Ladies' Man by Richard Price

have probably guessed not only what part of the Bronx but what building she was from. "If I can I would like to say something to that young lady."
    "Please do."
    "I just want to say, that, ah, I had a daughter who would be about your age now from your voice. We lost her two years ago, she had Lou Gehrig's disease. It was a terrible blow. I don't think my husband will ever be the same. But right up to the end, she was so full of life, full of love. She knew she was dying but you wouldn't know it from her mood, her spirits. You would have thought she was in the hospital for a cold." I sat back on the bed. "She would say, 'Ma? I don't want to see you cry.'" The lady started choking up. " 'Ma? You… You…'"She hung up. That one had me under the blankets. I hadn't called my mother in a month. I wrote down "Pistachio V-day" next to Little Flower's number. Every Valentine's Day when I was a kid I would buy the old lady a heart-shaped candy box, dump out the candy and load it up with red Zenobia pistachios. I was going to do it again this year and blow her out of her socks. "Swapline."
    "Hey, Rod, knock-knock."
    "This isn't Dial-a-Joke."
    "No, please… This is good. Just quick, knock-knock." Unbelievable.
    Ramada sighed, "Who's there?"
    "Allen Freed." A chortle.
    "Allen Freed who?"
    "Allen Freed
my
people but Lincoln freed
yours!" A
high-pitched giggle and a click. I kicked off the blankets.
    Ramada muttered something like "Idiot" and apologized to all offended listeners. This show was the best. I ran into the John, pissed fast and scooted back in. The heat was off and my goosebumps gave my skin the texture of quilted Baggies.
    "… obviously on drugs, Rod, obviously just wants our attention, and I think people should
stop
calling trying to talk to her because she's nothing but a goddamn spoiled brat and if her parents knew how to raise children to begin with she'd be home in bed fast asleep and everything else anybody has to say on the subject is crap. Goodnight."
    "Says fuckin'
you
!" I jumped up and shot out my jaw like motherfuckin' Mussolini. I fucking hated scumbag people like that. They should have their fucking lungs boiled in oil. I punched the palm of my hand. And they rule the world, those people. I took a long walk around the room. Ramada shrugged. "Swapline."
    "I'm a mother and I think what that lady who just called said was cruet and stupid. Honey, if you're out there, don't listen to that. We all wish you well and we all love you. And Rod? I think you're doing a wonderful job and God bless you and
she's
crap!"
    "Goddamn right!" I punched my palm again and got a terrific spasm at the base of my neck that fanned out in the shape of an inkblot down my spine and across my shoulders. I pretended my hands were someone else's—not La Donna's though. Then I felt this rush, this elation, this strength like something good was about to happen. I felt like something was rising in my mind. I was going to help that girl. The pain lifted from my neck like it had sprouted wings.
    "Swapline." -
    "Hey…" It was the girl.
    "All right!" I was totally wired, ready to help. I was hunched over like a shortstop after the crack of the bat. Ramada sat up straight in his chair. Me and him. "Look, I'm okay now." She sounded beat. "I'm okay now. I freaked but I'm okay now."
    Still hunched over, my head cocked up, I listened to her carefully. Checked out the mood of her voice.
    Rod looked flushed and exhausted with relief like a cop who just delivered a baby in the back of a cab. "You sure?" He took the words right out of my mouth.
    "Yeah, yeah. I'm okay now. It's over…" She hung up.
    Rod collapsed backward in his chair, slid his fingers under his glasses and rubbed his face. The phone rang but he ignored it. I felt like a tire with a slow leak. I collapsed on my bed. I was depressed, not high like I expected to be. The fingers of pain crawled back into my neck. Maybe the next suicide call was going to be from me. But I wouldn't be