Chapter 19: Interlude B

I called him at 9:18; it is now 9:26, and he has yet to pause long enough for me to contribute a full sentence.

“Well, I guess I’ll be going now unless you need something.”

“She didn’t change her name.”

“What?”

I take a breath. “She didn’t change her name.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“She married some guy over the summer, and she didn’t change her name.”

There’s a rare silence to indicate that he is either thinking or furious, and I hold my breath. “What’s your point?” he asks slowly, and I know it’s the calm before the storm.

I should leave it alone. I really should.

“She’s holding out hope. Hope that he’ll find her.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know how she thinks. She’s waiting.”

Loud shallow breaths come through before his voice. Six of them. “I know what you want to do. Don’t.”

I work hard to hold my voice steady. “She deserves to know the truth.”

“Deserves? Deserves?! A made up word for entitled people. No one deserves anything! And she certainly doesn’t deserve that.”

“She’ll find out eventually anyway.”

“No, she won’t!” he booms. “Listen to me! There are bigger things in play here. Pulling at that string will unravel an empire and reveal things she never wanted to know.

“Leave. It. Alone!”

I rub my forehead. “Fine.”

“Good. Now I have to go.”

And he hangs up before I can say anything else. The clock says 9:29.

I stare at the phone, biting my lip and mumbling to myself. At 9:51, I click my tongue.

I pull the cord, and the single bulb illuminates the closet as I stretch my arms as high as I can to grab the dusty Adidas Nizza shoebox from the top shelf. I sit on the floor and slowly sort through its contents, stopping occasionally to smile at a photo or read an old letter, until I finally find the piece of paper, neatly folded in half. It has started to yellow but remains readable.

I return the box to the top shelf, refold the fragile paper, and sit down at my typewriter.

The time is 10:32.