Whenever You Call

by Anna King

  I scooched my desk chair closer and clicked on the answer to my posting. I practically stopped breathing. Yes, I knew my reaction was extreme. That was what celibacy and being forty-eight and having a too too personality because I was a woman writer, combined with a sideways little house, did. I read the tall bold letters, that formed words, that made two sentences of utter confusion and delight.

  I sure did. I saw the sky and I saw you, and furthermore, I do believe I saw a former husband sit down next to you just after I left (when I turned around to look at you again).

  This was, without a doubt, the most flirtatious writing I’d ever experienced. I was galvanized. I leapt out of my chair and walked in a quick circle, then sat back down again to reread it. I found my original posting and reread that, too.

  I saw the sky. Did you see me?

  Of course, I was going to respond. It was also tempting to send The Sky an e-mail on Match.com, but I decided it would be better to answer the posting. I read his message about three zillion times, then I jumped up again, and took the stairs two at a time. I dashed through the wee living room and took the next set of stairs one at a time, but fast. Ah, age. My funny kitchen was on the second floor, directly above my bedroom. I checked the time and noticed it was only mid-afternoon. Though I had an insane desire for a Tom Collins, I knew a Tom Collins at this hour would lead, ultimately, to my destruction. I popped a pod into my high-tech pod coffee maker, placed the mug underneath its spout, and pushed the ON button. In a mere thirty seconds, I had an espresso, to which I added fake sweetener. I carried the mug to the front window and sat at the old pine table.

  I stared out the window and sipped the coffee. The leaf buds on the sweet gum tree seemed to be fattening and swelling right before my eyes. My mind hopped from composing an answer, to thinking about whether I dared to get married a fourth time. Really stupid, I knew that. Stupid because I didn’t even know The Sky’s name, so imagining our whirlwind romance and marriage was quite ridiculous. But also stupid because three failed marriages ought to be enough for anyone. I had no business even fantasizing about marrying again. It was a sickness. I should hate the institution.

  Yeah, well.

  There were extenuating circumstances to several of my marriages. I didn’t mean to make excuses, exactly, or maybe I did. The first marriage, to my college sweetheart, occurred because we were young and valiant and stubborn. He came from a working class background, though he’d gotten a good scholarship to Amherst. He’d been so uncomfortable with the middle class lifestyle attached to me that he pretended he actually loved it. He didn’t. We were divorced eighteen months after the marriage, fulfilling everyone’s predictions.

  Now, when I really had news for Jenny, I didn’t want to call her. She would disapprove of the whole thing because she thought, number one, that the Missed Connection board was absurd and, number two, that online dating sites were also absurd. She figured, either you met someone in the natural course of events in your life, or you didn’t. In her case, that meant she didn’t. I would tell her about The Sky eventually, and she’d be okay because that was how female friends supported each other, but I tended to share stuff after the first rush of enthusiasm. I didn’t want her to stop me from doing something really ill-advised.

  Not to pretend that being ill-advised had ever been a good thing for me.

  The desire to reply to The Sky’s posting got stronger and stronger until I could hardly keep myself from ripping down the stairs. Deliberately, I washed out the mug and spoon I’d used. Then I dried them. Then I put them away. Finally, as calm as I could act, if not be, I wandered down the two flights. I clicked on all the right spots and started to type. There were many false starts and revisions. I kept straying into an overly serious tone. This was a failing of mine, which was why, to counterbalance it, I tried to write funny. Or, bare minimum, amusing. Light.

  Umm.

  My difficulty was that I knew this guy and he, apparently, knew me. How else had he figured out that Isaac was my former husband? It boggled my mind. And, in knowing him, I felt like I could say anything, in whatever manner I wanted. All the usual defenses and barriers just kept falling around my feet. Finally, in a ruthless attempt to be cool, I ended up with the following.

  How’d you know he was former husband? A sky’s perspective, I suppose.

  Before I could change my mind, I sent it in. Unfortunately, or fortunately, the Missed Connection board worked by forwarding a copy of your posting, for final verification, to your e-mail account. So there was always a last chance to change it. I resisted.

  I waited, impatient, but after fifteen minutes my answer still hadn’t appeared on the web site. There was probably a backlog. I stood up and wandered around the study until I suddenly realized that I needed to pee. A large bathroom was tucked into the basement, to the left at the bottom of the stairs. I went in and, again, felt a strange satisfaction at my peculiar house. A rather gigantic, claw-footed bathtub was planted like garden statuary along one wall. This was the bathroom closest to my bedroom, requiring a trip downstairs. The other bathroom, on the second floor between the kitchen and the guest bedroom, had a small shower. I kept an electric heater in this one, and enjoyed endless soaking baths with flickering candles and a kind of massive moistness that entered my soul and kept me lubricated. At forty-eight, lubrication was not to be assumed.

  When I’d finished and checked the board again, I saw my posting. Its brevity pleased me. Now I had to wait to see whether he would answer. Of course, my other option had been to send him an e-mail directly, to the anonymous address that went with every posting on the Missed Connection board. An e-mail to that anonymous address would automatically be forwarded to the person who made the posting, in which case, my e-mail address and identity would be revealed. Somehow, it hadn’t seemed so flirtatious to answer that way. And I, the consummate flirt, chose flirtation.

  Ching!

  The signal that I had received mail.

  I got a thrill. It could be that he’d decided to write me directly.

  Nope, the return address was my oldest son, Elliot, a screenwriter out in L.A. who, at the age of 26, made more in three months than I made in several years. He’d sold six, yet-to-be-produced scripts.

  Hey Mom,

  Just got a strange phone message from Isaac. What gives? Thought I’d check with you before I called him back.

  E.

  Isaac had been a terrific stepfather to my three kids, which made the breakup of our marriage even more difficult. He also, occasionally, used them to get to me. I had no way of knowing whether that was what he was doing in this case, but I was suspicious.

  E-

  I don’t have a clue. I ran into him at Au Bon Pain a couple of hours ago and he seemed a little sad or something, but …

  Mom

  While I waited to hear back from him, I checked the Missed Connection board. Nothing. I had a nasty feeling about this, like I’d already lost The Sky or something. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I decided to reread his profile and information on Match.com. That turned out to be a mistake because it inflamed me. I checked whether it was still too early to have a Tom Collins. It was.

  An e-mail from Elliot arrived instead.

  He sounded like he was about to cry or something, said he needed to talk to me. I’ll let you know.

  Okay, I thought, I’ve had enough of this cyberspace stuff. I always knew when it was time for me to break away from the internet because I began to feel more like a machine than a woman.

  I tore up the stairs and into my bedroom where I changed into running clothes. I usually had a daily jog in the late afternoon, though unlike most dedicated runners, I never really wanted to do it. Mostly, I just wanted to throw myself across my bed, burrow into its comforter, and bliss out. But I’d accepted that running gave me a high I loved, and it also kept me slim.

  So, I ran.

  I pulled my long red hair back with a tight elastic and yanked a sweatband around my forehead. After a final pee
, I tucked my house key into the zippered pocket on my shorts and shot out the door. I always acted as if I was in a terrific hurry because, otherwise, I was afraid the lure of the bed would overwhelm me.

  The afternoon had warmed up even more. I did a few stretches, then walked down the long path that ran alongside the main house, fronting on Mt. Auburn Street.

  The owners, an elderly couple, seldom came outdoors. I’d worried about this in the beginning, but one of their daughters assured me that she came to check up on on them at least three times a week, so I stopped worrying. Except to wonder which of my kids would ever check up on me three times a week.

  Besides the oldest, Elliot, I had a daughter named Alex and another son, Noah. Naturally I assumed that Alex would take care of me in my dotage, except that she really wasn’t the type. She’d come out as a lesbian when she was a freshman in college. Not the easiest moment in my life. At the time, I’d felt like it would be hard for her to be gay, despite the ways the world was changing. I knew perfectly well that no one can choose whether or not to be gay. But, all told, it seemed like it would be easier to be gay in about a thousand years. Plus, husband number two and her father, Trevor, had been apoplectic about her announcement. Alex was now twenty-four years old and in medical school.

  Out on the sidewalk in front of my landlord’s house, I turned right and burst into a desperate run, too fast and awkward. I ran that way for a few minutes, trying to rein myself in and hit a more reasonable stride. I was heading for the Mt. Auburn Cemetery where I would jog along its meandering paths, dodging the giant angels and crosses. I heard pounding feet behind me and instinctively moved to the right-hand edge of the sidewalk. Sure enough, a man passed me in a spurt of speed, then settled into a slower pace about ten feet in front of me. Ordinarily, this would have irritated me, except that I’d noticed he had graying hair and absolutely terrific legs. My eyes moved up his legs, to where they ended in a tight butt. For a middle-aged guy, he had a stupendous rear end.

  He was the perfect antidote to my mild obsession with The Sky. (Can an obsession be mild? Dubious.) I enjoyed the view while I had it, but I figured he’d keep going straight down Mt. Auburn after I turned into the cemetery. Instead, he pranced through the massive cast-iron gates framing the cemetery’s entrance. I slowed, wondering what to do. I didn’t want it to seem as though I was stalking him, but, on the other hand, I’d been planning to go there, too, so why should I change my direction?

  On the other, other hand, there was always the business of changing directions. Supposed to be laudatory, indicative of great flexibility, blah, blah, blah. So, shit, I kept going. Only I immediately started composing a Missed Connection post in my head, reminding myself of exactly what he’d been wearing and having some fun figuring out my word choice.

  Which made me think of writing. Or, more specifically, not writing.

  My pace quickened. I felt like my running shoes had bouncy balls in them. I ran like a gazelle. Really, a gazelle, leaping through the tall grasses of the African plain. That’s when I truly changed direction, took such a radical right turn that my feet almost tangled together, though quick footwork saved me.

  I quit.

  Writing.

  I bounced higher and higher, as the enormous weight of expectation lifted from me. After thirty years of working, sometimes successfully and sometimes not-too-successfully, at the profession of writer, I up and quit. Momentarily, guilt exploded somewhere in my midsection. I had, relatively speaking, a good career going when it was harder and harder to actually make a living as a writer. I could almost hear the pounding feet of all the wannabe writers behind me, fury at my ingratitude making them nuts. At my career stage, I’d hit pay dirt, after all. I had a publisher practically salivating for my next novel. This was not to be idly tossed aside. Nevertheless, I figuratively yelled over my shoulder. “Hey, if I step aside, there’s more room for you guys!”

  I kept on running until I knew, even with the energy pulsing through me, it was time to head back. When I was two blocks from my home, sweat pooled in slick spots on my stomach, the small of my back, and ringing around my neck. Outside my little house, I threw myself onto the patch of new grass struggling to grow in the deep shade of very old trees. I bent my knees and stretched my arms above my head, heaving for breath. “Okay,” I said loudly, “I’ve got to get a real job.”

  Came close to changing direction again. The safety and relative ease of writing another novel beckoned. It was daunting to try and imagine what kind of job I could get, and how that job would interfere with what had become a life of ease. And that, I knew, was exactly the problem. My bed was way too soft. I had to get a harder mattress, and maybe a hard mattress would somehow, inexplicably, bring to my bed the man of my dreams.

  3

  JENNY, UNLIKE ME, HAD a passion for good eating. If I really wanted to entice her away from work, and get her complete attention, I made reservations at a great restaurant for dinner. Two days after my decision to quit writing, I waited for her in the Back Bay’s wonderful French restaurant, L’espalier, on a Thursday night. Jenny was late, but I’d expected that, so I’d told her the reservation was at seven-thirty when it was really for eight o’clock. I’d also informed the maitre d’ that she’d be arriving in an electric wheelchair, and he’d given us a table in a corner, with the other chair removed to make room for the wheelchair.

  A bottle of burgundy sat uncorked and breathing on the table before me. I really wanted to pour myself a glass, but I was trying to be polite and wait for her. I looked up and saw her gingerly making her way through the dining room. I smiled and gave a little wave. As usual, Jenny defied expectations. She wore a dazzlingly red silk halter top that made her white skin and white-blond hair leap out in contrast. Her features defined the quintessential WASP look. Other than the fact that Jenny was crippled, she was actually perfect. Brilliant mind, deep soul, gorgeous face, spectacular hair, great taste, humble and proud, both, in spirit. Quite the package. Men had literally toppled for her, either in spite of her disability, or because of it.

  Jenny said because of, and she would have nothing to do with love.

  She also argued that until the last couple of years, I’d given her plenty of material for a living a romantic existence vicariously.

  She engineered an effortless parking job at the table. I stood up and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek.

  When I sat down again, I immediately poured the wine for both of us. We sipped and rolled it around in our mouths.

  “Nice,” Jenny said.

  “I’ve got a lot to tell you,” I said, “so do you want to decide what you’re having before I start?”

  She picked up the menu and raised one pale eyebrow, without saying anything.

  We perused the menu and the waiter came over to announce the evening’s specials. After several careful questions, Jenny ordered the foie gras to begin, and the braised lamb as an entree. Since I didn’t want to bother thinking about it, I asked for the same thing, which made Jenny nuts. She promptly canceled my copycat order and got something completely different for me.

  “This way we can try each other’s,” she explained. “By the way, I thought you knew better than to order the wine ahead of time.”

  “You seemed awfully glad to have it here.”

  She smiled. I was forgiven.

  Jenny picked up the wine glass and extended her arm toward me. “Shoot.”

  I told her about going to Au Bon Pain and seeing The Sky, pausing for a brief mention of my conversation with Isaac, and then continuing with the Missed Connection posts.

  “You never heard back after that second one?”

  I shrugged, trying not to show how disappointed I was. “It’s only been a couple of days.”

  “He did say that he found women writers too too.” She sipped her wine and fiddled with the silverware. “Maybe he meant it.”

  “What a great segue into my next bit of news.”

  “My goodness, hell’s a-poppin�
�.”

  “I quit my job.”

  She practically screamed. “What?”

  “I’m not going to be a writer anymore.” I picked up my wine glass, a tad defiantly. I knew Jenny would grill the bejesus out of me, and I wasn’t particularly looking forward to the experience.

  “So, you’re giving up the profession everyone dreams about, for—?”

  “A regular kind of job.”

  “Nine to fucking five, excuse my language?”

  “If need be. Maybe it’ll be a night job or something.”

  Our first course arrived at that moment.

  Jenny said dryly. “Guess I’ll be picking up the check from now on.”

  “I’ve got enough money, you know that. There’s the royalties on the last three novels, all of which are still in print.”

  She pointed her fork at me. “Not for long.”

  We both took careful bites and chewed thoughtfully.

  After I’d swallowed without really tasting anything, despite giving an appearance otherwise, I said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re the one who told me that publishers build a writer by slowly creating a demand and readership, almost like you’re a brand. The minute you’re no longer building, won’t they give up on you?”

  “I guess they might.” I stared at her. “The thing is, Jen, I’m sick to death of writing. I don’t want to do it anymore.”