Heft - By Liz Moore Page 0,17

day and I was ready to have my house to myself again, but I could not for a minute imagine telling her that.

“By all means,” I said, and then we sat there in an uncomfortable silence for a commercial had come on and I didn’t know whether to make a move to change the channel or just to let things be.

Neither of us said anything except the girl hummed under her breath, some song I did not know. I was sitting on my couch with my back to the picture window & she was in the armchair to my left. She looked out the window frequently to check for whomever was coming for her. I would have done the same but I could not turn around. Both of us were angled toward the television which had become the third person in the room.

When my show came back on I was able to relax a bit more & the girl impressed me by saying more answers than I thought she would know. She shouted them gladly when she knew them, pointing one finger at the television. I knew almost everything but I only muttered the answers very quietly for fear of seeming like a show-off, which is probably a leftover from my school days.

I could see her in my peripheral vision. She was so tiny that her feet stuck straight out in front of her and did not touch the floor. Her little pink sneakers pointed at the ceiling. Her toes tapped together. When she craned to look out the window she gripped the arms of the chair and pushed herself up & her mouth fell open.

I tried hard to think of something to say to her before the next commercial break arrived but before I could a little tinny horn sounded outside, and Yolanda said “Ooh! My ride.”

She hopped up and once again hoisted her little purse up on her shoulder and said “You talked to the company?”

“Yes indeed,” I said.

“When am I coming back?”

“Two days,” I said, and held up my fingers in a V, idiotically.

“See you then!” she said, and skipped out the door, slamming it a bit too hard behind her.

I made myself count to five before hauling myself up so that I could look out the window behind me.

I put one knee on the couch and leaned forward to peer down Fifth Street. All I saw was her back as she clung to the driver of a powder-blue Vespa that was speeding loudly away. The driver I did not see.

• • •

This morning I woke up from a dream about my childhood & immediately the self-pity that I have been feeling set in like a disease. You see Charlene still has not called or responded. & at this point she has had my letter, my confession, for nearly two weeks.

But rather than wallowing I decided I would be in a good mood & congratulated myself on the progress I have recently made (I spent yesterday trying to organize my pots & pans, a process that required a great deal of bending over & reaching up) & decided that maybe I should not be sad that Charlene has not called. In fact, I decided, it is likely that I should be quite worried about her. There is the possibility of drug use or drunkenness. I keep hearing her voice in my head & no—it does not sound right. There is the matter of her ex-husband. Last name Keller. By my calculations she would have met him shortly after I knew her or even during the time that I knew her which is a painful thought. On the phone she told me he left her when their son was only four years old. I am horrified by this & think he should be very ashamed. I wondered if Charlene’s calling me was in fact a cry for help. This is a possibility that, I am embarrassed to admit, thrills me.

Therefore I decided that rather than waiting indefinitely I would take some initiative & call her myself. To do this I would have to put aside my pride, but—as this is something I have been doing all my life—I have a talent for it.

I would call her, I decided, & I would invite her and her son to my house in two weeks. This would give me time to further the beautification of both my house & myself. I felt happy & alive; I was practically whistling as I