trance. I watched the flame without blinking, until my eyes watered. The wailing wild cat music kept screeching, coming perilously close to making me screech along with it. Resolute, I closed my eyes again.

You, sir, are the one playing hard to get.

I don’t play games.

Are
you The Sky from Match.com?

I’ve been married three times; what’s your grand total?

I quit being a writer. I am, therefore, no longer too too.

For some reason, I appear to have fallen in love with you.

For some reason, I appear to have lost all reason.

For some reason, I appear to be alone in my bathtub.

I gave up on meditating. I rose to take the rather daunting step up and over the bathtub’s rim, grabbing a towel as I made the maneuver. I dried off quickly and wrapped my white terry-cloth robe around me. I practically ran into the next room to turn off the damn Wiccan music. Then, naturally, I clicked on the e-mail from Rabbitfish again.

There were many things I wanted to write him, but I knew I was scared of what was happening, disconcerted not merely because he was behaving so strangely, but also because I couldn’t understand
why
.

Yeah, he was a nutter.

On that note, I wandered back into the bathroom and rubbed cream over my arms, paying special attention to my elbows, then my legs, and more extra attention to my ankles and knees. Finally, my face. I took my flannel nightgown from its hook on the back of the door, and dropped it over my head. Though we’d been having such warm spring weather, it still got cool at night, particularly in a two-hundred-year old carriage house with the heat turned off .

In my study, I went over to the computer and reread his e-mail. I couldn’t resist. What can I say? I’m far from perfect, especially when my romantic sensibility is engaged. Also, as a writer, I’d come to trust my judgments about people. So, yeah, he was a nut case, except … he wasn’t. I knew it. He called to me and I was unable to resist answering the call.

I think I know you.

I hit SEND.

I couldn’t really explain why I wrote that. He could, and probably would, judge me as crazy. Maybe that would put an end to the whole nonsense. I turned off the computer and printer, then switched off all the lights. A light from the steep stairway shone down and lit my way as I climbed the stairs. In my bedroom, I reorganized the pillows so that I would have a nest in the center of the bed and I poked the switch on the electric blanket. The window on the front of the house was wide open, which I left that way, but I closed the window in the back because there was only a dark alley out there and it tended to creep me out. I snapped the lock on the window into place. By the time I’d climbed into bed, the blanket had become toasty.

I expected to lie in the dark, worrying about what to do with myself professionally, now that I’d received Jenny’s blessing to quit the writing gig. I started to compose a letter to my agent and, zap, I was asleep. I woke up sometime in the middle of the night, in a state of complete confusion. I wasn’t sure that I’d really
been
asleep at all, but the glowing dial of the alarm clock read 3:12 in the morning. I turned over and tried to pretend that, number one, I wasn’t really awake, and number two, that I didn’t have to pee.

Finally I gave up on all pretense and hauled myself out of bed and down the rickety stairs to the basement bathroom. After I’d gone to the bathroom, I felt even more awake. I went into my study and switched on a single lamp, then booted up the computer. By this time, I knew I’d woken up because I wanted to see whether Rabbitfish had answered my e-mail. And there was a reply from him, which had been sent only fifteen minutes earlier, at 2:55 a.m. Seemed like an odd time to be writing e-mails.

I am not knowable. Sorry to disappoint you.

Obviously, I could think of zillions of answers, some silly, some serious, and a few funny. I left the computer on, but turned off the small lamp, waited a few minutes until my eyes had adjusted to the dark, then carefully headed back upstairs to bed. I crawled under the covers, punched the pillows to make them plump up invitingly, and settled in. I’d made a resolution. No more e-mail exchanges with this Rabbitfish character.

I
SPENT THE NEXT couple of days immersed in the painful process of informing my publisher, agent, children, former husbands, and all manner of friends and relatives, that I was no longer a writer. I must have said the words, “I quit,” at least a hundred times. Unfortunately, the very next question everyone invariably asked was
What are you going to do?
I didn’t have a clue, which was what I said over and over again. This response didn’t resonate well. On Saturday morning, I carried my morning coffee out to the front steps of my house and sat down, wrapping my nightgown around my legs. I heard the phone ring inside, but I ignored it.

Somehow, I had to come up with a plan. But how? I was suffering from a bad case of I-don’t-care-itis. This had
never
happened to me before. I was a typical baby-boomer, not to mention a woman who’d had to rely on herself financially simply because she’d somehow managed to screw up three marriages. I felt vaguely as if I’d gone to take a nap two days ago, and had yet to wake up again. I sipped my coffee and enjoyed the warm early morning air. I began to believe that devil winter was gone.

Which got me nowhere fast, beyond appreciating the moment. I stared down at my bare toes and tried to imagine some childish game as a way to decide what I could do for a second act job. I’ d figured out that I should make at least
some
money, so a purely volunteer position wouldn’t cut it. I had health insurance that was privately arranged because of my freelance writing career, but it was expensive. I decided that it would be nice to have health insurance provided.

I wiggled my toes.

Okay, I thought, every toe will be a possible job. I went through the first ones quickly, wiggling each toe as it was named. Teach, public relations, real estate, administrative, secretarial. That was one foot. Waitress, maid, government, library aide, bartender. That was the second foot. Boom, there it was, smack dab in the wee baby toe.

Bartender.

I hopped up, tossed the rest of the coffee into the bushes by the side of the steps, and ran inside. At my computer, I looked up bar tending courses and clicked on the information for the closest location in Harvard Square. In minutes, I’d signed on for the next series of classes, beginning Monday.

I thought about sending a mass e-mail to my entire Address file, announcing my new career, but decided that I was being slightly precipitous. The course was only one week long, and I could tell people slowly, when they asked what I was up to. I’d say, “Oh, I’m enrolled in a bar tending course in Harvard Square. I’ve always wanted to be a bartender, ever since I was a little kid.” Also, it might be good to wait until I actually landed a job.

Nevertheless, I felt rather
electric
. I was thrilled by the idea of being a bartender and I wanted to tell someone. Oddly, the
someone
I most wanted to tell was Rabbitfish. I’d successfully avoided answering his last e-mail, in which he said he was not knowable. In one of those spasms of joy (or fear?), I sent off an e-mail.

I’ve quit being a writer. I am going to become a bartender and make big tips. I am very excited.

After I sent the e-mail, I remembered the phone ringing earlier, so I checked my voice mail. There was a message from Jenny, sounding strangely discombobulated. “Rose,
please
call me. I think I’m getting sick or something, and I don’t know whether I should cancel the date tonight with Tom Callahan.”

I dialed her number immediately, but not before I’d figured out for myself that she was probably so stressed by the prospect of a date that she was
making
herself ill.

“It’s me.”

“I’m very nauseated,” Jenny said.

“Did you drink some flat coke?”

“Is that what I should do?”

“Yeah, pour a little in a glass and sip it slowly, then call me back.”

“Okay.”

We hung up. I checked my e-mail. Nothing, naturally.

Since I hadn’t eaten yet and it was relatively early, I decided to go for a run. As I was changing from nightgown to jogging clothes in my bedroom, the phone rang again.

Jenny’s voice was weak and pathetic. “I feel a little better.”

“Would you like me to come over?”

“Maybe that would be good.”

She lived in a sleek high-rise condo with a spectacular view of the harbor.

“I’m just getting dressed, so it’ll be at least an hour from now. Do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Mmm—maybe I’ll be ready for some breakfast—”

“Bagels?”

“Yeah.” Jenny sighed. “I really need to go into the office.”

I bit back my initial response, finally ending with a tepid, “I don’t think that’s in the cards today. I’ll see you soon.”

I pulled off my running shorts and replaced them with blue jeans, then a white t-shirt and black blazer I loved because it bagged in the elbows. I ran up the stairs to the second floor, grabbed some bagels from the freezer, and made a quick pit stop in the bathroom next to the kitchen. I, therefore, had no reason to descend to the basement where my computer might harbor an e-mail response from Mr. Rabbitfish. I, therefore, tried not to run down there, but in the end, I simply couldn’t help myself.

My reward for being silly was the
boing
sound. An e-mail! From him.

Aren’t you being impetuous?

I wrote back, in a flash.

Hope so.

Then out the door and into my Volvo to battle Saturday morning traffic. All the way to Jenny’s, I also battled euphoria. I was too mature to get sucked into something that smacked of love notes sailing through a third-grade classroom, like little missiles landing on my head and shoulders. Or I thought I was. Or I certainly should be. But I was a surprisingly happy chick given that I didn’t have a date on the Saturday night glaring down at me.

I decided I needed someone to whip me into a more rational point of view, and it was clear I wouldn’t be able to count on Jenny, under the circumstances. I activated the handsfree cell phone in the car and hit the number 1, which automatically made the phone dial my daughter, Alex’s, apartment. When her phone trilled for the second time, I realized it was only nine o’clock in the morning. As a fourth-year medical student, her schedule was both intense and impossible for me to follow from week to week. I never knew if she might be catching up on sleep or working, but 9:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning suddenly seemed like it could be a ripe time for sleeping. I quickly hit the disconnect button.

A couple of seconds later, the car’s cell phone rang.

“Hey, Mom, you called?”

“I’m sorry—I forgot it was so early.”

“I just got back from a run—don’t worry about it.”

The matter-of-fact tone in Alex’s voice abruptly made me change my mind about telling her anything. In fact, it struck me as quite odd that I’d ever imagined doing so. I hoped I wasn’t becoming one of those mothers who treated their kids as pseudo-best friends. Instead, I’d made the more heinous mistake of bothering one of my grown children for absolutely no reason. Also something I’d vowed never to do.

“So, how was your week?” I said.

“Exhausting. Plus, I went to a party last night, where I drank too much and I
think
I met this really nice woman. I wanted to follow up with her, but I can’t even remember her name.”

“You should post something on the Craigslist Missed Connection board!” I said, undoubtedly with too much enthusiasm.

“How do
you
know about the MC board?”

“I read an article about it and visited the site a couple of times, out of curiosity, you know? For a writer, it’s fascinating.”

“Maybe I should—”

“Okay, I’ve arrived at Jenny’s place.” I pulled into the underground garage of her building. “She’s got a blind date tonight, arranged courtesy of her mother, and I think she’s having a panic attack.”

“It must be hard.”

We said good-bye quickly, but not before I managed to get in another plug for the Missed Connections board. Alex probably didn’t realize that if she posted something, her dear mother would definitely see it. I hoped she wouldn’t make it sexually suggestive, but it would be my own fault if she did.

I had a key to Jenny’s apartment so that I could always let myself in without making her come to the door. I found her stretched out on the low white couch in her living room, moaning dramatically.

“Have you puked yet?” I said.

“No.” She rolled her eyes towards me.

I crouched next to the couch, holding out a hand. “Time for some tough love, sweetheart.”

She ignored my hand. “If I sit up, I’ll definitely spew.”

“Good word,
spew
.” I picked up first one of her hands and then the other. They were limp and clammy, like octopus tendrils. “Heave ho, Jen.” Without the lower parts of her legs, she had to be a little more careful in finding her balance. But I knew, from long practice, that she was perfectly capable.

She moaned again, except I could tell it was just for show. “I hate you,” she muttered.

The color was already coming back into her cheeks.

“You want a toasted bagel dripping with butter?”

“Yeah.” Jenny gave me a disgusted look.

The pristine kitchen had a wall cutout so that I could see straight through the dining room, living room, and to the view of sky beyond. Up close to the window, looking down, you could see the harbor.

Jen yelled, “I don’t want to go on this date!”

I yelled back. “Could’ve fooled me!”

“What am I going to do?”

I cut the bagels and popped two halves into the toaster. As I turned to open the ’fridge, searching for orange juice, I shouted, “You’re going on the date, falling in love with him, and getting married so that I can finally be
your
bridesmaid instead of it always being the other way around.”

Total silence greeted what I’d thought was quite the inspired speech. I peeked through the kitchen’s cutout. Her face was averted and I couldn’t see her reaction. “I’m just joshing,” I said.

Still no answer.

Two minutes later, I brought out the plate of buttered bagels. She finally turned to face me, obviously embarrassed by the tears spilling down her cheeks.

I rushed to sit next to her, plunking the plate down on the coffee table. “I’m really sorry,” I said.

“That’s not why I’m crying.”

I put my arm around her thin shoulders. We’ve never been much for a lot of touching. Maybe it had to do with her disability, but I’d been wary of coming too close, though, at the same time, there had been countless occasions when I’d had to physically help her. Still, that was different from expressing solicitude. Jenny hated the idea that people—including me—were sorry for her.

“I’m going to ask you a funny question,” Jen said.

“Okay.”

“If you met a really good-looking guy, let’s say he was sitting at a table, and after you noticed him, only then did you see he was in a wheelchair—”

I interrupted, “I can guess where this is going, and it did happen to me once.”

“You never told me.” She swiped at the tears drying on her face.

“I was in Widener library, doing some research for one of my novels, and there was this totally handsome guy at one of the reading tables. I thought later maybe he was a vet because he was dressed like a hippie and had a ponytail.”

I picked up the plate and offered Jen a bagel. She grabbed a half and immediately took a huge bite. I took the second half and nibbled. She waved at me, obviously saying, Keep going with the story.

“So he must have become aware of my noticing him.”

“Yeah?”

“And he followed me.”

She stared at me. I knew what she wanted. She wanted me to have hooked up with this guy in a wheelchair, and somehow that fact would magically make her date tonight go well. Trouble was, I had to tell her the truth.

“I kind of freaked out,” I said. “It wasn’t because he was in a wheelchair, but more his
extreme
interest. I felt like he was stalking me.”

I glanced at Jen, who was still aggressively chomping on the last of the bagel. “You’ve had tons of guys attracted to you, Jen. The cripple thing really isn’t an issue, and you know it.”

“I’d
never
be attracted to someone in a wheelchair,” she said abruptly.

“Under the circumstances, I think that makes sense, but it doesn’t mean you can assume your feelings are the only possible feelings out there.”

“How can I figure a man is truly attracted to me if I don’t see
myself
as attractive?”

“You know you’re beautiful.”

She nodded. “I do … I know I’m beautiful.” Jen’s face was somber as she agreed with me.

So I said, “I was kidding. You’re not beautiful at all. I’ve been meaning to break it to you.”

She smiled. “Thanks.”

I finished my bagel half. “You could try therapy again.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me except that I don’t have legs from the knees down, and I’m entirely missing feet.”

Our eyes met and then all hell broke lose. We laughed so hard that I got the hiccups and Jen toppled sideways on the couch. I was too swamped by my own laughter to help her back up, so she lay there like a knocked over bowling pin, her hands in little fists beating at the couch pillows. By the time we stopped laughing and I’d hauled Jenny back into a sitting position, I was pretty sure we both felt like we’d been reborn.

Jen said, “I guess I’m going on this dumb date.”

“I have a good feeling about it,” I said, grinning.

I cleaned up the kitchen and did a few odd jobs around Jenny’s apartment, until she ordered me to leave. I looked at her suspiciously. “Are you going to work now?”

“No choice. We’re in court first thing Monday morning, and I’ve got a ton of material to review.”

I shook my finger at her, and she shook hers back at me. We laughed, and I took off. I knew she was going to be all right. Her date might not actually succeed, but I could hope that it would. So I did. Hope, that is.