The Call
If I don’t answer the she’ll say, “You were
nearer. Maybe somebody died.” If I do answer, it’ll be, “You know it’s always
Emily. Why do you bother to pick up?” I hold the receiver and listen to her low dulcet
tone imploring me.
“It’s nobody,” I tell the wife, joining her in
the kitchen. “Let’s do the crossword. Nine across, six letters, money lender
who charges exorbitant interest?”
“Emily must have nothing else to do,” I add. That
makes her chuckle. She should do
sex-chat, the wife suggests. What would the wife know about sex-chat? When’s
the last time we even did it? Menopause and dwindling libido. Maybe I should
listen to Emily; Fred Marsh spent three grand listening to Emily. “Good for him.
There’s life in the old dog,” I say to piss her off.
Can’t he hear that ringing? He’s definitely losing
it. Wish he’d get a hearing aid. Not that he wants to hear anything. Not that
he wants to listen to me. Not that I have much to say. “Is it her again?” I
roar from the kitchen. For Christ’s sake why doesn’t he just hang up? It had to
be somebody. It was probably her. She’s probably reversing the charges. “You should
have hung up immediately,” I say. We used to talk to each other, now we do
crosswords. Usurer, why doesn’t he know that? He used to be sharper.
“What would you know about sex-chat”? he asks. Let
him wonder. He knows that’s not what I mean about Fred.
”If the phone fraudsters used a person instead
of a pre-recorded tape you could tell them to sod off,” I say. He says they’ve
done that. I’ve done that.
“Persuade with promise of reward? Five letters?”
he asks. Definitely Emily.
Copyright with Cathy Leonard 2019
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