The other man says “That's a fantastic storyâunbeatableâI only wish it was me,” and thinks if ever a guy was full of it, this one's it. He downs his drink, says “Got enough for a refill?âI'm a little low.” “I think I can make it.” “Thanks. I'm going to hit the pisser. Tell Rich for me to put a soda in back of mine this time,” and goes to the men's room.
Her parents' phone rings. He looks at the clock. “Who can be calling so late? Probably a wrong number. You answer it, please, or just let it ring. I can't even move off the bed.” Which one of her children? she thinks, going to the phone. It can't be anything but bad. It's rung too many times.
Her sister's sitting in a movie theater in Seattle. The phone's ringing in her apartment. Another sister's working in the sun on an archaeological dig in Egypt. This work is harder than she ever thought it would be, she thinks, and no fun. She wishes she was back home. Face it: she's homesick. She never would have believed it but she is. Her brother's sleeping in his college fraternity house. The person calling the house gets a recorded message that the phone's been temporarily disconnected.
The tenant leaves the building very early, says good morning to the policeman guarding the front door, asks how the girl is. “I haven't heard.” “Do you know if they caught the man who did it yet?” “I don't think so.” She goes to church, kneels, prays for the girl's life and that the man is caught and that the whole city becomes more peaceful again, at least as peaceful as it was about twenty years ago, but if only one prayer's answered then that the girl lives. She sits, covers her eyes with her hands, just let things come into her. It's quiet in here, she thinks. For now, this is the only place.
The man who took her home the night before gets up around nine, has coffee, goes out for the
Times
and a quart of milk and two bagels, dumps half the newspaper sections into a trash can, reads the front page of the news section as he walks home, reads the sports and book sections while having a toasted bagel and coffee at home, looks at his watch, 9:42, still much too early, slips in a tape cassette, does warm-up exercises, goes out for a six-mile or one-hour run, whichever comes first, comes back, did good timeâmust have been all the alcohol last night that gave him so much sugarâshowers, shaves, checks the time, 11:38, no, not yet; twelve, on Sunday, is really the earliest he can call someone he just met. If she worked as hard as she said she did this weekâstudying, painting, her waitress job every other weekday afternoon and all-day Saturdayâshe'll need a good ten-hour sleep. Once she gets up she'll probably need an hour just to get started. One. Call her at one.
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