Home > The Awkward Black Man(3)

The Awkward Black Man(3)
Author: Walter Mosley

   “Hello,” she said, in that sweet lilt.

   “Hey, Maura, it’s Sammy.”

   She was silent on the other end of the line, many thousands of miles from my Manhattan patch of sunlight.

   “I know this must be a surprise,” I said. “But you’re the only person in the world I know well enough to call. If you don’t talk to me, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

   “How did you get my telephone number?” she asked, attempting an upbeat tone.

   I’m sure she figured that I hadn’t looked at my coin collection yet, that I was calling for just the reason I’d stated.

   “The Internet told me about the O’Reillys in Derry, and I remembered that your mother’s name was Daimhin. Not so difficult really.”

   “Modern marvels.” She could do amazing things with her r’s.

   “Why did you leave so suddenly?” I asked, affecting a tone of innocence.

   “Me mother was sick.”

   “I’m sorry to hear that. How’s she doing?”

   “Fine, but a better question would be, how are you?”

   “Cancer-free and unemployed. I have time on this Earth that I wasn’t expecting.”

   “I’m so happy for you, Samson.”

   I believed her.

   “Thank you,” I said. “It was a hard road, but I’m grateful for it.”

   “Grateful for all that sufferin’?”

   “It started out that I just thought I was losing a little weight. You know, I’ve always been chubby. I blamed everything on that. But the cancer burned away that fat and allowed me to understand what a lucky man I am.”

   “That’s really quite wonderful now, isn’t it?” she said.

   “Maura . . .”

   “Yes, Samson?”

   “Would you consider marrying me?”

   Her silence was exquisite. I was completely serious about the proposal. She could lie and say that she hadn’t stolen the coins. Maybe she had let in a plumber or a window washer and had to run downstairs to clean the sheets that I’d vomited and shat upon.

   It didn’t matter that she’d robbed me. She had been there with that gorgeous smile that I could almost remember and with that voice that was first cousin to song. I would have died if she hadn’t been there; that much I was sure of.

   “That is a beautiful thing to say, Samson. You are kind and gracious to ask. But I don’t think you know me well enough. If we were to marry you might feel differently than you do right now.”

   “I know you, Maura, and more than that, I know myself. If you say yes, I will be your husband through all the years, no matter how lean or how fat. I will be your husband, and you will be the mother of our children. And they will have Irish names, and their second tongue will be Gaelic.”

   Again the rapture of silence. I could feel her hopes and regrets over the fiber-optic lines.

   After a very long pause she said, “Can I think on it?”

   “Do you want me to give you my number?”

   “I already have it, silly. I was going to call you after your last visit to the doctor.”

   “OK,” I said. “I’ll wait for you to answer, but remember, I’m completely serious and absolutely nothing would change how I feel.”

   We said our goodbyes and disconnected.

   I didn’t leave my apartment for the next two weeks. I ordered in all my meals (even Cherry Garcia) and sat by the window in the displaced chair, next to the phone.

   I was waiting for her answer.

   I didn’t give a damn about those coins.

   After eighteen days I called Maura’s mother’s phone again. The line had been disconnected. There was no forwarding number. There was no Daimhin O’Reilly listed in all Ireland, Wales, or England.

   Maura was gone.

   Maybe I should have told her not to worry about the money. Maybe I should have said, “You can consider those coins a wedding gift.”

   The days went by, and my health improved. I gained back all the weight that the cancer and its treatments took. I went to work as a data interpreter again. Blythe called with a long explanation about how my cancer had upset her so much that she just had to sue me. I didn’t understand the logic but accepted her apology anyway.

   Lana called and asked me why I hadn’t told her that I was dissatisfied with our relationship.

   For some reason her question brought Maura to mind, Maura and my stolen fortune. I missed that Irish lass the way parents yearn for the days of their children’s cute mispronunciations: “I wuv you.” The love I felt for the nurse while I was dying meant more to me than anything life had to offer. She was what I was looking for even before I understood why the weight was coming off so fast.

   “Well?” Lana asked.

   I disconnected the call and went down to the 7-Eleven, hoping that they had the regular Cherry Garcia and still hoping, ever so slightly, that when I got back upstairs, Maura would have left a message and a number, a few rolling r’s, and a question that I could answer.

 

 

Pet Fly


   Lana Donelli works at the third-floor reception desk of the Landsend mortgaging department of Carter’s Home Insurance Company. Her sister, Mona, is somewhere on five. They’re both quite pretty. I guess if one was pretty the other would have to be, seeing that they’re identical twins. But they’re nothing alike. Mona wears short skirts and giggles a lot. She’s not serious at all. When silly Mona comes in in the morning, she says hello and asks how you are, but before you get a chance to answer she’s busy talking about what she saw on TV last night or something funny that happened on the ferry that morning.

   Lana and Mona live together in a two-bedroom apartment on Staten Island.

   Lana is quieter and much more serious. The reason I even noticed her was because I thought she was her sister. I had seen Mona around since my first day in the interoffice mail room. Mona laughing, Mona complaining about her stiff new shoes or the air-conditioning or her most recent boyfriend refusing to take her where she wanted to go. I would see her at the coffee-break room on the fifth floor or in the hallway—never at a desk.

   So when I made a rare delivery to Landsend and saw her sitting there, wearing a beaded white sweater buttoned all the way up to her throat, I was surprised. She was so subdued—not sad but peaceful, looking at the wall in front of her and holding a yellow pencil with the eraser against her chin.

   “Air-conditioning too high again?” I asked her, just so she’d know I was alive and that I paid attention to the nonsense she babbled about.

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