Deja Dead Page 0,12

up.” I resisted adding that I’d had to get up to answer the phone anyway.

“Butt outa bed, babe. Early worm time. Listen, about tonight. Could we make it se—” A high-pitched screech interrupted her.

“Hang on. I must’ve left the answering machine on automatic.” I set down the receiver and walked to the living room. The red light was flashing. I picked up the portable handset, returned to the bedroom, and replaced that receiver in its cradle.

“Okay.” By now I was fully awake and starting to crave coffee. I headed for the kitchen.

“I was calling about tonight.” Her voice had an edge to it. I couldn’t blame her. She’d been trying to finish one sentence for five minutes now.

“I’m sorry, Gabby. I spent the whole weekend reading a student thesis, and I was up pretty late last night. I was really sound asleep. I didn’t even hear the phone ring.” That was odd, even for me. “What’s up?”

“About tonight. Uh, could we make it seven-thirty instead of seven? This project has me jumpier than a cricket in a lizard cage.”

“Sure. No problem. That’s probably better for me too.” Cradling the phone on my shoulder, I reached into the cabinet for the jar of coffee beans, and transferred three scoops to the grinder.

“Want me to pick ya up?” she asked.

“Either way. I can drive if you want. Where should we go?” I considered grinding, decided against it. She already sounded a little touchy.

Silence. I could picture her playing with her nose ring as she thought it over. Or today it might be a stud. At first it had bothered me, and I’d had difficulty concentrating in conversations with Gabby. I’d find myself focusing on the ring, wondering how much pain was involved in piercing one’s nose. I no longer noticed.

“It should be nice tonight,” she said. “How ‘bout someplace we can eat outside? Prince Arthur or St. Denis?”

“Great,” I said. “No reason for you to come down here, then. I’ll be by about seven-thirty. Think of someplace new. I feel like something exotic.”

Though it could be risky with Gabby, that was our usual routine. She knew the city much better than I, so the choice of restaurant usually fell to her.

“Okay. À plus tard.”

“À plus tard,” I responded. I was surprised and a bit relieved. Normally she’d stay on the phone forever. I often had to manufacture excuses to escape.

The telephone has always been a lifeline for Gabby and me. I associate her with the phone as I do no one else. This pattern was set early in our friendship. Our graduate student conversations were a strange relief from the melancholy that enveloped me in those years. My daughter Katy finally fed, bathed, and in her crib, Gabby and I would log hours on the line, sharing the excitement of a newly discovered book, discussing our classes, professors, fellow students, and nothing in particular. It was the only frivolity we allowed ourselves in a nonfrivolous time in our lives.

Though we talk less frequently now, the pattern has altered little in the decades since. Together or apart, we are there for each other’s highs and lows. It was Gabby who talked me through the AA days, when need for a drink colored my waking hours and brought me to at night, trembling and sweating. It is me whom Gabby dials, exhilarated and hopeful when love enters her life, lonely and despairing when, once again, it leaves.

When the coffee was ready I took it to the glass table in the dining room. Memories of Gabby were replaying in my mind. I always smiled when I thought of her. Gabby in grad seminar. Gabby at the Pit. Gabby at the dig, red kerchief askew, hennaed dreadlocks swinging as she scraped the dirt with her trowel. At six foot one she understood early that she’d never be a conventional beauty. She didn’t try to become thin or tan. She didn’t shave her legs or armpits. Gabby was Gabby. Gabrielle Macaulay from Trois-Rivières, Quebec. French mother, En-glish father.

We’d been close in grad school. She’d hated physical anthropology, suffered through the courses I loved. I felt the same about her ethnology seminars. When we left Northwestern I’d gone to North Carolina and she’d returned to Quebec. We’d seen little of each other over the years, but the phone had kept us close. It was largely because of Gabby that I’d been offered a visiting professorship at McGill in 1990. During that year I’d begun working at the lab