Toll Call Read online

  “I’m not sure if I learned anything or not. Do you know a man named Tomkins?”

  She frowned.

  “Lives down in twenty-three. Looks like a character from central casting, star of The Man Who Raped LA.”

  Peggy’s slack features immediately congealed. “Him.”

  “Didn’t you have some trouble with Tomkins?”

  She wrinkled with distaste. “Not really. He asked me out once. I turned him down. He responded with a vulgar comment about my breasts. Since then he has some snide remark to make whenever I run into him. He’s definitely unpleasant, but I don’t think he’s more than that.”

  “Ever been inside his apartment?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Do yourself a favor and don’t.”

  “Why?”

  “He collects porno pictures. Has them all over the walls. And I do mean all over. I felt like Gulliver in Gomorrah.”

  “Somehow I’m not surprised.”

  “Which means he has a problem with sex. Which means he could be our man.”

  Peggy sighed sleepily once again. “Everyone has a problem with sex.”

  My impulse was to deny it, since that’s not an admission I’ve been schooled to make about myself, but I only shrugged.

  “I think you’re going to have to narrow the field,” Peggy added, then moved away from the bedroom doorway and into the kitchen, shuffling along in robe and slippers, treating her ankle gingerly. She opened the refrigerator, fumbled with some utensils, and joined me in the living room accompanied by a glass of chocolate milk. “I see Karen went to the store for you,” I said.

  She nodded and took a sip that left a mustache on her lip. I was disappointed when she licked it off.

  “I can’t narrow the field without your help,” I said as Peggy slipped into the now-familiar daze that made her eyes solid, blinkless orbs, impermeable to the encroaching world. When she didn’t respond I repeated the statement.

  “I know, I know,” she said, still unhinged, still ambivalent.

  I opened my mouth to prod her once again, then decided against it. I was tired, too, and I was out of approaches that would make either of us feel better.

  A minute later Peggy stopped chewing a nail. “Have you had anything to eat?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll fix you something.”

  “We could go out, if your ankle’s better.”

  “No. Let me cook. How about pasta? I’ve got some pesto sauce frozen, and some noodles. Pasta and a salad. I’ve got some green beans, I think. What else do you want?”

  “Nothing. That’ll be fine.”

  “Coffee?”

  “No.”

  “A drink?”

  “Sure.”

  “Wine?”

  “Scotch. But I can get it.”

  “Sit still. My ankle’s fine. You’ve been waiting on me long enough. Now it’s my turn. After dinner I’ll even listen to your confession. You’ve heard mine, now surely you have something to get off your chest. Something you’re embarrassed about. Something you’ve never told a soul.”

  “Only about six thousand things.”

  “No maybes. Before the night’s over we’re going to be even in the embarrassment department.”

  She went off to the kitchen again, limping but not seriously. The Chronicle was on the couch so I leafed through it. The Giants were still looking for a place to play. The Warriors were finally starting to win some games. The Niners were still trying to explain their early-season collapse, the mayor was still trying to explain the police department, and George Will was still trying to explain Ronald Reagan.

  Peggy brought me my drink and a glass of wine for herself and sat down on the couch. “It’ll be about half an hour.”

  “Fine.”

  “You want some cheese or something?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You want to talk some more, don’t you?”

  “Right.”

  “You won’t let me get out of it, will you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Can I go to work tomorrow?”

  “Yep.”

  “Really? Somehow I thought you’d object.”

  “I’ve made some arrangements.” I told her about the speaker system that ran from her desk to Constable’s office.

  “You did all that? Just for me?”

  “It wasn’t all that much. Constable knows this kid who hooked it up practically for free.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Who cares? If he hadn’t done it you wouldn’t be going to the office tomorrow.”

  “Oh, yes I would.”

  “Oh, no you wouldn’t.”

  We smiled and sipped our drinks and salivated to the scents of boiling starch. I thought about telling Peggy about the bug Manchester had found in the office, but I decided that was something she didn’t need to deal with yet. “What about your husband?” I asked after a liquid moment.

  The question startled her. “Jim? What about him?”

  “Any chance he’s behind all this?”

  She frowned. “That never occurred to me.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I guess because I’ve repressed those days so completely they seem never to have happened.”

  “Could he be pursuing some belated vendetta against you?”

  “Why?”

  “You tell me. Maybe because of that affair you mentioned.”

  She thought about it. “I don’t think so. No. We didn’t know each other well enough to hate that much.”

  “You haven’t had any mysterious phone calls, letters, other hints that he might be trying to get back in your life?”

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  “You haven’t seen him around?”

  She shook her head.

  “So much for him. What about the old boyfriend? Ruthie’s on her way to see him.”

  “Which old boyfriend?”

  “Hess.”

  “Oh.” She shook her head again. “I’d like to see that confrontation.”

  “That was something more than apathy, right?”

  Her lip stiffened. “He threatened to kill me, so I suppose you’d say it was.”

  I decided not to go into that any further until I heard from Ruthie. “So he’s one candidate,” I said. “How about other guys? What about the patent lawyer?”

  “No. That parting was amicable. We were both pretending to be people we’re not just to keep the other interested, and we finally decided to stop. When we did we discovered we were bored.”

  “You sure that’s it?”

  “He sent me a birthday present, and he’s just gotten engaged to his secretary.”

  “Okay. Who else? The pharmacist?”

  “He moved to Hawaii.”

  “Wasn’t there a professor or something?”

  “A flight instructor.”

  “The sky diver. Right. What about him?”

  “He died. His ultralight crashed, somehow.”

  My face reddened. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “No. I didn’t.” She looked away and wiped her eyes. “He was a nice guy. We had fun.” She sniffed. “I’ve got to check the noodles.”

  “Do you toss them at the ceiling to tell when they’re done?”

  Peggy acknowledged neither my explicit question nor my implicit apology.

  By the time I’d finished my drink she called me in to dinner. We ate in a polite silence, the classics of KKHI in the background, our increasingly imperfect relationship a blemish on every instant.

  When we finished dinner I helped with the dishes and we returned to the living room. Peggy picked up the entertainment section of the paper. “Midnight Cowboy’s on tonight. Want to watch it?”

  “Too sad. That’s the saddest movie ever made.”

  She looked back at the paper. “How about Annie Hall?”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  “So have I.”

  “Whatever you want.
”

  “I want to watch it.”

  “It’s your house.”

  “Thanks for pointing that out,” Peggy growled. We watched the film.

  Movies are never quite as good as you expect them to be, and on the second viewing they’re never quite as good as you thought they were. But Annie Hall was good enough to shield us from each other, and we got to ten o’clock without having to face either our problem or our stunted responses to it.

  As Channel 2 slipped out of the movie and into the news, Peggy made some signs of sleep. “I’m exhausted again,” she said. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

  “Sleep’s a good form of avoidance.”

  “Or therapy.”

  “Or withdrawal.”

  Peggy sighed. “Since I need all of those and then some, I think I’ll go to bed.”

  She went into the bedroom without another word. I stayed where I was, tired of forcing the issue, tired of contemplating the frequence and variety of sexual psychopathy, tired of the distasteful ebb and flow of my attitude toward Peggy and of hers toward me.

  I get mad when I get frustrated, always have, presumably always will, and right then I was mad at Peggy. Because the object of my ire was blameless, guilty only of being beyond my help, it was not an admirable ire. Which made me a louse. Which made me angry. Which ignited the cycle once again. It occurred to me that between Ruthie and me, Peggy’s two saviors were inflicting more punishment than the villain from whom we were supposedly protecting her.

  As I was about to stretch out on the couch, Peggy called me from the bedroom.

  I went to the doorway. “Need something?”

  She was in bed, covers pulled to her chin, the only light the empty fluorescent glow that inserted itself through the half-open bathroom door.

  “I just wanted to tell you that I feel much better. So you don’t have to stay.”

  “But I am.”

  “Why?”

  “Because whatever’s going on is still going on.”

  “But he can’t get at me here.”

  “Sure he can.”

  “You could give me your gun.”

  “No, I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t have it with me.”

  “Oh.”

  Peggy raised a knee, and the covers made a mountain. She smiled a hazy smile. “Are you sure you want to stay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then in that case maybe you ought to sleep with me.”

  SIXTEEN

  I was sure she didn’t mean it the way it sounded, but that didn’t stop my nerves from performing gymnastics at the prospect of the alternate entendre. Peggy and I looked at each other, to read reactions, interpolate interpretations, assemble enough instruction to keep from making a big mistake. “The couch is fine,” I said finally, my words contradicting the thickening of a nether organ.

  “No. Here.”

  She confirmed her invitation by tossing back the covers at her side, exposing a tempting wedge of bone-white satin. Her grin was wide and unnatural. “Come on. Strip to your shorts. This is a down comforter, so you’ll be plenty warm. Hurry up.”

  “Just a minute.”

  I went into the living room and retrieved my shaving kit, then hurried to the bathroom and brushed my teeth, washed my face and hands, and removed a major portion of my clothes. As nervous as a movie groom, I started back to Peggy’s bed. Unfortunately, before I made it through the bathroom door I saw my reflection in a full-length mirror. The figure I cut in boxer shorts and socks acted like a dip in an icy pool. I was a character from Jacques Tati, peaked and pathetic, predestined to provoke a laugh. I shook my head, closed my eyes, removed my socks, made a wish, and scampered into the far side of the bed as fast as my pale white legs would carry me.

  When I finally came to a stop I was quivering and panting, unsure of myself and my situation, my rewards and responsibilities. “It’ll warm up,” Peggy said across my shakes. “Just hold still a minute.”

  She flipped the comforter over most of me, but it didn’t help—I was still trembling like a cat poised before a robin. “It’s not that bad, Marsh.” Peggy poked me in the ribs.

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “If it’s so unbearable, here. Come over next to me. I’ve warmed that spot up.” Peggy slid a body-width to her left.

  “I’ll guts it out,” I objected. “Stay where you are. I mean were.”

  I concentrated on warming up by concentrating on what was next to me, which as far as I could determine from a sidelong glance across the gray and moonlit shadings of the room was a naked female enveloped in a pink and diaphanous shroud that served not as insulator but as tantalizer, its lacy drape and shifting shadows calculated to make its contents elusive and irresistible. Impaled on the sharp scent of Obsession, I evolved from shivers to sweat.

  “What do you usually sleep in?” Peggy asked as I basked in the heat of my cascading bloodstream.

  “Pajamas.”

  “Flannel or polyester?”

  “Polyester, I think.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I think I know what I’m getting you for Christmas. Long leg or short?”

  “Long. How about you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Really?”

  “Not even my rings. I can’t stand anything touching me while I’m sleeping.”

  “You’re not naked now.”

  “No. But I’m as close as I think I ought to get.”

  I had no idea what we were doing or where we were going, but I knew I was enjoying it more than the rerun of Annie Hall.

  “Hold my hand,” Peggy said suddenly.

  A warm knuckle pressed against my flank. I enveloped it along with its neighbors. “Are you frightened?” I asked.

  “Of you?”

  Of me? “Of him. The spider.”

  “No, I just want to be cozy. It’s been so damned long since I’ve been cozy. And I don’t want to think about any of that tonight, so please don’t mention him again.”

  We lay there for minutes longer, touching more of each other by the moment, exchanging the heat of our bodies as we warred with the heat of our imaginations, nestling into each other’s affection as if we were orphaned waifs. “Marsh?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on. What?”

  “I’ll bet you could take a pretty good guess.”

  “The man on the phone?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Then you must be thinking about me.”

  “Actually I was thinking about Marilyn.”

  She poked me in the ribs. “You’re not thinking about my cat, you’re thinking about me.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What about me?”

  “Guess.”

  “Sex?”

  “Your paranormal powers are stunning.”

  She hesitated. “Should I apologize, Marsh?”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I’m teasing you, aren’t I? Inviting you into bed this way?”

  “Maybe. A little. A little less than a lot, actually.”

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  “I know.”

  “I thought we could be … platonic.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “And you could tell me your troubles. But you’re not going to, are you?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my troubles are on vacation. This week we’re specializing in your troubles. If you want to go into them, I’m giving a volume discount.”

  I expected her to object to my evasion, but she let it pass. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done to a woman?” she asked instead.

  “I don’t know. These days it seems to be quite an insult whenever I pay the check.”

  “No, really. Have you ever hit a woman?”

  “No.”


  “Have you ever forced one to have sex when you knew she didn’t want to?”

  “I don’t think so. But maybe that’s a rationalization. In my day we assumed most of the resistance was pro forma, but I guess some of it must have been real. And I’ve poured a lot of women a lot of drinks in an effort to pickle their inhibitions. I suppose that’s coercion, in a way.”

  “But what’s the very worst thing, Marsh? Please. You learned a lot about me last night. I want to learn something about you. Something I didn’t know before.”

  “I helped a girl get an abortion once.”

  “When?”

  “College.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Twenty.”

  “How old was she?”

  “The same.”

  “Was she your girlfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it was your child?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you do it?”

  “She made the arrangements; I just paid. I wasn’t even along when she went to see the guy. He was kind of the school abortionist. Ex officio, of course. Probably had an endowed chair. He gave her a pill that induced a spontaneous emission of the fetus. Actually she was never sure she really was pregnant; she was only certain she was late. But if she was, that’s very likely the only child I’ll ever produce.”

  “You really believe they’re children at that stage?”

  “I believe they’re something more than dust.”

  “So you’re pro life.”

  “You mean against abortion.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Not literally. But no, I’m not against abortion. I just think we have to make sure abortion is something more resonant than a Big Mac.”

  “I wish I’d had an abortion sometimes,” Peggy said softly. “Isn’t that a terrible thing to say?”

  “You mean Allison?”

  She nodded. “I mean I love her, you know that, and I wouldn’t want anything to happen to her now, but she ruined my marriage, coming along when she did, and I was so young and messed up I probably ruined her in ways I didn’t realize. So sometimes I wish I’d canceled that first one, and tried again when I was a little more together.”

  “And sometimes I wish the opposite—that my college girl had had my baby.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Life is weird, Marsh.”