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Fiction: THE CALL

By Candace Lyons
arttimesjournal January 6, 2018

It was Sunday afternoon so Sarah was at Laura's as usual. Sarah's husband, Gary, like a thousand other men, was off playing the sport of the season with his friends. Laura's ex, Ted, was part of this group. Sarah and Laura had been spending these jock afternoons together for years and they'd continued the tradition after Laura and Ted had broken up.

This particular Sunday, neither woman had had much sleep. Both had been to parties the night before. Laura had been feeling pretty much like a zombie, but Sarah had arrived, still giddy with adrenaline, and had literally come bouncing through the door asking,

"What's on the agenda?"

"Oh," Laura had said, still in a fog, "a movie?" she'd suggested hopefully since it wouldn't demand too much energy.

"Great!" Sarah had replied much to Laura's relief.

"The entertainment section's on the couch," Laura had said, "I'm going to make coffee." Sarah hadn't seemed to need it but she did.

"Good idea," Sarah had said, "I'm bushed."

"You're bushed?" Laura had thought, still she was beginning to catch Sarah's giddiness and was feeling vaguely human by now.

"What are you in the mood for?" Sarah had asked.

"Something that will definitely not challenge the intellect," Laura had replied.

"Piece of cake!" Sarah had responded, "Hollywood seems to be having you in mind these days," and both of them began to laugh. It wasn't that funny, but they were both a little punchy. Laura brought out the coffee and sat beside Sarah to see what the choices were. But, by this point, everything struck them as absurdly silly and they'd sat there making wry comments which they'd found hilarious. It was that kind of day.

The chirp of Laura's phone interrupted a particularly acute case of the giggles. Laura tried to get herself under control and hushed Sarah as she went into the kitchen to answer. The phone was on the common wall between the kitchen and the living room. Laura could see Sarah who was still laughing but doing her best not to make a sound. Her shoulders were shaking and tears were running down cheeks contorted with the effort of silence. Laura had to turn her back because just looking at Sarah made her want to laugh too.

"Hello," she managed in a normal tone, but then she had to bite her lip and put her hand over the receiver as an inappropriate "ha" threatened to escape.

Sarah was muffling her continued merriment with a cushion. She heard Laura say, "Yes," in that half-question, half- statement way one uses when asked, "Is this so-and-so?" but doesn't know who's asking. There was then so much silence, Sarah forgot what was so funny, lowered the cushion, and looked towards the kitchen. Laura was standing in the doorway, the receiver pressed against her ear. She'd been beet red just a few minutes before, now her face was dead white, as if every drop of blood she possessed had leaked out her toes. In fact, Sarah glanced down quickly checking for a puddle, then back at Laura's face because Laura was looking at her, eyes wide with supplication, the eyes of someone who was drowning. "Save me," they said. But Laura wasn't drowning and Sarah sat frozen watching this transformation, waiting, waiting for Laura to put down the stupid phone.

Another very quiet "yes" slipped through Laura's lips. She was silent a second longer, winced a flick, and finally hung up without saying goodbye.

"My God, what's wrong?" Sarah almost yelled, then she asked quietly, "Did someone die?" It was the only thing she could think of that would produce such a response. The desperation had gone out of Laura's eyes, but she took a minute before answering.

"Me. I guess. At least that's what she's hoping," she said as she came back into the living room. She was caught between emotions, could have burst out laughing or crying, but did neither. She sat in the chair directly opposite the couch, and pulled her feet up after her, shielding her body behind her bent legs. Sarah's voice grew panicky again as she asked,

"But who? What was that?"

"That," Laura replied dramatically, "was Mrs. Tremont."

"You're kidding?" Sarah asked which Laura felt needed no reply so Sarah answered herself, "You're not kidding. Oh, Laura," but Laura was lost in thought.

Mr. Tremont was Hank. He and Laura had briefly been lovers, if that was even the term for it. Hank was someone she'd known casually for ages, one of the regulars at the library where she had a part-time job on Saturdays. He would come in for a new supply of books and they would chat which is how she'd gotten to know and like him. But that had been the extent of things because she'd lived with Ted.

She and Ted had been together fifteen years, then suddenly, four months ago, he'd left her for another, younger woman. On the surface, the circumstances were so banal they were embarrassing. But his walking out had left her feeling betrayed, and she'd been devastated by the fact that her replacement was 21, the same age she'd been when she and Ted had fallen in love. The coincidence had left her feeling over-the-hill old, shelved for the new, improved model. It's why she'd let herself become involved with Hank. He had always flirted in an inoffensive way Laura had never taken seriously. But after the break-up, Laura had desperately needed to know if she was still desirable and had started flirting back. She'd chosen Hank because she found him attractive and, more importantly, he was around Ted's age so his interest in her had proven something important. At least that's how she'd felt. The clincher for her was that neither of them had sought or offered even the pretence of emotional commitment. It was only a fling. They hadn't even had to discuss it. She'd known Hank was married, but hadn't considered herself as the other woman, as any kind of threat. The affair had begun easily two months ago, had fulfilled its purpose, and they'd parted friends six weeks later. She'd seen him at the library since without any of the awkwardness one might expect. It was almost as if nothing had ever happened between them. Mrs. Tremont's call seemed like some kind of bad joke or bad dream.

Sarah knew all about Laura's involvement with Hank. She hadn't thought it was a brilliant idea, but she'd understood Laura's motives and had never censored. Still, she'd had a feeling that it couldn't be quite as simple as Laura kept saying it was. She was watching Laura now, letting her friend sort through her emotions, until she became too curious to keep silent.

"Do you think he told her?" The question brought Laura back to reality. She straightened up in the chair and said, "Apparently. But I can't imagine why. He always came here. There couldn't have been any suspicious clues or anything. He never so much as bought me flowers."

"Guilty conscience?" Sarah suggested. Laura shrugged.

"Maybe," she said without much conviction, "I don't know him that well," she admitted with an ironic laugh, "He doesn't seem to be the guilty-conscience type, but maybe he is," and she shrugged again.

"Or a friend of the wife's saw the two of you," Sarah clutched at straws.

"That's possible," Laura said, "Usually, he'd come here alone, but a couple of times he did wait until I got off work at the library and we walked over together."

"Still, that would have been weeks ago," Sarah mused.

"The whole thing was weeks ago," Laura pointed out, "The timing doesn't make sense any way you look at it. But I could hardly ask her," Laura motioned towards the phone, "for specifics." Then she added with a shiver, "And it's not something I'd ever mention to Hank. He might want to know what she said."

"What did she say?" Sarah asked, "You were white as a sheet."

Laura resumed her protective position, her chin propped on a knee, and looked off into space as she let the conversation replay.

"She called me every name in the book," Laura began.

"No," she corrected herself, "just every horrible name in the book. She was very angry. She kept telling me I was a this and I was a that. It went on and on. Then she started sobbing and said, 'My husband doesn't love you, he loves me. It's over. Do you understand?' I said, 'yes.' Then she said, 'I hope you die,' the way we used to when we were kids, and hung up on me before I could say anything else."

"Would you have?" Sarah asked. Laura looked at Sarah again and took some time to consider.

"No, I guess I wouldn't. I mean what could I have said? She's got the whole thing wrong, but if she found out from Hank, he must have told her that already. She obviously didn't believe him, so she's not going to believe me. And if she found out from someone else, she's definitely not going to believe anything I have to say." Laura looked suddenly very depressed.

"Are you okay?" Sarah asked her. Laura let out a weary sigh and said,

"No, not really. I've just hurt someone very badly. Even though it was unintentional -- or unthinking -- that doesn't change anything. I feel pretty rotten."

"But you really didn't mean to," Sarah tried to comfort her.

"But I really did anyway," Laura said, disgusted with herself, "Sometimes my own stupidity amazes me. I was so wrapped up in my needs, my own little personal drama; Hank's wife had absolutely no reality for me. Only there she is," Laura pointed towards the phone again, "and she's in pain, and her relationship with Hank will never be quite the same, and that's my fault." Then Laura's voice dropped to almost a whisper before she added, "And she hopes I die."

Sarah opened her mouth to offer further solace then closed it again. She could have mentioned that Hank was to blame as well, but she knew Laura knew this. There wasn't much else to say. They both remained silent for a few minutes until Laura suddenly remarked,

"I wish it was my birthday," to which Sarah cocked a quizzical eyebrow. It struck her as a singularly horrible wish. But Laura explained,

"I have just gotten older and wiser. Much older and, Lord, I hope much wiser. The numbers should change," and she added with a rueful laugh, "A hundred ought to do it." Then, much to her own relief, Laura began to cry.

(Candace Lyons lives in Paris, France.)