is the Farmington Penitentiary in San Dieppe. A request has been made by inmate Maxwell Feldberg to speak with you. At this time, you have two options: using your touch-tone telephone keypad, to accept this call press 1-1. To decline this call, press 2-2. Please be aware that by declining this call, your name and phone number will be permanently removed from this caller’s contact list. If no response is registered, this call will be classified as declined. You have ten seconds to make your selection.”
Maria hadn’t told me of these options. I guess she assumed I would automatically press 1-1 to speak with Max but during my first few allotted seconds, my initial inclination was to decline the call. My life was screwed up enough and being tracked down by a convict didn’t sound like a party I would want to attend. I was also briefly fascinated that by simply hitting the number “2” twice, Max would never be allowed to contact me again. How I wished this was a regular phone feature I could use for bill collectors or needy ex-girlfriends—Maria and Linda excluded, of course. Nevertheless, maybe Max was calling to tell me where he had stashed all the cash he’d presumably swindled from gullible patients.
As the seconds continued to tick away, from deep within my cranium my two favourite questions tormented me: Why bother? Why not? Why bother? Why not?
I pressed 1-1. What the hell? It’s always good to talk to old friends, I thought.
The automated voice returned.
“You will now be connected to your party.”
I smiled at the word party. Five seconds later, there was another click on the line.
“Hey, Steve—are you there?”
“I’m here, Max,” I replied. “How’s that golf swing of yours coming? Still a 12 handicap?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve got that sucker down to a 5 and was named Golfer of the Year by my peers in Cell Block D a few weeks ago.”
“Well, I guess congratulations are in store. What do you guys play—Sega Genesis or Playstation?”
“Playstation all the way,” Max laughed. “Their Pebble Beach game is so realistic you can almost smell the coconut sunscreen of the virtual babes in the spectator gallery.”
“It’s nice to hear they let you out every once in awhile,” I quipped. “Aside from being the resident golf pro, are you still playing shrink? I’m sure there are a couple of people in there who could use a good doctor.”
“You heard about that, huh?”
“Yeah, a few months ago that prick Francis McKillop gleefully updated me on the old gang’s whereabouts.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“He’s a lawyer.”
“Get out!”
“For a day or so he was actually my lawyer, until I brought up Elaine Wakelin.”
“Was she the girl in Grade 10 who thought she was pregnant?”
“The very one.”
“What about Wayne Dugan? What’s he up to?”
“Same old, same old. He raises livestock on his dad’s farm and is married with three or four kids.”
“Who did he marry?”
“Trudy Babich.”
“Fruity Trudy—that mean old dog? She made homely girls look like Playmate Pets. What was he thinking?”
“Apparently alcohol and a shotgun heavily influenced his decision to get hitched.”
Max began to laugh hard, to the point where he started to snort. Those sounds triggered long-suppressed memories from my youth. Prior to making this call, I wondered how Max might have changed over the years. One feature I knew would be the same—and could picture in my mind’s eye now—was his dopey smile and the way he’d tilt his head to the left as he laughed and snorted. I had witnessed this particular mannerism hundreds of times at school, the arena, the ballpark, the beach—just about anywhere we’d ever gone together during our formative years.
“Max, I’m sure we could play catch-up for hours but I got the impression your handlers keep a pretty stringent schedule when it comes to outside calls.”
Max’s laughter slowly died down. “You’re right, Steve, as usual.”
“What’s so important you tracked both Maria and me down?” I asked. “And by the way, how did you get her unlisted number?”
“I don’t think you want to know,” Max replied hesitantly.
“I understand. I know these calls are recorded.”
“No, it’s not that. I did nothing illegal.”
“Then what? She asked me to ask you.”
“It isn’t something I’m really proud of but—”
“But what?”
“The simple answer is Maria gave me the number years ago and I never forgot it.”
“Okay,” I said. “Where does your pride come into play?”
“Well . . . she gave it to me after we went out on a date,” Max said. “This was like a couple of years after high school. I briefly returned to Delta one summer before heading off to become rich and famous. Or should I say infamous?”
“So? What’s the big deal?” I asked.
“You’re not mad we went out?”
“Why would I be mad?”
“Because she was your girl and you were my best friend.”
I reflected on this for a moment. “You said this was after high school? After I left town?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why would I be mad at you?” I asked.
“I want you to know I didn’t try anything with her,” Max continued to stammer. “The whole time I felt guilty. It was almost like I was cheating on you—you know what I mean. Every time I looked into her face all I could think was, Stevie Boy should be here, not me. And at the end of the date, I didn’t even try to kiss her good night.”
“I’m sure that really boosted her confidence,” I chided him.
“I felt so bad, I never called her again.”
“You really had a way with women,” I laughed. “And look where it got you—a place where you’re surrounded by a group of guys for as far as the eye can see. That’ll teach ya.”
Our conversation was interrupted by an announcement: “This call will be terminated in one minute.”
“Time is of the essence. I’ll stop talking, Max,” I said. “Why did you call?”
“Because
