He's also in Washington, D.C. Marlowe flicks a glance at the dull blue display on the microwave; it's 6:35 p.m. It's still early. What if I call and he wants to come over here?, Marlowe thinks. Over here to my apartment. Alone. She slaps the phone into the wall mount and backs away from it.
But isn't it kind of late?, she thinks. What if he's already on the way back? She stares at the phone number on the message board. "Home number or cell number," she wonders aloud. "Err," Marlowe grits through her teeth. "Errr!" She squats down on her knees and draws her hands up to her face. She's screeching and smiling at the same time.
Marlowe stands up and walks to the refrigerator at the far end of the room. She pulls out a bottle of water, puts it back and swaps it for a beer. After popping the top under the refrigerator handle, she turns around and looks at the number again. It's farther away; it's just a note now, just a reminder. "I don't have to call today," she mumbles.
She walks toward the board. The numbers grow larger, more ominous, more urgent. She stops in front of the board, considering. It's the hopscotch of first and second thoughts.
"Goddamnit!" Marlowe shouts, wetting her socks in spilt beer. The phone rings again, startling her a second time. Marlowe reaches out and snatches it from the wall. "What?" she snaps.
"I need help," Caris moans on the other end of the line.
"Is this important or is this just a Caris moment? Because I'm busy, girlfriend."
"I don't know what to do about Harris. He just called."
"Dump him," Marlowe says flatly.
"But . . ."
"Dump him," Marlowe repeats, grunting as she squats down to wipe her spilt beer from the floor. "That's all I have to say. I'll call you back later. Love you. Take care. Bye." She hangs up on Caris and before the hopscotch can start again, she dials Lucas' number. "La la la," Marlowe hums while she waits through the first ring and the second. "Ahem," she says, clearing her throat. She heaves a deep breath. "Damn it."
"Excuse me?"
"Hello?"
"Marlowe?"
"Lucas?"
Lucas puts up one finger as he rises from his Aunt Margaret's dinner table. He drops his napkin next to his half finished plate of blueberry cobbler, turns, and walks toward the front door. "Marlowe," he says when he is finally alone on the front porch.
"Hi. Yes. It's me, Marlowe."
Lucas' eyes circle around in his head as he stands on the porch. The humid moist air draws his white linen dress shirt close to his skin. He doesn't know what to say. He has no bearings, no idea why she called. "Hello."
"Hi," Marlowe repeats feebly. He doesn't sound thrilled to hear from her, but then again, he never sounds thrilled about anything. "How are you?"
"Fine."
"Your flight was okay?"
"Fine. You're alright?"
"Yep." Marlowe takes a swig of beer to bolster her confidence. "Fine." She hasn't done this since she was in college, cold calling a boy for no reason other than to talk to him. The difference is that she's an adult now; she should have something to say for herself. But she doesn't. So they lapse into silence, each of them just breathing on the line, listening.
"Marlowe," Lucas says finally.
"Yes?"
"Why did you call?"
Marlowe's face sags. "I'm sorry; am I holding you up?"
"No." He smiles faintly over the hesitation in her voice. "But I don't know what to say because I don't know what you want."
It is his tone of voice that shakes loose her silence. Lucas speaks plainly without any accusations or recriminations; he wants to know just exactly what he asked. "I just wanted to call you because I'm sorry about what happened at the airport. I mean, I'm not sorry. I just didn't mean to leave like that. I mean, I didn't mean it the way it seemed. Did you get my email?"
Her sentences run together without pause or punctuation. Lucas' lip twitches. "No. What did it say?"
"The same thing. That I'm sorry I'm so stupid . . ." The sentence dangles like an incomplete thought, like a realization. Marlowe hoists herself up on the counter and drops her back against the cabinet.
"You're not stupid."
"Sometimes," she croaks wearily. She takes another swallow of beer. "A lot of times, apparently."
"Why did you leave?" His soft tone belies his interest in her answer. There is only one thing she can say that will make it safe for him - he needs to know that she still wants him.
"I was going to miss my flight!" Marlowe exclaims. "I was going to get your number, but I forgot. That's all there was to it. See? Stupid." She heaves an exasperated breath.
"Are you at home?"
"Yes."
"What's your address?"
Marlowe purses her lips. "No" is not the right answer to his implied request to come over; she can hear it in his voice. "3236 Hawthorne, number 211."
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," he says, swinging open the screen door and striding into the house.
"Okay."
"Goodbye."
"Bye."
Lucas disconnects the call and skips up the stairs to the guest room on the second floor. He scoops up his wallet and his bag, flicks off the light, and bounds down the stairs. He turns left at the dining room and stops at the table, answering his aunt and uncle's questioning faces with something like a grin. "I have to go. Thanks for dinner, Aunt Margaret."
Margaret, a short plump woman with whose round cheeks are framed by a sleek bob of silver hair, rises from the table and offers Lucas a small bundle wrapped in aluminum foil. "Here's your desert. Ian said you would be leaving soon."
Lucas looks at his uncle. A hundred things are said in the silent looks that pass between them, all of them involving love.
"Marlowe, huh?" Ian remarks, amused.
"Yes."
"You didn't know about this before you showed up pretending like you were glad to see me, did you?"
"No."
Ian raises one hand and waves Lucas off. "That's all I wanted to know. Goodbye."
Without another word, Lucas turns and walks out.
Margaret follows her nephew with her eyes until he disappears. Then she turns to her husband. "What was that all about?"
"He's going to see a girl about a grandson, hopefully."
"Humph," Margaret says, picking up her coffee tray and waddling towards the kitchen. "Thirty years with you and I still don't understand why you can't just talk like normal people."
