It’s gusting rain and Charles is huddled at a pay phone, listening to the ring on the other end of the line and keeping his eyes on the windows of Emma’s apartment a block away. He can see the faint glow of her bedside lamp, the one shaped like three puppies. He forgot his umbrella and water drips down the back of his neck. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his monogrammed silver flask-a long-ago gift from Nina-and takes a deep swallow of Scotch. He knows she’s in there, listening to the phone ring, letting it go unanswered. He can feel her at the other end of the line, looking at the phone, thinking of him, playing her game. Let her play it, he thinks as he hangs up yet again, let her have her little satisfaction. He’ll play the supplicant if that’s what it takes.
From outside, her apartment looks dry and cozy. He imagines going there, her handing him a rough towel, watching as he dries his hair. Get out of those soggy clothes, she’d say, and her words would excite them both. He would slowly undress in the warmth of her apartment, while she made a pot of tea. They would get in bed together and hold each other and talk. He might even explain to her about the book, why it is his, how this is best for them both. And then slowly, inevitably, they would make love and everything would be all right.
The wind gusts, and he huddles tight under the meager shelter. He has to keep watching, of course, in case she decides to do something rash. Hurt herself. It’s reassuring that her line is never busy, that she isn’t making calls. But who would she call? She has no friends. She’ll come back.
Charles takes another pull from the flask. Some asshole, a downtown degenerate with a pierced lip, what else, appears and indicates he wants to use the phone. Charles has to think fast. It’s too soon to call Emma back. But he can’t give up this spot.
“I’ll be a little while,” Charles says. Guy looks like a cadaver. Probably a junkie. Charles drops in another quarter and dials his answering machine. When he hears Portia’s voice, his pulse starts to race.
“Charles, call me immediately.”
He hangs up and turns to the sleazy addict, who’s lighting a cigarette in the rain. A fancy European cigarette. Probably stole them.
“I have to make another call.”
“Whatever.”
Some people just can’t take a hint. Charles uses his credit card to call Portia. She answers halfway through the first ring.
“Charles?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“I need to talk to you. I want you to come up here.”
“Did you get my manuscript?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“I’ll expect you here tomorrow for a late lunch.”
And then she hangs up.
What a strange response. Suddenly Charles is afraid, afraid that Portia hates the book. The wind gusts, and he’s lashed by rain. He’s soaked, standing there holding the dead receiver. The junkie takes a step forward.
“All right, it’s yours,” Charles says, moving away from the phone. He isn’t sure where to go. He hears Portia’s voice. Can he leave Emma alone for the day? He moves down the street toward her apartment, staying close to the buildings, pressing against them. What if she looks out the window and sees him? He ducks into a shallow doorway and finishes his whiskey. It’s a good vantage point. He’ll just stay here, keep watching her window, make sure she doesn’t go out, doesn’t disappear-that’s a good plan.