was he hadn’t made the best post-secondary choices and I didn’t ask.”
Classy, classy, classy, I thought.
“Have you heard from Linda?” Maria inquired, changing the subject.
“Not yet. Truth be told, I don’t think I’d be on her people to call list,” I said. “I take it she hasn’t contacted you either?”
“No and that’s got me worried.”
The silence that passed through the line was accompanied by a dose of bitterness. Although I wanted Maria to yell, ‘Why did you do this?’ I knew she wouldn’t—it wasn’t her style. Still, I wished she would, just this once. I needed someone to put me in my place.
“I have to go,” Maria said. “If you hear from Linda, please tell her to call me.”
“I’ll do that.” I wanted to add some sort of apology for the hurt I’d caused, only she hung up before I had the chance.
I staggered out of bed and checked the answering machine, which had Maria’s two previous messages on it. I was about to erase them but stopped myself. It might have been the alcohol still flowing through my brain, but all I could think was, That might have been the last conversation you’ll ever have with her. The last time you’ll hear her voice. You don’t want to erase her voice, do you? An optimist would have quickly deleted the messages. Being a seasoned pessimist, I saved both calls.
By mid-afternoon I started to feel better—the coffee, sandwich and a refreshing shower had helped immensely. Figuring there was no time like the present, I dialed the penitentiary’s number and waded through the many automated options, until the operator came on the line.
“Which inmate are you calling?” the woman asked curtly.
“His name is Max Feldberg. I don’t know where—”
“And your name is?”
“Steven. Steven Cassidy. I used to go to high school—”
“Can you be reached at this number?” She then rattled off my phone number.
“Yes.”
“Is this number registered in your name?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Will you be at this number between 3:00 p.m. and 3:15 p.m. today?”
“I can, I guess.”
“Very well. An attempt to contact you will be made later today between 3:00 p.m. and 3:15 p.m. If there is no response, a second attempt will be made tomorrow and if necessary, the following day, during the same time period. If we are unable to contact you on the third attempt, you will be deemed unresponsive and your name will be permanently removed from Mr. Feldberg’s call list. Is that clear, Mr. Cassidy?”
“Yes,” I stammered, trying to digest everything she’d said.
“Thank you for calling The Farmington Penitentiary.”
Like my previous day’s mystery caller, I was so emotionally unbalanced upon hanging up, I had doubts I’d just spoken to a living, breathing human being.
With nothing but time on my hands, I plopped down on my well-worn couch and looked around for the TV remote. It was then I remembered how I had left for the pub with the television and lights still on. Now however, I realized both were off. I turned on the TV and VCR expecting to see images of the Tecumseh Motel massacre but the screen remained blank. I crawled across the floor to the entertainment unit, where I pressed the Eject button on the VCR. Again, nothing happened.
Where was the tape? I was sure I hadn’t taken it out of the machine. Then who had? I wondered.
I went to the phone and called the pub.
“Hello.”
“Dawn, it’s me—Steve, from the bar last night.”
“So you survived to see another day?” she asked playfully. “I was worried you might pull a Keith Moon or a Bon Scott—you know—the rock stars who choked on their vomit and died in the ‘70’s.”
“Yes, I got the reference,” I admitted, somewhat baffled how a girl so young would know such classic rock folklore. Before I could ask, she was telling me.
“I figured an old guy like you would remember them. A friend of mine is this huge music fan and he’s always telling me these morbid tales about bands my parents used to listen to.”
“Is this your boyfriend?”
“No, he hates music,” came the reply.
“So, this is the guy from the beach?” I ventured.
“Are you kidding?” she laughed. “He only likes techno music. No, this friend is much older.”
“How old?”
“I don’t know—thirty–five, thirty–six. You know—your age.”
“Ouch.”
“I didn’t mean that in a bad way,” she offered softly.
“I’m glad to hear that. Anyway, the reason I’m calling is to find out if you knew how I got home last night. Did someone call me a cab?”
There was a brief silence.
“You really don’t remember?”
“Wisdom usually comes with age, but from time to time alcohol kind of wrecks that notion.”
“I hope that’s the case because usually when I go home with a guy he remembers me in the morning.”
“You brought me home?”
“I didn’t trust the cabbie who showed up and didn’t think he would tuck you into bed like I could.”
It was my turn to pause.
“I’m pretty sure we didn’t,” I finally said, “but we didn’t . . .”
“What—get it on?” Dawn laughed. “I was lucky to get you through the front door and onto your bed. I’m not sure if you noticed or not but all your clothes were on when I left this morning.”
I was understandably confused. “Don’t you mean last night?”
“No, this morning. I had to work the day shift and figured I might as well crash at your place. I would have asked if it was okay but you were . . . well, not in a talkative mood, if you know what I mean.”
“I regret being such lousy company,” I said.
“That’s all right,” Dawn replied casually. “It was sort of fun playing mother hen for one night. Usually I’m the one passing out and being carried to bed. Unfortunately, I usually wake up naked.”
“Well, I also apologize for all the creeps who have taken
