Good Morning, Killer - April Smith [59]
I was sipping Baileys Irish Cream and warmed-up milk. Across the path, in the diffuse glow of vintage-looking street lamps, thousands of sailboats huddled close, sighing gently, rocking in their berths. Alternating currents lurched within my body, pitching like the tide; first calm, then whirling violent images of revenge.
A quiet ringing stirred like the wind chimes overhead. It took a moment to understand it was the Nextel, stuck inside the pocket of my robe, muffled by layers of terry cloth and quilt. Voice mail had already been activated by the time I dug it out.
“Um, hi, um, it’s me, and I was wondering if—”
“Juliana?” I cut in, puzzled.
“Oh my God! Did I wake you up? Oh my God! I thought this was your office—”
“No, no, not at all. I always get up when it’s still dark.”
“So do I.”
“You do?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I just wake up.”
“How come?”
“Usually a nightmare.”
“Did you have a nightmare tonight?”
Juliana hesitated. “This is stupid.”
“Nothing is stupid. Things just happen,” I told her. “I’ve been having nightmares, too.”
“Really? That is so amazing.”
“Daytime nightmares, you know?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure you do.”
There was silence. I gripped the phone, as if behind the pale beige curtains everyone else was dead and Juliana my last connection to the living world.
“What did you want to talk to me about?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me.”
“Really. Nothing. I was just chilling, watching some dumb movie on TV, I don’t even know what it’s about.”
“How’s school?”
“I stopped going. I hate that school.”
“What do you do?”
“Stay home and watch TV.”
“Juliana, can I ask you something personal? Are you still seeing the therapist?”
“Yes, I’m seeing the therapist.”
“How is she?”
“She’s pretty tight.”
“Okay. That’s good.”
Then there was another silence. “So,” she ventured, “is it still dark where you are?”
“Yes. It’s dark.”
“Do you know when the sun’s going to come up?”
“Well, it’s coming. You can be sure of that. Do I know when? You mean, like, what exact time?”
Her voice had become just about inaudible. “How long.”
“Hold it. Let me look.”
She heard me getting up and panicked. “Where are you going?”
“Just getting the paper.”
“What for?”
“They have it in the paper every day. Sunup, sundown, when the moon comes out, high tide …”
With the phone still to my ear I unlocked the door and lifted the LA Times off the mat. At this hour the corridor seemed cold and unfamiliar as a hotel. I was glad to turn back to the warm stillness of the apartment.
“Here it is. The sun will rise at five-twenty-three a.m. Not so long to go.”
Juliana didn’t answer.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “You look out of your window, and I’ll look out of my window, and we’ll see who sees the sunrise first.”
“Okay.” She seemed to come to life. “The first time we see even the tiniest drop of sun—”
“The first.”
“—it counts.”
We agreed. The smallest, faintest ray of light would count.
I stayed with Juliana until dawn, when she finally became sleepy and said she was going to bed. I wished her good night even though I was about to start my day. It would not be the last time Juliana called in the secret hours of the early morning. But instead of inputting a transcript into Rapid Start, I erased the voice mail recording and kept our conversations private; held them and treasured and stroked them like the tolerant stuffed loon.
Now a different portrait dominated the investigation. We had received the marine corps photo ID of Richard