Page 44 of Good Days Bad Days
I put on Marion Brown’sPorto Novo, and we lean against the counter drinking cold Coca-Cola while eating our less than gourmet dinner, the work talk on hold for the time being. She tells me about a folk concert she went to last weekend with her sister, and I tell her about going to Summerfest in Milwaukee last year. We talk about Nixon and the war and an upcoming protest at UW. She invites me along.
I don’t tell her about my brother’s death or about my mother’s suicide or my guilt over somehow escaping the draft. I listen to her speak of grand things, change, revolution, a way out of the chaos of our present that brings a comforting buzz into my apartment.
When the record ends and our conversation lulls, I glance at the clock and realize we’ve lost track of time. The sun has set, and the one light in the sitting room casts a yellow glow in a semicircle that reaches only to the edge of the sofa, leaving us in the dim kitchen.
“I can take that,” I say. We both reach for her empty mug, and my hand lands on her long, slender fingers. Her skin is silky, and my touch lingers. She notices but doesn’t pull away. Her stare meets mine, the light from the sitting room reflecting off her eyes, giving them the look of polished glass. Her lower lip seems to pout, and I wonder if the rest of her skin is as smooth as her hand. An undeniable desire to kiss her rolls over my body like an invisible switch flipped on inside me. I want to touch her face, run my fingers down her neck, wrap my arms around her waist, and pull her into me. I’d blame the beer, but we both only had one and that was two hours ago.
She shuffles closer to me and caresses my arm, eyes on mine. I stand over her, watching her upturned face, knowing this is the moment. I can kiss her. She wants me to. My body is letting me, my mind is sitting mute.
The phone trills.
My longing is strong enough that the first ring doesn’t break the spell. But as I lean toward her welcoming lips, the second ring makes her flinch, and by the third she’s moved her hand from my arm.
“You should probably get that,” she says, taking our dirty dishes to the sink.
The opportunity has passed, and the emotions and hormones numbing my overthinking mind are also gone. Damn it. What an idiot I am. She invited herself to my home, made me dinner, flirted and shared with me, and then basically asked me to kiss her, and I messed it up.
The phone rings again. If it’s Mark I’m gonna kill him.
“Hello?” I let my irritation show a little, expecting Mark’s voice in response, asking something obnoxious about my evening with Martha.
“Greg? Greg Laramie. Is that you?” It’s a woman’s voice, small, hard to hear.
“This is Greg.” Who could be asking for me this late?
“Oh, thank God.” I hold the phone closer to my ear, straining to take in her halted speech. Sounds like she’s catching her breath or crying.
“I’m sorry—who is this?”
Martha raises her eyebrows. I shrug.
“It’s me.” She raises her voice a little, but it doesn’t help.
Martha, drying her hands on a towel, stands close to me, listening in. My thoughts start to wander back to our almost kiss.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know ...” I admit. Martha shakes her head. A muffled sob comes through the line and a sniffle.
“It’s me, Greg. It’s Betty.”
“Betty?” I blurt.
Martha repeats the name to confirm, and I nod. Her features harden at the revelation, and she steps away like she’s no longer interested in the conversation.
She must think it’s a normal thing, Betty calling me, especially since Martha and I talk on the phone into the wee hours of themorning several times a week. She must think this is just something I do with women.
But I doubt Martha can hear the crying from where she’s standing, the fear in Betty’s voice. She doesn’t know what I know—something is very wrong.
I turn away from Martha and lower my voice.
“Are you all right?”
“No. Everything is wrong. I was in the VIP Room, working and ...” She sniffs again and takes a shaky breath. “I’m stranded here. C-can you come get me?”
“Get you?”
“Yeah, can you pick me up? I need a ride.”
“From, uh, from work?” I stumble over my attempt to keep her secret from Martha, who is splashing water around in the sink, washing the mugs and silverware and scrubbing where the chili bubbled over onto the range.
