Whenever You Call

by Anna King

  I looked around, searching for, at minimum, the little blue light. Nothing.

  So I finally stood up, dusted off the back of my running shorts and began the walk home, stiff and slow. My basement, naturally cooler, made me change my mind about having a cold bath. Plus, my achy muscles called out for a heat. I turned the faucets to start the Big Fill, stripped off my clothes and, naked, went to check my e-mail. As I suspected, dreaded, hoped, whatever, an e-mail from Rabbitfish had arrived.

  Maybe you really DO know me …

  I pounded out a reply to him immediately.

  Someday, I will make you a very happy man …

  My entire body shook with anger as I pressed the SEND button, but I had to let him think I was going to seduce him, not take legal action against him. I wrapped my arms around my waist and tried to calm down. Then, as if the anger directed toward Mr. Rabbitfish reminded me of the similar outburst with Jen earlier in the day, I burst into tears. Still crying, I pushed away from my desk and wandered, somewhat blinded by the tears, into the bathroom where I carefully lowered myself into the tub. Water still gushed and tumbled, the perfect accompaniment to my sobs.

  Certainly, Jen and I had had our share of tiffs over the years, but nothing like this. In fact, not even close to anything like this. The difference was that I didn’t care, despite how I was crying. Yes, I grieved for this lost friendship, but I didn’t really care. Her lack of trust in me had become a fun-house mirror, revealing what she honestly thought of me.

  Which was: not much.

  Undoubtedly, she’d never thought much of me. I bent forward, arms again wrapped around my middle, and cried harder. Not much, not much, not much. The thought and words rang in my head. The pain rivaled the end of any of my marriages. It cut deep and clean. Indeed, it was a pure pain. A real pain.

  I stopped crying and couldn’t help pointing out to myself that I’d asked for life to get real, which was why I thought I’d quit being a writer. The true reason may have been because I believed I had nothing to say, perhaps, but even in deceiving myself, I’d been asking something of myself at the same time: to be real.

  Here it is, reality, in all its unique pain. How do you like it?

  I whispered over the sounds of splashing water. “I don’t like it at all.”

  Then I turned off the faucet and slid completely under the water. Its heat felt wonderful, particularly on my swollen eyelids. I surfaced enough for my mouth to take a breath, which was when I might have heard the phone ringing. Or, I might have imagined that I heard the phone ringing because I wanted Jen to call and ask me to forgive her.

  The phone may or may not have been ringing, but I knew Jen wasn’t going to call me. The truth had been revealed. She didn’t think much of me. It had always been I who came after her, bent myself into all kinds of shapes in desperate attempts to help her, reach her, win her approval and love. I would not call her and she would not call me.

  I picked up the washcloth and bathed my face gently. Gently, I said, oh, so gently.

  9

  ON MONDAY MORNING, I called the corporate headquarters of Match.com and asked to speak to their security and legal affairs division. I’d written out what I wanted to say ahead of time because I was a little worried that I might find myself rattling on about angels and the like, which I knew wouldn’t do me much good. After I’d explained about the brief e-mail exchange I’d had with “The Sky,” I told the woman, named Angelina Jamison—a name I found rather off-putting, considering—about the detailed Missed Connection posting on Craigslist, the different sightings I’d had, and finally, the strange e-mails from someone with the moniker “Rabbitfish.”

  There was a longish silence after I finished talking.

  “Rabbitfish?” Angelina Jamison said.

  “I know it’s weird.”

  “What, exactly, is a rabbitfish?”

  I trotted out the definition I’d found when I googled it. Then I said, “I’m not sure whether the rabbitfish species of fish has anything to do with, well, anything.”

  “Can you hold for a moment?”

  Great, now she’s going to do a check on me instead of The Sky. She came back on after ten long minutes.

  Her voice was excited. “Is this Rose Marley, the novelist?”

  “Yes.”

  “I love your books!” she screamed. “You are so funny! Is this whole Rabbitfish thing a joke, or something you’re using in your next novel?”

  I cleared my throat. Then, I lied. “I’m writing a big novel—my agent thinks it’s my best yet—but this stalking thing with Rabbitfish is really doing a head-trip on me. I can’t be funny when I’m scared to death that some guy is going to jump out from behind his parked car, grab me by my hair, and stuff me into the trunk.”

  “Okay, I can understand, I really can,” Angelina said. “But the reason I was wondering about whether this was all part of a novel, you know, in your imagination, was because we have absolutely no record of anyone ever using The Sky as their name on Match.com.”

  “But that’s absurd! You’ve got how many members?”

  “More than 8 million.”

  “And in more than 8 million, no one has used that name?”

  She sounded uneasy. “It seems unlikely, doesn’t it?”

  “Yup.”

  “It’s impossible to hack into our security system,” she said.

  “Maybe so, but apparently all the records of ‘The Sky’ have been wiped out.”

  After more discussion, Ms. Jamison agreed that they would do some detective work on whether there appeared to have been any illegal access to Match.com personal record-keeping, but she reiterated that it simply wasn’t possible.

  Tell that to Mr. Rabbitfish, I thought after we hung up.

  I checked my e-mail and noted that I hadn’t heard from him since I’d sent that come hither note the night before. Maybe that was adequate for scaring him off, kind of like the semi-serious recommendation for how to get a man to dump you: just tell him you can’t wait to be married.

  It was now ten-thirty in the morning. I was due at the Harvest, for the evening shift, by 4:30. Nothing much to do. Except bills, laundry, cleaning out the refrigerator, making the bed, answering a bunch of e-mails. But what did I want to do?

  Write.

  I opened a drawer, took out a brand new tablet of white lined paper, and grabbed my best pen, which had blue ink that flowed effortlessly. I wrote the title, Rabbitfish, and underlined it using a ruler. I stared at the pristine piece of paper, then glanced around the room. That is, my eyes moved to “see” the room, but I didn’t really. I felt the intake of strong breath, literally, inspiration. Then I began to write.

  “Rabbitfish”

  I am not an evil man. I model myself on Milton’s devil, that charmer in “Paradise Lost,” eclipsing everyone else in the story except, perhaps, the narrator himself, who probably used the devil as his own alter-ego. That’s getting complicated, but then, I am complicated. But not, to reiterate, evil. Perhaps, though, a little contrarian by nature. The thrust of being a human being is a thrust toward The Good. I have trouble with that. Demand that I be Good, I shall not be so. I know, I know. Something like a stubborn boy failing to grow up. I disagree, however. I find it more interesting to go in the opposite direction from everyone else. If the Earth revolves around the Sun in a counterclockwise motion, then I, similarly, will revolve around the Earth as a counterclockwise motion. Makes exquisite sense, if you think about it.

  Which, knowing most people, you don’t.

  Now don’t go assuming that I simply hate people because, actually I love people, with, admittedly, a partiality for women people. I plead innocent and predictable about that. All the little pieces of women delight me, which is why I’m so mean to them. I have no choice whatsoever. (Whenever I say “whatsoever,” I raise my pinkie in the air—quite the affectation, but I can’t seem to stop, though I’ve tried.) I’ve not been quite so mean in my earlier pursuits and I’ve never gone this far
before. I realize I’m skirting the law here; stalking is a felony and I could get in deep doo-doo. I’ve tried to control myself, but she—Rose—makes me lose control. I ask you: is that my fault? Some of this is simply out of my control, like I’ve become an alcoholic or drug addict. I need help! Except, please, hold off on the intervention because I’m having too good a time to quit now.

  My choice of Rabbitfish for my moniker is a good example of how she inspires me. I first thought of Lion fish, because I also happen to be a Leo, but that was too obvious. The beauty of “rabbitfish” is the imagery’s odd juxtaposition of a demure bunny, with the beauty of a fish, and the reality that a rabbitfish is venomous. Yummy, yummy. The perfect symbol for moi: sweet, graceful, and poisonous. And, of course, the very fact of having found such a perfect symbol implies the final, vital component, which is intelligence.

  So, admittedly, I am somewhat of a stalker about this chick, Rose. And it’s not generally acceptable to hack into another person’s e-mail, just because you’re curious. But I do have my reasons. I do. Let me count them:

  I am possibly insane,

  I am possibly not insane, merely eccentric,

  She has encouraged me,

  Since she’s not beautiful, my interest, perforce, must go deeper than skin-deep, meaning, it has value,

  She is acting upon me as a muse, encouraging my creativity, which has been somewhat squelched of late,

  She’s sexy,

  She is, arguably, the one I have always been seeking? True love?

  Anyway, when you’re revolving counterclockwise, little things like Right and Wrong don’t matter. Indeed, they are apt to throw you off-course. I do suspect, however, that this game is about to heat up. She is going on the offensive, and she’s being clever. I must take care, prepare myself to resist her at all costs, so that, ultimately, she finds me irresistible.

  I’ve rather jumped into the story feet-first, haven’t I? Are you following or have I lost you? Personally, I think writers tend to tell too much, provide a hopeless load of connective details, all of which destroy the mystery, not to mention the humor, the elegant touch, the je ne sais quoi.

  To go backwards, then. I am a 45-year-old male, handsome and charismatic. Rose’s present beau, Al, is also handsome, I admit. But he hasn’t my sense of play or gamesmanship. He leaves her empty. Though I know this is true, it stings a bit when I imagine them together. I suspect she wouldn’t have kept him around if it weren’t for his sexual prowess. Still, I make her mind leap and don’t think I don’t know it.

  I am somewhat undereducated, given my accomplishments. I’ve founded and sold companies, mostly in the arena of software analysis. I am wealthy and have a pinch of playboy in my psyche. I like that last phrase, “a pinch of playboy in my psyche.” You see, how she inspires me? I was married once; I am capable of great devotion, though you might be inclined to doubt it if you looked into my eyes too directly. So, don’t.

  I probably have too much time on my hands. That’s a cliché. I must do better. I need a project or goal to discourage this obsession I have with her. Though I read vast amounts, and am overeducated in terms of my general knowledge, I find that I am growing weary of reading. The time for action is upon me. I do not so much desire Rose, as I find her a comfortable distraction. She has become the perfect hobby. Not for me, collecting art or books or, even, roses. I am reminded of that intriguing cult novel, “The Collector.”

  I stopped writing abruptly. Sweat beaded across my forehead and my gut felt empty. I’d thoroughly scared myself, yet I had that satisfied feeling when writing has gone well. Quickly, I went into the word-processing program on my computer and typed everything I’d written. I composed a simple e-mail to my agent, Steph (“What do you think of this oddball thing?”), then attached the new piece of writing, and hit SEND.

  At which point I remembered that Mr. Rabbitfish reads my e-mails. Hurriedly, I reviewed the brief bit of material, with an eye to what he would think. I became convinced that without planning anything consciously, I’d figured out a brilliant way to lure him out from his hiding place. Either he’d feel so annoyed by my incorrect analysis of his character, or he’d be flattered that I’d written about him. One way or another, he was going to respond.

  So, of course, I got revved thinking about it, as well as a little nervous. I couldn’t help knowing that Jen would have been horrified by this new tactic. Indeed, if we hadn’t had the argument the day before, I doubted I would’ve gone in this direction. It worried me. The whole damn thing worried me. An angel and a stalker. I turned my desk chair around, twirling left, then right, trying to imagine what had been the impetus for all this. I didn’t get very far because the boing noise sounded on my computer. Nervous, I checked.

  Two e-mails had arrived at exactly the same moment, one from my agent and one from Mr. Rabbitfish. I swallowed. I clicked on Steph first.

  You’re back, but new and different. I love this! Keep writing! (We may have to give you a new name since this is such a new direction from your usual—good!)

  Despite my nervousness, I couldn’t help smiling. Pleasure jumped from my chest to my throat. I figured I would never get over the initial pleasure when someone close to me, whose taste I respected, praised my writing. Something to do with my mother, undoubtedly.

  NEXT, Mr. Rabbitfish.

  Nice.

  I was stunned. I didn’t know what to do, how to incorporate such a completely unexpected response. He clearly wasn’t angry and I was convinced that his one-word comment had to do with the quality of the writing, as if the story had nothing to do with him. He had passed judgment on the success of the writing as writing. Nothing more. Never mind about him, never mind about me. Just, did it work? Nice. He said, “Nice.”

  I groaned and clenched my hands into fake fists. One stupid word and he had me poised, ready to jump, full of desire for more of him. I think I know you. Yes, I said to him in my head, I know that you’re clever, intelligent, funny, handsome, erotic, and challenging. Yes, I know that you’re eccentric, cruel, diabolical, contrarian, and temperamental. Yes, I know I know you.

  I checked the time and remembered that I’d planned to meet my daughter, Alex, for lunch at Peter Bent Brigham Hospital, so that we could talk about wedding plans. Her rotation this month was on the Labor and Delivery floor, and her hours were even more sporadic than normal. Who knew when a baby would choose to arrive?

  I walked into the hospital a few minutes past noon and felt that not uncommon sense of anxiety a hospital setting seemed to exude, no matter that soaring architectural features, original art work, and even Mozart were now routinely used to promote a sense of peace and healing. Alex had said I could come up to the ninth floor and tell the charge nurse to let her know I’d arrived. In the elevator, I kept imagining that every member of the public must be tragically ill, or had loved ones who were tragically ill. I, therefore, bestowed unctuous smiles on one-and-all. They weren’t well-received, so I tried to stop, but it was hard. Instead, I pointed them at the hospital personnel. If you had a badge, I gave you a pitying smile. They, too, ignored me, but as the elevator laboriously stopped at each floor, loading and unloading vast numbers of people, I couldn’t quit. By the time we’d reached the ninth floor, my mouth was stuck in this supercilious grin, the lips stretched and dry, and my teeth throbbing.

  Alex happened to be at the central station as I approached, my mouth still frozen in place.

  “Did you have a dental appointment this morning?” she said immediately.

  I managed to make my lips move to form a word. “No.”

  Someone sitting at a computer monitor glanced at me, and then quickly away, embarrassed.

  Alex said, “I have to check on one patient, then we can go to the cafeteria, okay, Mom?”

  I nodded. She dashed off and the woman at the computer spoke. “You’re Alex’s mom?”

  Finally managing to throw off my pious demeanor, I said that I was. The woman stared at me. “It must be hard for y
ou.”

  “Hard for me?”

  “I mean the lesbian business—doesn’t it have something to do with the mother?”

  Now I focussed on the woman, noting two gold crosses dangling from her plump white earlobes. Red-blonde hair puffed out like a dyed marshmallow around her hair. What on earth should I say? Naturally, there was the normal temptation to blast her to smithereens. Or that would be the response of a normal person who had a healthy ability to express anger. I wasn’t in the least normal, though. I was, in fact, pathetic.

  I smiled.

  “Are your other children normal?” she said.

  There was the word I’d just been contemplating. I thought for a moment. Then I said, “No, they’re all normal.”

  She stared at me, her horrible green eyes wide with the discovery that I must be of sub-parr intelligence. “Dear, I think you misunderstood me.”

  I reached into my purse to pull out a small notebook and pen. Flipping open the notebook and clicking on pen, I said, “What’s your name, dear?”

  She hesitated, apparently beginning to sense that all was not as straightforward as she’d thought. I knew, to be fair, that I was partly to blame because I’d arrived at the desk wearing such a peculiar expression on my face. I leaned forward and squinted to try and see the name tag clipped to her big fat roly-poly bosom.

  “Is that Katherine Atkins?” I scribbled.

  “Why are you writing down my name?”

  “To report your comments about a lesbian medical student to the President of the hospital, whom I happen to know personally.” I did, too.

  “Now wait just a doggone—,”

  “You maligned my daughter’s good name.”

  From behind me came Alex’s voice. “Ready, Mom?”

  I whirled around, slipped my arm through hers, and steered us towards the elevator. “You will not believe what that woman said to me,” I hissed.

  “She’s a jerk.”

  I pushed the elevator button.