Disconnection (7 page)

“You’re the only person I know who’s obnoxious enough to call me at the break of dawn.”

“Oh, please. It’s nine o’clock. Anyway, I woke up feeling like shit. Can you forgive a completely selfish, despicable cow of a friend for leaving her best friend at a bar last night without a ride home?”

Sela reached up and rubbed her temples. This was exactly what she was expecting. Mandy always made an ass of herself when they went out, and then expected to be forgiven the next morning. Trouble was, Sela let her get away with it because she had very few friends and wasn’t in the position to just toss people aside when they screwed up occasionally.

And Mandy was a good friend when she was sober. They’d had their share of high-quality times together. Mandy had been there for Sela when Rufus had left for Seattle, or wherever the hell he had gone to.

Sela said, “Yes, all is forgiven. Don’t worry about it. I know how you get when you’re drunk.”

“Like the Whore of Babylon?”

Sela laughed. “Your words, not mine. So you want me to drop off your cell phone after work?”

“Huh? I have my cell phone.”

“No, you don’t. I found it under our table after you left.”

“Well, it’s not mine.”

“You sure?” Sela asked. “It’s tiny and red and looks just like yours. It even smells like the Whore of Babylon.”

“Sure I’m sure. What do you think I’m calling you with? My home number was disconnected months ago. Damn fascist phone company jackasses. Listen, I’ve got to get to a job interview for a managerial position at the Gap. The fucking Gap, can you believe it? Who knew I would stoop so low?” She paused. “Are we still friends, Sela?”

Sela didn’t have a chance to answer, as a ringing sound came from the living room. She looked around, confused. She was already on the phone. How could it be ringing?

Because it’s Mandy’s phone that was ringing. Or at least, the phone I thought was hers
.

Sela said to Mandy, “I have to go. That cell phone I thought was yours, it’s ringing.”

“Okay. Don’t let them give you shit for taking their phone. Tell them you thought you were doing a friend a favor.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Sela hung up and walked into the living room. The phone was still ringing inside Sela’s purse (Was it Sela’s imagination, or had the ring become louder?). The ring wasn’t really a ring really; it was a tune playing—some song that a consumer could download off the Internet for ten bucks or so. It sounded familiar but Sela couldn’t really place where she had heard it before.

She opened her purse and took out the phone. The color was much redder than Mandy’s. How could she have ever mistaken it for Mandy’s phone? Mandy’s phone was reddish orange and dull. This phone was bright crimson, like the color of newly sprung blood.

And perhaps it was just Sela, but it seemed that the air was getting cloudy. Smoky, even. She looked around. No fire anywhere. Dean’s lighter was safely on the coffee table. No reason why the room would get hazy.

Just my imagination
, Sela decided as she pressed the “on” button. Immediately the ringing stopped. She took a deep breath and said, “Hello?”

There was no reply, but Sela heard noises. Like a hundred girlish voices in another dimension, hanging off the edge of a cliff, screaming in slow, pulsating vibrations that moved through the thickness of water and time.

The sound became louder, and then faded, faded until it almost stopped. But not quite. Sela could still hear an echo of it—that
something
—on the other line.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

And what was happening with the air? The room’s damn near opaque
.

Again she asked, “Hello?”

Silence. Even the slight echo was gone, flooded over by a wave of stillness.

Finally a girl’s voice asked, “Who is this?”

S
ela’s words fell out in a jumbled heap.

“I don’t know if you’re gonna believe me when I tell you this but, I have your phone and it’s completely by accident. I found it at the Black Kitchen last night and I thought it was my friend’s. I didn’t know until a moment ago that it was someone else’s.”

She paused.

“If you just give me your address I can bring it back to you after work, or you can come by here, whatever you want to do.”

The girl didn’t answer.

Sela bit her lip. “Hello? You still there?”

The girl’s voice spoke again, “Yes. What’s your name?”

“Sela. Sela Warren. I’m a perfectly harmless person, really. I just made a stupid mistake, and I’m really sorry. I guess these red phones are popular but, look, if you give me directions to your house, I can just drop it off after work. Are you going to be home today?”

“I think so. It’s dark in here.”

“There was a power outage last night,” Sela said. “I think the lights are back on now.” She stood up and tried the light switch. A light blinked wildly for a moment, and then came on. “Yeah, it’s back on now. Just try it, I’m sure you have power too.”

A long pause followed. “No. It’s still dark where I am,” the girl answered.

Sela paced the room. “Hmm, in that case, you might want to call your power company, because it should be on.”

“So cold, too.”

“Well, your heater’s been off all night.” Sela stopped pacing and walked toward the window. She opened the latch and lifted the glass, hoping the fresh air would help empty the room of its dense fog. It didn’t. Sela sighed. The room was as cloudy as a battlefield. She would have to call maintenance. Perhaps there was a carbon monoxide leak. Not that she knew what a carbon monoxide leak looked like.

“Can you bring my phone back to me?”

Sela flinched when she heard the girl’s voice again. She looked down at the red phone in her hand.
Ah, the phone call
. Sela had almost forgotten she was on the phone with someone, so consumed she was with what was happening to her living room. She replied, “Sure. Of course, I’ll be happy to bring your phone back to you. What’s your address?”

The girl recited the address to her: “1000 Prytania Street.”

“Oh, okay, I know that street,” Sela said. Everyone in New Orleans knew Prytania Street. It was in the nicest part of the Garden District, where the streets reeked of old money and the high-class lifestyle.

Sela cleared her throat, “And what’s your name?”

“Chloe Applegate. Please hurry. I’m so cold.”

Sela leaned against the arm of her couch. “Sure thing. I get off work at five, and then I’ll be right over.”

Chloe answered, “Wait…”

“Bye.” Sela closed the phone and put it in her purse. She hoped the girl would not call back. It was hard speaking to her.

“I wonder if she’s mentally challenged?” Sela mused aloud. It was the only way to explain the girl’s odd behavior.

A breeze flooded the room as if in answer, rattling the magazines and papers on the floor. The air in Sela’s living room began to clear. Sela stepped back and watched the smoke lift. Her blue eyes lightened in amazement. What had caused the murkiness, and why was it suddenly disappearing?

Or had she imagined the whole thing?

She heard the television turn on in her bedroom.

Damn. He’s awake
.

Sela stood like a deer in the headlights at the entrance of the hallway, unsure of what to say to the boy in her bedroom. Her inexperience in one-night stands was showing. What did women do in these situations?
I need to read more
Cosmo, she thought.

She slowly walked to her bedroom. Dean was no longer in bed. He was sitting Indian-style near the television, fully clothed, his glasses on, his eyes glued to the screen. The toothy blonde reporter was on the TV, but the volume was so muted it could hardly be heard.

Sela found the courage to speak. “Hello.”

Dean didn’t turn around. Instead his gaze remained on the reporter. He said, “They found more of those Fishhook signs. And a girl. Drowned. In the Mississippi.” He finally looked up, using the remote control to flick off the TV just as the reporter was preparing to show a photo of the murdered girl. Dean said, “Told you I wasn’t the Fishhook guy.”

Sela shifted her feet shyly. “I guess you weren’t lying. Wonderful. I would have been mortified to find out that I had spent the night with a serial killer.”

Dean’s face flickered into an indecipherable expression as he stood up and walked toward her. “I gotta go,” he said.

Sela felt a twinge of disappointment. She tried to give a heartening smile. “Okay,” she said, nodding.

Dean lifted his arms up and took her face in his hands. His palms were smooth and warm. Sela nudged her nose into his skin. It smelled like her. She wondered how long her scent would stay with him. Hopefully long enough so that he would always remember her, so when he was fifty and fat and stranded on a street in Manhattan hunting for a taxi, he’d remember her and smile.

She waited for him to pull away. But instead of backing away with a predictable departing comment, he asked, “Can I call you?”

Taken off guard, she smiled. “No.”

Dean took his hands away and stepped back. A hurt expression stretched along the handsome contours of his face. “Why not?” he asked.

Sela’s smile widened. “You don’t have my phone number.”

“Oh.” A mischievous light sparkled in Dean’s eyes. “And I suppose you’re not going to give it to me? Last night was just a game to you?”

“Work, actually. You should probably leave before my nine-thirty arrives.” Sela worked at keeping a straight face.

Dean suddenly picked Sela off the ground and threw her on the bed. “You’ll just have to be late for him!” he exclaimed as he pinned her to the mattress and sprinkled kisses on her forehead.

“Why should I?” Sela joked. “It’s good money.”

Dean didn’t answer and instead worked at the ties around Sela’s robe. Sela studied him as he reached down to kiss her flat tummy. He was too good for her. Something had to be wrong with him. He must have a beautiful girl waiting for him in New York—some Natalie Portman-looking schoolgirl with parents who had a gazillion dollars. Either that or he was gay, and Sela was pretty certain he wasn’t—and if he was, he was a hell of an actor.

Whatever secrets he has, I don’t want to know about them
, Sela decided as Dean’s lips met her own in a searing kiss.
I don’t want to know. Not now, anyway
.

J
ust between Fairfax and Magazine Street, in the outskirts of the Garden District, sat Frank’s Diner. Sela’s home away from home.

Over the front door of the brick eatery, a neon sign flickered on and off, with the ‘e’ in ‘Diner’ burned out completely. On the windows, messages were written in chalk:
KIDS EAT FREE ON SUNDAYS
and
SHRIMP SPECIAL $6.99 ALL YOU CAN EAT
. The signs had been around since Sela had started working at Frank’s five years ago.

Inside, the décor was drab, empty, but it exuded the atmosphere of a well-used, much-loved café. Aluminum countertops and baby blue booth seats filled the space. An old, beat-up television was raised over the bar, its sound muted. The smell of beef and Tabasco sauce permeated the air. The Golden Oldies played in the background.

Today it was crowded. Conversations everywhere. Sela walked around the restaurant with a pad in her hand. She stopped at a table where three businessmen sat looking at menus. “What can I get you?” she asked and took a pen out of her apron.

One of the men looked up from the menu and asked, “What’s the special?”

Sela pointed to the Specials Board above the bar. “Gumbo.”

“Wasn’t that the special yesterday?”

“This is New Orleans. Gumbo is always on special.”

The man nearest to the aisle (who looked a bit like Jim Belushi, Sela thought) paused from studying the menu’s burger selections. His eyes grew wide with interest when he checked out Sela. “Hey,” he began, poking the guy next to him, “doesn’t she look like the Fishhook girl?”

The man next to him gazed at Sela, his eyes also widening, saucer-like. “Damn, you’re right.”

Sela shifted her weight. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t watch the news, honey?”

The what’s-the-specials man broke apart his crackers and stuffed them in his mouth. He smiled crudely at her as cracker crumbs tumbled down his lips. “That cute thing the police found gutted on the Mississippi,” he answered with a wink.

A chill sunk deep along Sela’s spine and rested in the pit of her stomach. Watching the men laugh at their friend’s joke, Sela felt once more that maybe—just perhaps—all decency and goodness had finally broken away from the human species.

“You’re sick. I’ll get someone else to wait on you.”

She stepped away from the table, turned around, and headed back down the aisle. One of the men, the Jim Belushi-looking one, yelled, “Hey, baby! Come back! We were just joking!”

“Assholes,” Sela muttered under her breath. At the bar she spotted Rowena, a short Guatemalan waitress who had only started a week ago. “Can you take care of table eight for me?” Sela asked as Rowena approached. “I would really appreciate it.”

The pretty girl nodded. “You need a break, Sela?” she asked, concern showing in her eyes.

“I might just step out for a second and get a breath of fresh air,” Sela replied. She smiled. “Thanks, Rowena.”

Sela casually walked to the back door of the café and stepped outside into the warm daylight, where the nearby dumpster offered its familiar mixed odor of sour milk and rotten meat. Ignoring the stench that she had become accustomed to, Sela paid attention to the sounds of city traffic. The horns, the engines, the shouting out of windows. A typical New Orleans afternoon.

Sela did not mind the noise so much—it kept her mind off the sick men at table eight.
What a bunch of losers
, Sela thought. It always amazed her some people could take heavy issues like murder—serial murders, for Pete’s sake—so casually.