David Gates - Preston Falls

The next thing she knows, she's sitting up in bed wide awake and the clock says 4:04 and she remembers Willis is gone. So this is the down side of taking a sleeping pill, which even an idiot would have known. She reaches for the light, squeezes her eyes shut and turns it on, then sneaks her eyes open. She's a thousand miles from where she needs to be.

She gets out of bed and drops to her knees in the thick carpeting and says, out loud, "Dear God, please help me. I'm just asking you to hold me up so I can get through this and try to help Mel and Roger get through, because we're all in so much trouble. Please. Amen." She can't remember praying since she was a good little girl, in Methodist Sunday school. Well, except back when she and Willis experimented for a week or so with saying grace before meals. Not that they believed; just to leave themselves open. One of those things only she and Willis know about.

She remains on her knees, forehead touching the mattress, and tries not to actually want peace and strength to come flooding in, because that would be a sure way not to get it. Though that's stupid because God (if any) either intends to give you peace and strength or he doesn't; you can't maneuver him into it. Eventually she gets to her feet. So this is her big spiritual experience, which is exactly what she deserves for neglecting anything spiritual for all these years.

She takes a shower and puts on the clothes she brought for tomorrow. It is tomorrow. While on hold with Delta, she dumps everything out of her wallet, looking for her MasterCard. Crap. She's going to have to use Amex, which actually is just as well since she's already got a couple of thousand on her MasterCard. She finally gets a person — a woman, sounding strangely wide awake — who tells her there's a five-thirty on American that gets into La Guardia at eight and that they can work something out with her ticket. In a way this is so stupid: what's she going to do in New York at eight in the morning? Except get caught in rush hour. But at least she can get to her office and start calling people, as she should've done days ago.

She finds stationery in the desk drawer and writes a note:

Dear jerry,

Thanks for all your help. Thinking back on our conversation, I decided to take the earliest plane I could get and start dealing with everything. Tm terribly sorry about the breakfast, but

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you didn't sound like you needed me there. Naturally I'll pay the difference in the price of the tickets.

Anyway, thanks again, Jerry.

Be well,

Jean

She calls the desk to say she's checking out and could they have a taxi waiting. She puts the note in an envelope, seals it, writes Jerry Starger on it, takes her bag and closes the door behind her. Her serving table has been taken away. She walks toward where she thinks the elevators were last night. She's the only human in the carpeted corridors, and in this harsh artificial light, which seems to be coming from everywhere, she casts no shadow.

On her way through La Guardia to Ground Transportation, she buys the Times at a newsstand and a blueberry muffin at Au Bon Pain; she couldn't deal with the scrambled eggs on the plane. But the muffin's too sweet, or too dry, or doesn't taste blueberry enough, and she throws it in the trash. By the time the taxi drops her in front of the building, she's read pretty much the whole Times except, of course, for sports and business. One thing about Willis: at least he never sat watching sports all weekend. Though husbands who sit watching sports all weekend are at least there. When the elevator doors open on fourteen, she's startled to see Helen sitting behind the reception desk, Though in fact it's after nine o'clock on a normal business day.

"Hi," says Helen. "I didn't expect you guys till this afternoon. Is everybody back already?"

"No, I got up super-early," says Jean. "No calls, it looks like."

Helen rattles a fake-nailed index finger back and forth in the K space and says, "Nobody home."

Jean shuts her office door behind her, shoves her duffel bag under her desk, logs on and gets PHONE.PRSNL up on her screen. Jim Bruton's the best bet, but apparently when she put in the names and numbers from her old address books he hadn't made the cut. In fairness, they'd blown off most of their straight friends too. She calls Information; no James Bruton, or J. Bruton, anywhere in Manhattan.

Next best might be Jeff and Jennifer. She's got Jennifer's office number, but it's too early to find her at work. She kills time until ten or so reading the Post, plus an insane article about Religion and the Cosmo Girl in this old Cosmopolitan that's lying around her office. At ten after, she calls Jennifer's number at Spin and is told she's gone to House & Garden. Someone at House & Garden says Jennifer's in a meeting; Jean

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leaves her name and number. Hmm. After Jennifer, it's a crapshoot. She tries the number she has for Henry and Pamela.

"Jean. My God" says Pamela. "How are you. Where are you?"

"At work."

"Oh, that's right," says Pamela. "I'd heard about this. I was so dis-Sippomted. I think I'm the only kept woman left in America. So how is— it's Melanie, right?"

"She's fine. She's twelve, if you can believe it. And she has a little brother, Roger. Who's nine."

"I think I heard that too," says Pamela. "That's incredible. I don't know if anyone's told you, but we're finally taking the plunge."

"Oh, that's wonderful," says Jean. "Good for you. When's the due date?"

"Beginning of March."

"And do you know if it's going to be a boy or a girl?"

"They know. I told them not to tell me, except now I'm thinking that's ridiculous."

"So you had amnio."

"My age, are you kidding?" Pamela says. "So tell me, what is Willis up to?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, that's sort of why I was calling." Jean sees not only that this is a wasted call but also that she can never in the future call Pamela just out of friendship: she's let Pamela think that's what this is, and instead she just wants something. Though, actually, what friendship? They were friends, really, for two years and haven't seen each other in like ten. Jean takes a deep breath and launches in.

"You're kidding," says Pamela. "Gee, no, we haven't heard from Willis for, you know, years. Oh, Jean, I'm so sorry. You must be beside yourself. Did you try Jeff and Jennifer?"

"I left a message. You wouldn't know how to get in touch with Jim, would you?"

"Oh," says Pamela. "I guess — ^well, Jim died last year."

"He diedr says Jean. "No. Was it AIDS?"

"Oh no, dear. No-no-no. Somebody pushed him in front of a subway. It was even on the news. And they had a memorial at the Franklin Furnace. Somebody was supposed to call you — I think Jennifer, actu-aUy WeU. Whatever."

"Oh God," says Jean. So much for her best little clue.

PRESTON FALLS

"So now that I've cheered you up. . But listen, is there anything I can do?"

It sounds like a rhetorical question. "I don't think so. But thanks. God, I've been so rude. I haven't even asked how Henry's doing."

"He's fine. I think. I sometimes suspect the real Henry has disappeared into the World Wide Web and they've sent a space alien to occupy his body." Then she says, "Oh my God, sorry. I guess jokes about disappearing aren't in the best of taste right now."

"What?" says Jean. "Oh. I wasn't even thinking of that."

"Now, do we still have a number for you?" says Pamela.

You tell me, Jean wants to say. She gives Pamela her work number and says she has to go.

She finds a Rolaids in her desk drawer, then goes over to look out the window. One tiny man down there, with a backpack and a baseball cap, could actually be Willis except for the backpack; she watches as he steps off the curb, raises his arm and climbs into a taxi. Another tiny Willis (though he'd never wear a red jacket) comes out of Duane Reade. The phone rings: Regina, asking if she has a second to stop down and see Mr. Paley It's said so nicely Jean thinks for an instant she has the option of saying she's too busy.