Alan Russell - Burning Man

I also received an overnight mailer with two CDs inside. The package had been addressed to me care of the hospital, with no return address. The only identification had been an LA postmark.

The first CD featured the music of Robert Goulet. If Haines had wanted to insult my taste in music, I suppose he could have sent me the Disney rendition from the movie Pocahontas . According to the song’s credits, the lyrics were by Alan J. Lerner, and the music by Frederick Loewe. They had written it for the musical Paint Your Wagon .

Sending me the song was Haines’s idea of a little joke: “They Call the Wind Mariah.”

The second CD had struck even closer to home. I didn’t want Haines to know that, though, for fear he might decide to belt it out on his next late night call. He had sent me a rerelease from 2003 that featured Tommy Tutone performing “867-5309/Jenny.”

“I tossed your gifts in the trash,” I said. “I should have tossed your number as well.”

He laughed, knowing I was lying. It bothered me that Haines had reached out and dirtied that which should have remained unsullied. “Jenny” might not have been our song, but it was a special song-special because it was my wife’s name-and he had tarnished that magic. I had frequently gone around whistling the tune just to make Jenny smile. It’s a catchy song-and number-that people remember. When Tommy Tutone released “867-5309/ Jenny” in 1982, it drove the phone company crazy from all the complaints caused by young men calling the number and asking for Jenny.

Haines sensed my resentment, or he read my thoughts. “I used your sentiment to get your attention,” he said. “You wouldn’t have noticed the number if it hadn’t been written in behind your deceased wife’s name. It was for your eyes only and a precaution in the event your mail was being monitored.”

When I’d looked at Jenny’s name on the CD packaging, I had noticed some discoloration. After pulling out the CD sleeve I’d found the number written on the opposite side of “867-5309/ Jenny” and had known it was the handiwork of Haines. I had debated whether to call him or turn him in.

“Am I supposed to tell you how clever you are?”

“The true realization would be how predictable you are.”

“You’re clever and I’m predictable. Anything else?”

“I am glad you are well. How is Sirius?”

“Why do you ask?”

“There is a connection between us.”

“You drink out of the toilet too?”

“That night forever changed all of us. It forged a kinship.”

“That’s all in the past.”

“Is it? I understand you dream as I do, and have the dream that isn’t a dream. Both of us continue along in our fire walk. But where are we going?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The only difference between us is that I embrace the fire, whereas you resist it.”

“If you like fire so much, you’ve got hell to look forward to.”

“Do you get the same wonderful insights that I do from our fiery walks? I call them the gift of the phoenix.”

“What I want now is the gift of silence.”

“I hope that one day you will be able to be honest with me. I know you are afraid, but you shouldn’t be.”

“You’re the one who has a date with the needle, not me.”

“Give Sirius a hug from me.”

“I’d be afraid he might get rabies.”

“I am glad you have found love again. It provides you with a vigor you were missing.”

I didn’t say anything. I would never whisper Lisbet’s name to Haines. She was off the table.

“Don’t call me in the middle of the night again,” I told him. “If you feel the urge to sing, wake up one of your neighbors.”

“I will respect your wishes. Good night, Michael Gideon.”

“Do let the bed bugs bite,” I said.

I listened to the dial tone for a dozen seconds or more but couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still on the line.