Whenever You Call Read Online Free PDF Page A

tickets to the ballet.”
    “Wow.”
    “He probably didn’t think about how sensitive I might feel at watching a bunch of beautiful ballerinas dancing on their long legs.”
    I slapped her arm this time. “He’ll realize it right in the middle of the performance. If you peek at him, he’ll be blushing furiously.”
    She put both hands over her mouth, trying to control the snorts of laughter.
    “Well, maybe it won’t be too bad—what’s he do for a living?” I said.
    “I’m not telling you.”
    “What?”
    She repeated, “I’m not telling you.”
    “Oh shit, he’s a writer.”
    “Bingo.”
    “Would I know his name?”
    “Nonfiction—a journalist—writes political stuff. His name is Tom Callahan.”
    “Actually, I think we have the same publisher. What’s he look like?”
    She shrugged her shoulders. “Nice, at least in the book’s photo.”
    I could see she was dismissing him already. “Maybe you should keep an open mind. Life can change when you least expect it.”
    “Yeah, like my best friend, the almost-famous writer, is no longer a writer and instead I’m going to have to tell everyone she’s joining the Peace Corps.”
    “Exactly.”
    I drove my ancient Volvo station wagon home and parked it on the street in front of my house. I’d been imagining a book contract any week now and having the funds to buy a new car, something smaller for maneuvering in a city. Not that I really cared about cars.
    Inside my house, where I’d purposely left a few lights on, I turned right into the bedroom. The mahogany four-poster bed that came with renting the house because the owners insisted that it couldn’t be taken out, dominated most of the room. A black chintz-covered wing chair was in the corner, with a small table and brass lamp next to it, and a tiny fireplace. The window on the front of the house was draped by full-length blue and white striped raw silk that I’d extended three feet on either side so that most of the wall now undulated from the open window’s night breeze.
    I tore off my clothes, hung them up hurriedly in the wardrobe and tiny closet, then dashed down the basement stairs naked. I turned on the taps full-blast and started filling the bathtub. While I waited, I went to check my e-mail. To my surprise, there was an e-mail from someone I’d never heard of, whose name was Rabbitfish. Befuddled, I stared at the word, trying to figure out if it was really possible that I was receiving an e-mail from a person named Rabbitfish. I checked the subject line and saw that it read “Anon415467.” That’s when I realized it was an e-mail sent in answer to one of my Missed Connection’s posts. I had also posted a message about the jogger running in front of me the other day, who’d turned into the cemetery. So, Rabbitfish could be either The Sky or the jogger. Somehow, I just knew it was The Sky.
    I don’t know how I knew. Guess I’m smart.
    I sat in my chair without moving a muscle. I remembered that my post had asked how he’d known Isaac was a former husband. I thought, who was this guy? With such few words, mere strokes, he exuded insouciance. Why should that be appealing? How could dispassion seem so passionate?
    I started typing.
    Guess so.
    I hit the send button. He would now have my name, Rose Marley, but I wasn’t worried about it. My phone number and address were unlisted. No harm could come to me through e-mail.
    I lit the candles around my subterranean bathroom and prepared for a long soak, during which I would meditate. Five years earlier, it had seemed as though every magazine, newspaper, book, and person brought up the subject of how good meditation was for finding peace and tranquility. So, in one gigantic puddle-jump, I’d read the articles, bought the books, and begun to meditate. I actually liked it, although it had taken awhile to figure out my best method was in this old bathtub. Just before getting into the tub, I remembered to run back to my computer and tune