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Show Motherlunge a novel 225 out; they were the only tears he could remember having shed in his life. And for no good reason. "Walter?" Judith's voice was alive as skin against him, and his tears came quicker then, hotter. "Walter? Hey." He took a small breath, all he could manage. "Fine," he said into the receiver, but it was a gasp. Then he wanted so much not to make another sound like that gasp. "Walter?" she asked. "Should I come over?" Every time she spoke it hurt-but not enough. Judith was right. Nothing was going to be enough. Not pain, not good things. "Walter," she was asking, "Should I?' "No," he said. It was his teeth that were speaking, but he found he could breathe a little now. He took two more breaths. "I appreciate it. Judith. But no." A car crept down the alley behind Walter's backyard and stopped a few houses down. The car door opened and slammed; someone yelled later! The car drove off, gravel popping and crunching beneath its wheels; the beams of its headlights swung past and away like heavy things. Walter and Judith said goodnight; he hung up the phone. He smoked another cigarette, sitting at the table and staring at the crossword. Then he went to his room and lay down on his bed. He waited for sleep to erase him, and it did. The next time they spoke on the phone outside of work was years later. Again, it was a summer night. Judith called him; she was sick. "It was either call you or call my ex-husband," she told him with a frightened and therefore girlish laugh. "Please come." |
