Calling Out (18 page)

She snorts and takes an old issue of
Vogue
from the
coffee table and stuffs it into her bag.

“Roxanne, you need to stop watching so much
Oprah
,” she says, getting up. “Sometimes things just suck
and there's no explanation that makes it better. I'll call
when I get there.”

When the door closes behind her, another flurry of
brown pine needles blankets the carpet. I take the dead
wreath down and set it outside the door. I'm frustrated by
my inability to cheer Jezebel up. The colored lights on the
Christmas tree blink on and off, and since I don't know
how to make them stop, I unplug the whole thing. To
combat my heavy head, I turn on all the lights, straighten
the cushions, crack the window to clear out some of the
parched air, empty the ashtray, and wipe the crumbs from
the table. But with the lights on, it looks sad and naked so
I turn them all off again just in time to answer the phone,
put McCallister on hold, and send Mimi on a date to the
Marriott up near the university.

“Hi,” I say, clicking back over to McCallister.

“What did that guy want?”

“‘Oriental.' Fortunately I had Mimi available.”

“Yeah,” he says. “How late are you working?”

“Till ten.”

“So how's it going?”

“McCallister, are you trying to work up to something?
No need to beat around the bush.”

“Okay, then, two things. One, I'm worried about you.
You seem like you're hiding something and you still seem
depressed.”

“You're the one who seems depressed,” I say.

“Jane, please. The other is Maria's not moving in
because she found out how often I talk to you.”

“I figured Maria was going to find out eventually and
then we'd have the we-can't-talk-anymore-because-itmakes-her-uncomfortable talk. Is that what this is?”

“It's hardly that simple.”

“Does that mean you're not going to call me anymore?” My anger is thinly disguised.

“Let's talk about the other issue first,” he says.

“Issue?”

“What is it with you? What's going on? Have you
become a drug addict or something? Are you going to put
stones in your pockets and walk into the Great Salt Lake?”

“Maybe it's just that I'm living a new life and trying to
distance myself from the old. Maybe I've met someone.”

“Is that true?” he asks.

“No. But it could be. Look, nothing's wrong. I'm fine.”

“Are you with Ford?”

“Figures you'd say that. Jesus. Ford is leaving for
Moab tomorrow, so no. Ember's staying here with me.”

“That makes me feel a lot better.”

“You broke up with me, remember?”

“You're my friend. I want you to be happy.”

“You want me to be happy so you can feel less guilty.”

“Jane.”

“What.”

“I can't have this conversation over the phone.”
“What conversation is that?”

“This. Everything. Us.”

“Us?”

“I'm coming to see you,” he says.

“I'm holding my breath.”

“In a week.”

“You're not invited.” Two other lines ring but I let
them go.

“I don't need to be invited. I need to work this out
face-to-face.”

“You need to work this out? You don't get to pick. You
don't always get your way, McCallister. This is your
problem, not mine. There's nothing to work out. You
don't want to talk anymore? Fine. Don't call me. It's that
simple. Have a great life with Maria. I'm giving you my
blessing. Is that what you're looking for? I'm not pining
over you. I'm not waiting for you to come to your senses.
I've moved on.”

“Did Ford help you with that impassioned speech?”

The red lights of the other lines have stopped flashing
on the phone.

“Enough. Please. I have to go.”

“Because your madame job is so important to you
now?”

“Fuck you. I'm hanging up now.”

“I'll see you soon,” he says.

“No you won't. I'm telling you not to.”

I slam the phone down.

When my shift ends at ten, I go to my car only to find
Ford leaning against it.

“Hey,” I say.

I collapse a bit in his hug.

“What's wrong?” he asks, his chin on my head.

“Ralf hates my guts, McCallister is threatening to
come here, and you're leaving tomorrow. Where should I
start?”

“I'm leaving tonight,” he says. “I'm on my way.”

I pull away to look at him in the alley lamplight.

“The longer I wait, the worse it'll be,” he says. “No use
tacking on another night of trying to prepare to say goodbye. Ember acts like it's some sort of betrayal that I'm
going but she's the one who's changing the plans.”

“What's going to happen now with you guys?”

“I don't know. We'll talk. We'll visit a couple days here
and there. She'll find someone new. Move on. Leave
without saying good-bye.”

“That's bleak.”

“I'm not saying anything you don't already know,” he
says.

“Then why leave?”

“Because I don't belong here,” he says. “The job's over.
I feel stuck. And I've always known it was up to her.”

I hold his palms to my cheeks.

“So what's this about McCallister?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I forbade him but he says he's
coming to Salt Lake.”

“I knew that guy would realize he'd made a mistake.
Do you want my two cents? You're better without him.”

“I know.”

“At least don't do anything dumb like sleep with him.”

“Don't worry. He's practically married,” I say.

“Not if he's coming here to see you,” he says.

I shrug, because I have nothing else to say.

“If things get rough up here, you know you can come
down to me. You'll always have a place in the trailer,” Ford
says.

“Thanks.”

“And Jane?”

“Yeah?”

“Don't follow her too closely.”

I want him to clarify, but I have enough of a sense of
what he means and it looks too painful for him to continue.

“I love you, kid,” I say.

“I love you too,” he says.

I kiss his cold, chapped lips and hang on, longer than
I should, until he gently pulls free. I walk him to his truck,
already loaded up with what little he brought to Salt Lake,
and I touch the window before my sweet-souled fairhaired friend drives away.

“Hey Roxanne!” Kendra calls from the door of the
office. “Want to go see Cully?”

I've sent girls to Cully before. He has a strong East
Texas twang and he likes to get peed on.

“What the hell,” I say.

I've never peed on anyone before. On what part of
him do I pee? Do I do it in the bathtub? In the bed?

Cully actually says “Howdy” when he opens the door.
He's tall and beanpole skinny, with the expected mustache, and he's clad in a white T-shirt and tight Wranglers.
Although he seems easygoing, he shows up on some of the
girls' “will not see” lists on account of his golden shower
proclivity as well as for a propensity for getting aggressive.
Tonight I feel like I can handle whatever he throws my
way because all I want to do is forget everything else.

“Hello,” I say, “I'm Roxanne.”

“Rox-anne,” he sings in his best Sting imitation. “Welcome. Make yourself at home.”

We're at the Crystal Inn downtown, on the twentyfifth floor overlooking Temple Square. The room, in
shades of sea foam and mauve, has an early-eighties,
smooth-cornered feel to it. Cully clicks off the hockey
game and dives onto the bed.

“Money's on the TV there,” he says.

After I call in, Cully says he's going to take a shower
and that I should relax. I step out of my shoes and coat
and curl up on the bed in my jeans. He sings Garth Brooks
in the shower and I switch on the TV and turn to a
cooking show on PBS.

I imagine Ford in his truck, just past Provo around
Spanish Fork, with Johnny Cash on the tape deck,
thinking about the last month. I wonder how he will
remember it, how he will give it shape and meaning, how
Ember will become understandable in memory in a way
she wasn't in person. I feel his absence and I feel relief.
With Ford gone, I don't have to explain what I'm doing. I
don't have to have a good reason.

“Hey, Roxy baby,” Cully sings, dancing out of the
bathroom with a towel around his waist. His hair is
slicked back, and water drips from his mustache. A puckered diagonal scar on his abdomen, I assume from an
appendectomy, and a blurry blue tattoo on his bicep are
his distinguishing marks.

“Hey there, Cully,” I say, crossing my legs Indian-style.

“Want to dance, lovely lady?” he asks, swinging his
narrow hips from side to side.

I have to laugh. He takes me by the hands with surprising force and pulls me across the bed. When I'm on
my feet in front of him, he unzips my sweatshirt in one
quick pull and puts his hands around my waist, swaying
to nonexistent music.

“Slow down there,” I say, losing my balance.

“Don't worry, I've got you,” he says. He slides off my
sweatshirt and slips his hands under my shirt. “Want a
pick-me-up? A kick of speed might loosen you up.”

“No, thanks,” I say, “but some music would be nice.”

He rolls his eyes but lets me go turn on the radio,
which is playing the end of an old Pearl Jam song. When
I turn back, he's let the towel drop and his hand is on his
semi-erect penis.

“Come back here, you,” he says. “Let's have ourselves
some fun.”

I walk toward him and he reaches out and yanks me
to him by my belt loops.

“Off with these,” he says, going right for my zipper.

I coyly push him away and get out of my jeans on my
own, and before he asks, I take off my shirt.

“Whoo!” he cheers, dancing to Britney Spears. “Come
on, Roxanne, don't you want just a taste? One little
bump?”

And then I think, why not? Why not shut off my mind
for a little while.

I follow him into the bathroom, where he cuts
clumped white powder on the back of the toilet. With a
pocketknife, he takes a small pile up each nostril. He
hands me the knife and I do the same, the chemical drip
in my throat promising an altered state I long for. I feel it
almost immediately in my heart and I reach up and kiss
Cully on the cheek.

“Thanks, darlin',” he says.

He starts to lead me by the hand but then picks me
up, as if carrying me over the threshold, with one arm
hooked under my knees and one around my back, and
sets me on the bed. The drugs have shrouded me in a layer
of remove. I close my eyes and feel his body on mine, his
lips on my neck, his hands seeking out mine. He smells
like Speed Stick and tobacco. I like the breathless feeling
of all his weight on me. I have nothing to do but be here
as a body. Cully gets his hands underneath my butt and
flips me over on top of him. When I open my eyes, I'm
dizzy. I feel his erect penis against my stomach.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, come on. Give it to me.”

His hands are pressed on my thighs as I kneel above
him. For a moment, I feel totally lost. No memory, no fear,
no awareness. An empty vessel. He groans as he masturbates and the sound of his voice snaps me back.

I have pee fright and I have to think of waterfalls to
get it going as he begs me to do it now, do it now.

“I want to feel it on me,” he says.

I close my eyes and feel the odd freedom of letting go
right here. My aim is not great but I adjust so the urine
stream hits right on his frantic hand, and he ejaculates as
if on command.

“Shit, yeah,” he says, flopping into a spread eagle position and closing his eyes.

I move off the wet bed and reach for my jeans.

“Roxanne, come here baby,” he says. He slaps my butt
hard. “Yeah. Real nice. Go in the front pocket of my pants
over there. There's a little something for you.”

It's a hundred dollars.

“Thanks,” I say.

I haven't been called out yet, but the date is all over.

“Drive safe,” Cully says, lighting a cigarette and turning
the hockey game back on.

When the door shuts, I hear him yelling at the TV. I
stand in the hall and listen as Cully claps and hoots. It
makes me smile that he was pleased with my performance. My heart jumps about and I feel warm and riled up
from the drugs and from the afterglow of having had a
momentary, crystalline sense of purpose.

I jog to the elevator.

With Ford gone, Ember moves from the makeshift living
room sleeping area into my room, right into my bed. She
comes in early the next morning—she's been out all
night—and snuggles against me in her clothes. I feel
sleepy happiness with her beside me. In a sense I've gotten
what I've been after for weeks, though I know it's a
fleeting arrangement. We sleep until eleven, content to
laze about until noon, getting sweaty under the covers.

“My breath could kill someone,” she says, rolling over.

Ember knows that I know she wasn't with Ford and
she wasn't here, but I don't ask her where she's been.

“I had to pee on someone last night,” I say.

“No way! I haven't even done that yet. Oh remind me,
I have some money for you.”

“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.” Her contributions to the
household are spotty but I take what I can get.

“Did you see Ford before he left?” she asks.

“Yeah. He came by the office.”