Maya by C. W. Huntington

saw me coming and stood up and offered an abbreviated military salute as I pulled my bike inside the yard. The lounge was completely deserted at this hour, the staff gone home to their suppers. I sat down on the vinyl couch next to the phone, where a single lamp had been left on, and waited for the operator to call.
    When Judith’s phone rang in Chicago, it would be midmorning onSaturday. I wondered if Bruce would be there, the two of them in bed together, curled up on the black satin sheets I had given Judith for her birthday the previous year. He might even answer the phone. What will I say? How can I possibly deal with that?
    Fuck him , I thought to myself. If she can’t answer the goddamn phone when she’s known for a month exactly when it’s going to ring, then fuck them both.
    I sat on the couch growing ever more nervous and impatient, my palms sweating, when all of a sudden the phone went off. I took a deep breath and lifted the receiver. The lilting accent of an Indian operator crackled somewhere off in the distance.
    â€œMr. Stanley Harrington, please.”
    â€œYes.” I cleared my throat. “This is Stanley Harrington.”
    â€œYour call to the United States has gone through. Please hold the line.”
    From far, far away I could hear the sound of Judith’s phone ringing. And ringing. Either she wasn’t home or she wasn’t answering. I let it continue until the operator finally came back on the line and suggested that I book another call for later. Judith and I had agreed that if, for any reason, the first call didn’t work out, we’d try again on Sunday evening.
    I got through the night, somehow, and the next day, only to find myself waiting all over again by the phone. This time the moment the bell sounded I pounced on it, wrenched the receiver from its cradle and jammed it to my ear. When the call went through I began counting the rings: One. Two. Three . There was a distant click followed by a moment of silence. And then I heard the faint sound of a woman’s voice, tentative, almost frightened, but unmistakably Judith.
    â€œHello?” Electrons collided with each other, pushed their way through the line, snapped, and buzzed as if exerting stupendous effort. “Stanley?”
    â€œJudith?”
    â€œStanley?” More fuzz, then a rasping sound, like a file being dragged over the edge of a tin can. I thought of the old police radios on Dragnet. “Oh, Stanley, is it really you?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIs it you, Stanley?”
    â€œI can barely hear you!”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI SAID . . .” by now I was practically yelling into the receiver, “I CAN BARELY HEAR YOU!” Mahmud stuck his head in the door, saw I was on the phone, and abruptly returned to his post.
    This incoherent exchange went on for a minute or so until we adjusted to the poor connection.
    â€œI’m so sorry, Stanley.”
    â€œSorry?” I could tell she wasn’t faking it. “For what?”
    â€œYesterday, when you called. I was helping Marsha and Phil move up to their new place in Evanston—Phil got a job at Northwestern, a one-year contract or something. They were supposed to drive me back Saturday morning . . .”
    â€œThey have a car?”
    â€œThey had to buy one, I guess, when he got the job. But the stupid thing wouldn’t start. Because of the cold. At least that’s what Phil said. He had to walk to a Kmart and get some jumping cables, and it took, like, forever . I’m sorry. Really.”
    I swallowed. “It’s okay.”
    I wished her a happy twenty-sixth birthday. She thanked me. The line sputtered and popped. We both started to speak at once, then retreated into an awkward silence, each waiting for the other to try again. Even under the best of circumstances, it’s not easy to hold an intimate conversation on the phone, without body language and eye contact, and this