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I’d meant to meet her, to take it
and smoke it alone, but she’s already picking up her cat and
carrying it to the stoop. “Come on up,” I shout just before the
main door slams.

Smoke spirals stretch and unwind
over the table. Safia drinks black coffee, brought along in a
bright yellow mug. Three in the afternoon seems late for coffee.
Maybe she thinks three in the afternoon seems early for my alcohol
breath.

She looks around, eyes pausing on
wall hangings, the clock, the open bottle on the counter, me. I
smile and say, “Thank you. Again. And I’m really sorry. I’m buying
some today, and—so, I mean, I’ll pay you back.”

She shakes her head, waves me off.
“I have never seen any of the other apartments in the building. It
is hard to believe the same floor plan can look so
different.”

There is a wedge of an accent I
hadn’t noticed before. I nod, say, “Mm,” and, “I thought so, too.
Isn’t it strange?” The only one I’ve seen, aside from a small part
of her kitchen, is my own.

“Safia!” Her name comes loud,
suddenly, from somewhere.

“One moment,” she says to me. “Yes?”
She leans under the raised window, her nose pressing against the
screen.

“I’m going. Do you need
anything?”

“Fish oil,” she says, and her
husband, standing curbside, writes it in the air before leaving. We
watch out the window, listen for the starting engine, and smile
fast at one another when we make eye contact. She waves at their
car when it passes.

I say, “Have you been married
long?”

“Not long, no. Nearly one
year.”

Nothing to say, again, so I ask how
long they’d known each other before marrying.

She shrugs and takes a sip from the
yellow mug, then sets it down and looks out the window. “Not
long.”

Her skin is dark, lotion-smooth, and
her hair has, since the last time I saw her, been dyed a sort of
bronze, an attempt at blonde, maybe, and strikingly ‘American.’ She
turns her face to the heavy breeze and closes her eyes.

I have a feeling I could disappear
right now, and when I did she would hum or sigh, finish her coffee,
and glide out of my apartment, never even here.

Pulse-circles vibrate in our glasses
under the low pass of a Chinook. They’ve been flying often, lately,
following the pattern, crossing west to east over the
roof.

“Chinook,” I say and watch it
disappear.

“They are so loud,” Safia says. “So
late, sometimes—
thump thump thump thump
thump—
and I wake up and cannot go back to
sleep. I wish they would
all
go away. Go to Iraq. Go to the moon. Let them go
anywhere, but let them be quiet.”

I put out my cigarette, then
chase burning tobacco bits and flatten them to ash. I take—without
asking—another one from the pack she’s left on the table and light
it. “Not Iraq, maybe.”

“No? But, the faster they
go, the more that go, the quicker it is over. It is a stupid war,”
she says.

“Mm.”

She tilts her head.
“Mm?”

“I’m just sur—A lot of
people don’t talk about—well, they won’t say that. Not
that.”

“Say what?”

“That it’s a stupid war. I
mean, I know people think it, but—well, you know. It’s just not
popular to go around saying it.”

“But I can say I like the
war, and no problems?”

“You can say anything you
want. It’s just—well, because people are getting killed, and
everything. Not agreeing with it isn’t—it won’t make you
popular.”

“Yes. I know. Your husband
is there?”

“He’s not
my—Yes.”

“I am sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I did not mean I want them
to go
there
. I do
not hate
them.
It
is not their fault. I only meant to say, please, that I want peace
at night. Only that.”

I hear something tapping,
bouncing. Her foot, maybe. She looks inside her coffee mug and then
out the window.

I say, “Let’s not talk about
it. Okay? There’s enough unpleasantness as there is, don’t you
think?”
There is enough unpleasantness,
don’t you think?

Olivia would say
that.

“Oh, no. Not
so
much. The war is only
one thing, and there is much beauty.” She rests her chin on her
hand and her hair falls forward in waves. Her appearance is almost
threatening. Brown, such brown, eyes, and a small circle of a
mouth. Perfect, barely-pointed chin. I tuck my own hair behind my
ears and, oily, it stays put. I’m glad there is no Jake here today
to witness this, this contrast. Gentle, flowing spirit-woman and
awkward, gawky waif. If not for the cigarettes, I might suddenly
have something else to do, might have to ask her to leave, but here
she is after having come up the stairs to give me
something.

“Are you hungry?” I say.
“I’m—I haven’t eaten, yet, and I’m about to have a late lunch. Or
early dinner.”

“Oh! Lunch? Well…” She
looks—startled? trapped?—at the clock, then out the window again,
and says, “I—eh—”

“It’s no trouble. And I owe
you.”

“Oh, no, no. It is only
cigarettes! I have manymanymany.”

“Please. Let me just make
you a sandwich, or something. You didn’t say you already ate, so I
have you there. It’s too late, now.”

“If not now, it will be
later?”

“Yes.”

She shrugs and smiles, tucks
her hair behind her ear. “Yes. Lunch.”

I open the cabinets to a rolled,
half-bag of chips and a can of sliced mushrooms. It’s been a long
time since I last shopped. In the refrigerator is enough meat and
cheese—none of it really rotten-smelling—for two thin sandwiches,
and there’s bread in the freezer. I show her what I have and she
nods, “Yes, that is good, thank you,” and while I tear lettuce and
separate meat slices, she bounces her heels.

“When does he return?” she
says.

“I don’t know.”

“No?”

“Six months. More.” An unusual odor
comes from the open jar of mayonnaise.

“No good?” she says.

I hand it to her and she smells it,
hands it back. “I would like some. It is fine. Are you
ill?”

“No. I don’t think so. It’s probably
just because…with orange juice, maybe…”

“Dairy and citrus. And vodka.” She
makes a face. “No good.”

I make my sandwich dry and set them
both on the table.

“It must be very romantic,” she
says, chewing. “It is nice to miss a person, sometimes.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that
way.”

We look outside when a car honks.
Paul.

“I love to think of the day when the
missing is over,” she says. “What a wonderful day. What is more
romantic than a war? The best movies are about war’s sad and happy
times, and love, and…and correspondence! I like to write with my
hand, on paper, so personal. And to receive is like a look at his
soul, inside thoughts, and no talk, talk, talk.” She
yap-yaps
with her thumb
and fingers. “It all means so much nothing. I fall in love with a
letter.”

“Does Paul write you? Notes, or…?”
My glass is empty and I can’t refill it, not with her here.
Watching.

She wipes her mouth with her hand,
laughs a little. “Paul does not like to write. Oh, notes, yes. ‘I
am at the store. Love Paul.’ No,” she sighs. “It is the idea,
maybe. I
would
fall
in love with them, I meant to say. Paul and me, we are together all
of the time.”

“Try to enjoy it,” I say. “It’s
better than—”

Three raps pound the door and Safia
cringes. “He is always so loud,” she says. “I want to hit him in
the head.”

“Come in,” I say.

Paul opens the door and steps in,
but barely. “Hello, ladies.” He nods at me. “Hi. Eating
lunch?”

“Hello!” she says. “You are done,
already?”

“Oh, yeah. No lines. This is always
the best time. Anyway, I don’t want to bug you, or anything, just
wanted to see where you were. I got you a
pressss-ennnnt
.”

“A present?” She claps. “I will be
there in a moment.” Paul waves and backs out and closes the door.
Safia eats the last bite of her sandwich, smiles, and plays with
her mug.

“Don’t you want to know what the
present is?”

“Oh, it will be there.”

“I wouldn’t be able to wait, if I
were you.”

“Well, I cannot eat and leave. We
will have a cigarette.”

“No, no. I can’t smoke any more. Go.
You must be dying to know what he got you.”

“I am! Thank you, again. This was a
good lunch, and not necessary. I am sorry to go so fast,” she says.
“Are you—?”

“Oh, no. Go. I understand. Really.
Don’t worry. I have to do something, anyway.”

“Yes? Okay, then. I hope I did not
keep you!”

“I invited you.”

She laughs. “Well, please. Come down
to see me.”

She grabs her cigarettes and hurries
out, leaving her mug on the table. I wash it and set it upside down
on a paper towel and make another drink, then pick up the phone and
dial L.D.’s number. Shellie answers, and I hang up.

APRIL 18, FRIDAY

The phone rings, and it’s Denise.
She says as much. But then she just breathes into the phone. “Yeah?
Hello?” I stare at the ceiling.

“Hi!” Her voice is sudden, sugary,
sweet. “I’m calling to remind you about next weekend, and to tell
you that I can’t go to the mall tomorrow. I’m sorry! I won’t be
around.”

“Okay… Thanks for letting me
know.”

More quiet.

I wait.

She says, “And we’ll—I mean,
I’ll
—Either way,
seven-thirty on Saturday. Be ready, all right?”

“Okay. Thanks. See you—”

“Mia?”

“Yes?”

“What have
you
heard about leave?”

“What leave?”

“You know, they get two weeks.
Fourteen days. Not now, but sometime in the middle, William said.
Has Jake said anything? Such as when it will be, specifically? Or,
more specifically than ‘sometime in the middle’? How are we
supposed to know when the middle is?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know
anything.”

She laughs.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing. Nothing is funny.
That’s—That’s just great.”

“Well, okay. Is that
all?”

I hear something clicking
rhythmically on the other end. “He didn’t tell you anything?
Really? Could he have said something about it before he left,
maybe? Such as, if it
were
to happen, exactly or approximately when that
might be?”

“All I remember him saying is that
it would be a possibility, and only if they were gone a long time.
I guess…I guess if William said they’ll be getting leave, that
means they’ll be gone a long time.” I think about this for a
minute.

“I guess. Mmm…” Something’s in her
mouth when she says, “Will you ask about it next time you
talk?”

“Can’t you ask William?”

“I already talked to him, and he
would only say so mu—he just said he didn’t know for sure. I’d
appreciate it if you asked.”

“Isn’t it good enough that there
might be leave? Does it really matter whe—”

“Yes. It does matter.”

“Maybe he’ll surprise
you.”

“Spare a quarter…!” She
laughs.

“Sorry?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing. I suppose I
don’t like surprises very much, is all.” That noise again. A nail
being bitten? “Well,” she says. “I have to go, but if you hear
anything will you give me a call?”

“I will.”

“Thank you.”

She hangs up. I toss the phone on
the bed and turn to one side, then the other, in front of the
mirror before getting dressed for the grocery store. There is still
cab-money left, a stuffed-down pile in a Mason jar, enough for some
quick meals, maybe. Enough to last until my next job, if I get
another job in the next three days.

________

“
Mia. I wish—man, I can’t believe I
missed you. I was sure I’d catch you after work…What time is it
there? Six-thirty, right? Where are you?…What I’d give to hear your
voice. I mean, not the voice on the machine, but in real life…Well,
I guess—I mean—Hell, Mia. There was so much I wanted to say, and
it’s really not that much—it’s not anything important—but I wanted
to say it to you in person. Don’t feel bad, though, for not being
there. I’m not mad, I just…I miss you…I, uh, hope you’re doing
okay, and I hope you know that I’m doing okay…I’ll call again as
soon as I can. You have letters coming. And I got yours! About two
weeks ago, and it smelled like you…I’m so happy you wrote, you
don’t even know…Anyway, uh—I guess I’ll try again when I can…Love
you, M…Bye.”