C. Lawrence - Silent victim

"Yeah." Butts paused and looked out the window at the pedestrians striding along East Seventh Street, so full of purpose and energy. "Any follow-up on the phone calls-the ones about the dress?"

"No. I don't know who was making them. It wasn't McNamara. Chuck still has my line tapped, of course."

"How about… have you talked to… her?"

"No. I'm going to call her."

"Okay," Butts said. "Be sure you do. You two got some-thin', I'm tellin' you. You be sure to call her."

Lee nodded and took another swig of beer. It slid down his throat, cold and bitter, rich with the promise of the serenity of forgetfulness. Gazing at the amber liquid, he longed to sink into its River Lethe for a long, deep sleep.

Barefoot, Lee padded into the kitchen and stared at the phone hanging on the wall next to the refrigerator. It was the old-fashioned kind-the receiver was attached to the phone with a cord-but he liked it. It was there when he moved into the apartment, and he liked its cherry-red color. It seemed to be waiting patiently for him to make up his mind.

He circled the room like a bird dog on a scent three times before finally picking up the receiver from its cradle. He dialed her number, hung up before the first ring, then dialed again. He almost hung up again, but forced himself to wait for at least three rings. He prayed he would get her answering machine, but she picked up after the third ring.

"Hi," he said, trying to sound as casual as possible. Don't want too much, don't be too needy.

"Hi."

He wondered if Kathy felt as neutral as she sounded, or if she was deliberately flattening her voice. "How are you?"

"I'm doing okay. How about you? I hear you got a little beat up."

Was she really okay? Or was she hiding her desperate need for him with a deliberately dispassionate tone, feeling him out before committing to anything herself?

"I'm okay." Liar, liar, pants on fire. He took a deep breath, and felt a sharp stab from his injured ribs. Okay, fine-tell her the truth. "I miss you."

Time stretched out like pulled taffy in the pause that followed.

"Congratulations on solving the case."

Congratulations. Could she sound any more impersonal? But all he said was, "Thanks."

Another pause. He twisted the phone cord around his finger and shifted his weight to the other foot. He regretted using the kitchen phone rather than the portable in the living room. All he wanted to do was flee, rather than stand here and wait for her next response.

"I miss you too, you know."

Caught off guard, he wasn't sure how to answer.

"Okay," he said, feeling immediately it was a lame response.

"It's not that I don't care about you."

"Okay," he repeated. What were you supposed to say to something like that? And what's with the double negatives? he thought irritably.

"Look," she said, "the last thing I want is to hurt you."

Too late for that.

He summoned his courage. If the truth wasn't good enough, then to hell with the whole thing.

"Look," he said, "relationships are hard-they just are. And we've both been through a lot lately. But we can handle it one of two ways. We can get over it separately, or we can work on getting through it together. Either way, we'll probably survive. But if we do it together, we have a chance to grow closer rather than farther apart."

Another pause, and then she said, "I'm so… angry."

"I know. I am, too."

"Sometimes I just want to scream. Other times I feel like I could… kill someone." "Me, too."

"I hate feeling that way."

"As long as we both feel that way, we might as well feel it together."

She gave a little laugh, and he felt a dam break inside him. Relief flooded through his veins like rushing water.

"Wise guy, eh?" she said.

"Whaddya gonna do about, ya crazy dame?"

"Think you're a big shot, huh? Why, I oughta-"

"Just try it-you'll be sorry, see?"

She laughed again; it sounded like water tumbling over rocks. "I'll be in New York tomorrow. I'll see you for dinner, but on one condition."

"Name it." "I'm buying."

"Now who's being funny? My city, I'm buying. You can pay when I come to Philly." "See you at Keens, then." "Hey-that place is expensive!" "Yeah, and you just said you're buying."

"But-"

"Eight o'clock-don't be late. I'll be the one behind the enormous seafood appetizer platter and single-malt Scotch."

He hung up and looked around the kitchen as the golden light of late August filtered in through the French lace curtains his mother had snapped up at an estate sale in Frenchtown.

He watched as the sun snaked in through the lace, landing in splashes of gold on the kitchen counter, a lattice of light. It was the color of hope and of the future. All at once, he felt like laughing.