Chapter 11
The last time Henry had answered the kitchen phone he’d talked to some old guy living around Little Creek. The way the voice rattled, Henry could picture the guy’s phone being even older than the relic the Forest Service had left in the big brown house for years. The old guy told Henry he’d seen the ads Henry posted at Pleshette’s and the post office, offering his lawn mowing service. The proposed job sounded like a pain, out of town, maybe way out of town, but Henry told the old guy he could fit it in.
“Well, now, I don’t know,” said the old man. “The more I talk to you the more you sound like a horny little boy to me.”
The moment just seemed to stretch on and on, kind of like the first time he’d rode through Little Creek, his mom telling him she knew how tiny it was, how much of a sacrifice it presented, but how good it’d be for her, job-wise.
The old man had laughed and then the laugh altered. Became Paul Salerno, Henry’s best friend from Redmond.
This time when it started ringing, Henry had a Coke in hand. He’d downed plenty of water first come in from seeing Tiff and Sipe drive off. He knew stories about people misjudging their beverage consumption when it was hot, his mom having all sorts of tales of firefighters downing pop after pop and coming down with heat exhaustion, one time so bad they had to helicopter this guy out of a fire camp.
He forced out a burp and set the Coke on the kitchen table and gripped the phone. Henry hoped it was Paul Salerno. He hadn’t heard from his once upon a time best friend since May and hanging up on his hyena-laughing ass.
“Yeah?”
Not the most polite phone greeting. The silence that greeted him actually chilled him. Imagining it could be Lori calling from her fire camp or Alec checking in from Eugene for some reason.
A woman said, “Is Sipe there?”
“No,” said Henry. “He’s not here.”
“But you know who that is?”
“Yeah.”
Henry wanted to ask who she was.
She sighed.
“Do you want me to tell him to call you?” asked Henry.
“No.”
“Ok. Do you want me to tell him you did call?”
“Tell him Susan called.”
“Susan. Got it.”
“Tell him I looked into it. Who the closer might be.”
“Ok.”
“Can you repeat that? Not the ‘Ok’ you just said, but what I said.”
“Uh. Sure. ‘Susan called. Susan looked into it. Who the closer might be.’”
“Perfect.”
“Do you want me to tell him anything else?” asked Henry.
“Well, it’s not good. You don’t have tell him that though. He’ll know. Just tell him I called, I looked into it, and they sent the Wub.”
“Wub?”
“Right. Wub. Like you’re saying ‘rub’, but substitute a ‘w’ for the ‘r’.”
“Wub.”
“The Wub.”
Henry nodded. “Right. The Wub.”
“Tell him I said good luck.”
“Ok.”
“No. Actually don’t tell him that. He’ll think it’s like I’m telling him I know it’s going to go poorly. Don’t tell him that. Forget the good luck. Can you forget the good luck?”
“Yes.”
“Ok. And you got the rest?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She laughed.
“Now you’re making me feel old. But it’s nice in a way. You take care.”
“Ok.”
The long looping entrail of phone cord swung in the aftermath of hanging up.
She didn’t know his name. He knew she was Susan. She sounded like she might be a nice lady. Maybe old, but kind of pretty, kind of like Gwen. Sipe was so grim looking. Henry picked up the Coke and finished it in a gulp. Crimped, the can got pitched in with the recycling out in the garage, right on top of the two empties Henry had discovered in the house. Henry wondered what it meant that Sipe looked like an alcoholic, but drank Coke, and that he knew someone who sounded so nice, who might worry after him.
The Lipless Gods Page 12