Clown Girl - Monica Drake [71]
I said, “It wasn’t a cop date. It wasn’t. I ran out—why would I run out on a date?” I turned up, toward the vent. “You saw me run,” I yelled.
Italia’s tiny tattling fly voice said, “I know what I saw.”
What had she seen?
Then the phone rang, and the ring was a new voice in our quarrel. The ring was light and loud and insistent. Herman and I froze. The phone, in the kitchen, rang again.
Herman said, “It’s like, past four in the morning. That’s probably the cops right now. Shit.”
I said, “The cops?”
He said, “Who else?”
The phone rang again. I whispered, “Why would the cops call us?”
“You tell me,” Herman said, and flashed a scowl. “Maybe you stood up a cop date. Maybe you ran out.” He peered into the dark kitchen.
“I didn’t have a cop date.” If I said it enough, I’d believe myself. And in the quiet of my unquiet mind I said a fast prayer to St. Julian, that clown-loving Hospitaller, the only one on my side.
“OK , all the noise then,” Herman said in a hushed voice. “ Breaking glass. Maybe they think it’s domestic violence.”
The phone rang again. We stood still, frozen. “Wouldn’t they just show up?”
Herman inched toward the kitchen. I tried to breathe. Herman picked up the phone with a clatter. “Hello?” He made his voice deeper than usual, as though he’d put on some kind of manly voice costume. Then he lightened up. He said, “Dude, you know what time it is?” He laughed. “Cool. No, no problem. I’ll put her on.”
Jerrod? Herman wouldn’t take that easy tone with Jerrod.
He brought the phone to my room. Rex, he mouthed silently. My heart picked up speed. Rex? I took the phone, and everything went into slow motion. Why was Rex calling now? Herman pointed to my little alarm clock and shook his head. I waved him off, and put the phone to my ear.
“Rex?” I said.
Herman stood listening. I turned my back on him.
Rex said, “Nita.” His voice was warm and rough and pure music. He said, “What’s up? What’s the problem? Tell me what’s going on.”
Shit. “Problem?” Maybe he’d heard already that I’d kissed a cop and was on the verge of eviction—that was a problem. I dabbed at my hand with the scarf; the scarf was soothing and cool. “Who said anything about a problem?” I could hear people in the room with him. A woman laughed, a man said something.
“I’ve got about twenty messages from you,” he said. “One says you’ve been in the hospital.”
“Ah, that,” I said, relieved. “Yeah, well…Old news. I’m OK.” I was half-sick, arms buzzing, stomach queasy. I leaned against the tipped-over dresser. “What’re you doing? Why’re you calling so late?”
Behind me Herman said, “We’ll talk, Nita. The conversation’s not over,” and he left the room.
Rex said, “We just got in from a gig. I spaced the time… You sound winded.”
I dropped the blood-dabbed scarf, sat on the floor, and collected stray Chinese BBs that lay caught in the floorboards. “We were up,” I said. “Everybody. I was talking to Herman. Hey, did you have your interview yet?” At the foot of my bed, a naked Rex in pen and ink stared back at me.
“Not yet,” he said. “They changed the date again, but it’s coming up.”
I said, “It’s good to hear your voice.” In the background, at the clown hostel everyone talked at once, then there was a noise like a blender, or a power drill.
Rex said, “So, the baby’s OK?”
Oh, no. The baby. I couldn’t tell him. Not at four in the morning, on the phone, when I was already a mess. I’d end up crying. I said, “Everything’s fine. Just hurry back.”
I chewed on a few dog hair-dusted Chinese pills, and said, “Rex, I should move down and live with you. I’m tired of Baloneytown, and I hate being apart.”
He said, “You get out much, see anybody?”
“See anybody?” What was he hinting at? I said, “I don’t do anything. I’m here. All the time. I just want to be with you.”
He said, “I mean, what’ve you been up to?”
“Up to?” I asked. “Absolutely nothing. I’m waiting for you. Say the word, and I’ll move down.”
“Babe,” he said, “we don’t have a place to live yet, not even a car to live in. I’m sleeping on a couch. Besides, maybe I won’t get into Clown College,