Chapter 20
“You have reached a disconnected number,” a nasal, recorded voice informed Jenny. “Please check with your operator.”
Jenny dialed again, her fingers large and clumsy. This time Rob’s mother answered. “Montanas’.”
She could still hang up. Wait till tomorrow. Say what had to be said when she saw him in school. Wasn’t it cowardly to do things this way? Hit and run on the phone. Hello, Rob. Me, Jenny. It’s all over now, we’re not going to see each other anymore. Then put down the phone, go to her room, and never come out again.
“Hello? Hello—”
“May I speak to Rob?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Ah, Frances,” Jenny improvised, not wanting to get into a conversation with his mother. But how stupid. What difference did it make now?
“Just a moment, Frances. Rob? Telephone, honey, it’s Frances.”
“Who?” she heard him yell.
“Frances. Come on.” She sounded weary.
A moment later Rob came on, gave a puzzled hello.
“Hello,” Jenny said, “it’s me.”
“It’s you?”
“Yes—Frances.”
“Frances! I’d know your voice anywhere, Frances. Well. This is a treat, a real treat. Do you know this is the first time in ages you’ve called me?”
“I know.”
“And here I thought you had trouble remembering my phone number, Frances.”
His joviality alarmed her. She had somthing serious, awful, to say to him. But how to begin? Where? With what? Had there been a moment she could fix on? A single moment when it had come to her that her mother, her father, Frankie—all of them—had been right? That all along she had been self-absorbed, had thought only of herself: her feelings, her pleasure, her life. The truth had come on her in a series of small shocks. It wasn’t her mother’s headache, it wasn’t the picture of the mangled bike, nor was it her father’s angry reading of the Dear Abby column. It was none of these things alone, but all of them added together.
“How are you?” Rob said. “To what do I owe the great pleasure of this rare phone call, Frances?”
“I—just—I have to talk to you—”
“Your voice sounds funny.”
“Yes … I—” Was he receiving her message? Rob, we can’t go on. We’re not going to see each other again. Perhaps it would all happen soundlessly. He would know, simply know … and hang up. And that would be the end.
“Are you getting a cold or something?” he said
“No.” Rob, no more. No more us.
“You sound so funny,” he said again. “Did something happen?”
A scene from the movie yesterday came back to her: a green car rushing headlong toward destruction. The filmmakers had photographed it so that the car seemed to be hurtling off the screen straight into the audience. Involuntarily she had screamed and clutched Rob’s arm. Now she felt that same uncontrollable jolt in her stomach, the scream in the back of her throat.
“I don’t want to talk anymore,” she said abruptly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Wait! What’s the matter? I know something—”
“I can’t talk. I can’t talk right now.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
“No.” She almost hated him for making this so difficult. Wasn’t he supposed to be tuned into her wavelength? Hadn’t they talked about ESP and the times they’d thought of the very same things at the very same moment? Where was all that inner understanding, that unspoken communication now? But most of all she hated herself for being a coward. Say it. But she couldn’t squeeze the words out of her rigid throat.
After she hung up she walked up Jericho Hill, over to the park, and through all the familiar streets, until it was dark and she was tired; then she went home.
She told him the next day at noon. She said it immediately and briefly. “I’m not going to see you anymore.” She was very cold and seemed to have no emotions.
“I don’t believe you,” he said. He was even smiling.
She said it again. “I’m not going to see you anymore. I can’t do this to my family.” He just looked at her. She gave him back the white china elephant with pink feet. Then he believed her.