Opportunities. No. There`s no action. Maybe half our relationship takes place on the phone at this point, and a third of this time I`m on hold. It`s all just a matter of time now. I watch the new president wave from the door of his plane then prick up his ears for a question. I have trouble adjusting my cushion, but I don`t spill my drink. I`m not angry any more. It`s all just a matter of fact. I wave at the screen, but the president doesn`t wave back. I`m Ben, the pluperfect. I hold.
When I take the receiver away from my ear, I can hear Souled American thump, slide and twang through the wall from Ndele M. Johnson`s apartment:
Benny Goodman
He`s a good man
What do you think of him?
Ndele`s new hilbilly kick doesn`t bother me-I love this stuff too-except for on school nights this late when Burt`s sleeping over. But right now I think: boost the bass. Plus it sounds a lot better than hold. Ndele has 15- inch woofers. He has also taught Burt how to be more aggressive on defense, blow his nose with one finger and go to his left off the dribble.
Motorhead`s back on the line. ”Can I ask you a serious question?” Her voice is unhusky, exquisite, but it suddenly makes me real nervous. Before I can answer, she whispers, ”Have I really been bad, do you think?”
I`ll give you been bad`s what I think. I picture the backs of her knees, the tendons and veins of her arms and her throat, the small of her marvelous back. Her ”Cowgirl in the Sand” naughty outfit. Her software. I also can picture her blood backing up behind air bubbles then spurting out onto her wrist. I think about thrice-used syringes.
”I`m afraid that you have, Motorhead.”
”Do you think I should be punished?”
Do I think she should be punished. Things have not reached a point where I know what she means by this word, but I say, ”I`m afraid that I do.” I also have trouble remembering how to spell sentence.
”Do you?”
”Don`t you?”
”I don`t know. Do you really?”
”And how.”
”And but, so how?”
I think for a moment. In person, in bed, our conversations do not take these turns. We also don`t whisper as much. ”How?” I say, sipping and thinking some more. ”As in Injun?”
”You mean, like an Indian sunburn?”
”I mean that in due course appropriate measures will have to be taken. This Friday evening, in fact. Maybe running some gauntlet would teach you-” ”Hey Dad?” It is Burt. He has picked up the other extension.
”Hello?” Linda says.
”What`s up, Burt?” I say, right away.
”Is there my school tomorrow?”
”Afraid so,” I say, sitting up. ”Did you brush yet?”
”But so isn`t it that, you know, guy`s birthday?”
”What guy?”
”You know,” he says. Then he says, ”Isn`t this Motorhead?”
”Motorhead?” I say, though exactly to whom I don`t know.
They are silent. They both must be holding their breath. I finish my Irish, suck ice. Is it my imagination or has Ndele just turned up the music three notches? The bass lead is slapping in both of my ears, through the wall on my right and the phone by the wall that is next to Burt`s bed, in baffled and out-of-phase stereo.
”Yeah,” Burt says, finally. ”Motorhead.”
”Burt, listen,” I say. At dawn I will still be awake. I understand this and accept it. ”Hey, Burt?”
They are silent. What`s left of the ice zaps my molar. I realize I`ll have to go over and talk to Ndele again. Tallulah, a Bloomingdale`s model, will answer the door in a T-shirt and kneesocks. Ndele will have on his feedcap and be gnawing a toothpick. They both will profusely apologize, ask about Burt and his schoolwork, turn down the music. Perhaps turn it all the way off. I will apologize, too. Tallulah will mimic Ndele playing air slide- guitar, call him ”white bread” or ”Leroy” or ”big drawers.” They will offer me pizza, or bratwurst and beer, some pudding to take back for Burt. They will ask about Motorhead, too, insist that we all see a Bulls game. It will not be unpleasant, I realize. But still.
My call-waiting signal cuts in. I tell Burt, ”Hang up for a second, OK?” As soon as he does, I say ”Just a second” to Linda and press down the button, relieved to be changing connections.
”It`s me,” says Leona. Her voice isn`t really unfriendly- not deadpan, just dead. Pluperfectly matter-of-fact. ”Is Burt still awake?”
I admit it.
”OK.”
When she makes herself talk this strange way on the phone, I always assume she is being undressed as we speak. Does she know this and do it on purpose? I never know what to assume when she talks to me this way in person. I often imagine her pregnant.
All she wants, she is telling me now, is to just say goodnight to her son. Fair enough. She says she`s been calling since 9. I decide that I shouldn`t dispute this. She does not call me Bosco or ask whether Burt`s said his prayers, but it`s all just a matter of time now. I pick up ”What`s Words Worth?” and notice a choice of two fan clubs. Motorheadbangers, whose address is in Leeds, and the Motorhead Appreciation Society, in Dorset. I can`t decide which one to join.
”Hold on a second,” I tell her, then click back to Linda and Burt.
”It`s time,” I say, ”to hang up now, OK?” Has Burt come back on yet?
”You know, get some sleep. Your Mom wants to talk to you too.”
They are silent. Cut off, hung up-I dont` know. I take the receiver away from my mouth, close my eyes. I wonder who is there on the line, who is coming at me through these dozens of miles of glass fiber, from all these directions, what`s words worth. As loud as I can, I call Burt.
”Ben?” Linda says.
”Dad?”
”You OK?” Linda says.
I look up and see my son watching me. Crying? No, coughing. OK. He looks less like me that his mom in this light. I accept this. Something about where his eyes angle in toward his nose. He stares at my glass on the table, at the Motorhead album, at the spiraling powder-blue wire that leads to my mouth.
”It is making me talk,” I tell Burt. ”It`s a matter of fact. She`s been trying to call us all night. Fiber optics or something. You know?”
He is standing right next to me now, watching the end of the sports. They are flashing the girls` high school volleyball scores. I look at his basketball, there on the floor in my kitchen. Burt is here, too. There is that.
He takes the remote from the arm of the couch and turns on the sound.
”I have to call Mom, Dad.”
”I know,” I say, holding his taut little shoulder. I hear female voices and finger the telephone button. There there.
Burt says, ”OK?” then turns up the sound. One of the anchors has just told a joke. The other one laughs, shakes her head. I shake my head, too, nod at Burt. I am still always here, after all.
”Hello?” says Leona.
”Okay. Just a second,” I say.
Burt turns up the sound even further. It`s the theme for the end of the news: lots of brass and synthetic percussion. I let go of his shoulder and listen.
