It’s been two full days since Rhona dressed my wounds and cradled me, and I’ve not left my apartment once. I needed time to retreat, to regroup. I told Rhona I needed some time, and she said she understood, and even offered to pay me out for a couple of eight-hour shifts. I’ve stayed in my room with the curtains drawn, the door locked, and mostly with the lights off. I know it seems dramatic, but I need the protection, the respite the darkness offers. But I’m moving now. Breaths that are slow and steady—or at least steadier.
I dial the numbers on the phone and hear the familiar, gruff voice on the other end. “Bowman,” he says, tired and slightly bored.
I take a breath and speak, reaching for casual and finding a bad facsimile. “Professor Bowman, it’s me, Roly.”
There’s a pause, a millisecond of silence, but one into which I read volumes: he has forgotten all about me. Worse still, he’s embarrassed by my call, trapped and unable to dodge me.
“Surely not the great Roland Keene?” His voice is warm and welcoming; I can hear the smile on his face.
I’m relieved in proportions that make no sense, and catch myself flat-footed. “Yeah, it’s, uh, it’s me.”
“How the hell are you, Roly? Where are you?”
“I’m doing okay—living right downtown.” I scan the single room, the futon on the floor, the telephone. The hotplate.
“Are you working? Got a job?” Professor Bowman’s questions carry hope. I can tell he’s not prying; he’s hoping, willing me on. His enthusiasm for my life is like nectar, and I feel myself growing calmer as he talks, and it doesn’t matter much what he says.
We chat for a few minutes, popping and answering questions for each other, until the line goes quiet. Somehow he knows I have something to say, even if I’m not sure what it is. His tone is different as he speaks now. Calmer. Perhaps even fatherly. “So, what’s up, Roly? What’s going on?”
My response is automatic. “I just wanted to let you know that I did call Dr. Coyle.”
“That’s good, Roly. That’s really good.”
“Yeah. I’ve been meeting with her every week or so.”
“She’s great, isn’t she?”
I think back to that word: unreasonable. “Yeah. She’s great. Really.”
“That’s good, Roly.”
“So, thank you. I just wanted to say that. Thanks. Really.”
He pauses, and I can almost see him bobbing his old graying mane up and down. “You’ll be okay, Roly. You’ll be fine.”
And with that we both run dry. Mercifully, I hear a knock on his door in the background, a “Who is it?,” and a “Sorry, Roly, but I gotta go.”
I hang up the phone and sit back. Things are beginning to gel again. And tomorrow is Thursday—the day I told Trots that Chloe does her money run.