Wait for Me by Mary Kay McComas Page B

his aunt, but knew it was far more satisfying and efficient to slay the dispatcher than it was to wring the messenger’s neck.
    It had taken a long time to develop a sophisticated temper. He’d trained his ire to be quietly sarcastic, sharp-tongued, and toxic to humans stupid enough to tamper with him. He hadn’t thrown a royal, blood-curdling fit in many, many years. However, that didn’t mean he’d forgotten how.
    “Holly, I’m sorry I missed your call this morning,” he told her machine, his temples still gently throbbing in the aftermath of his wrath—though it was late in the afternoon. “I waited to call. I thought you might be sleeping, but I see you’re up and out again...” he said, picking up the framed picture on his desk. The waiter he’d paid to take care of it and deliver it to his office the next day, had come through. Big tips always paid off.
    The photograph could have been of anyone’s hands. He liked to think they were his father’s and his, but they could just as easily be his and maybe a son’s someday.
    “I really hate this machine. I’d much rather talk to you in person. Please call me when you get in. Oh, and use my private number. It’ll ring here at the office and at home. It’s...”
    “Oliver? This is Holly. I’m relieved to know that your private number doesn’t ring everywhere you go.” She giggled. “I’ll be home until six, then I’m off to Berkeley. Did I tell you that I go to school on Monday and Wednesday nights? I’m getting my master’s... to impress the money people. I mean, it’s not like I’ll be able to do more, or be more qualified to do what I already do. It won’t even get me a pay raise. I guess the theory is that the more degrees you have, the more trustworthy you are to handle grant money. I don’t know. Anyway, I’m not sure when I’ll be home after that, so try and call before six. I miss your voice.”
    “Holly, I had a dinner meeting. I didn’t get home until just now. It’s... seven-thirty. Damn.” He sighed heavily. “I’ll call you first thing in the morning. I’d rather talk to you tonight, but you’ve been out all day and I know you didn’t sleep last night, so get some good sleep.” A long pause. “I wish I were with you.”
    “H’lo.”
    “Hi. Wake up, sleepyhead. It’s first thing in the morning already.”
    Oliver squinted at the clock. “Six-thirty.”
    “That’s right. I’m on my way to work, but since my first thing in the morning and your first thing in the morning are obviously worlds apart, I thought I’d call you. Good morning.”
    “Hi.” He sat up in bed and pushed the hair out of his face. “Jeezus, when do you sleep?”
    “When it’s convenient.”
    “You’re going to get sick. You work too hard.”
    “I never get sick, and I have to work hard.” There was a smile in her voice. “Say something nice so I can leave for work. I hate being late.”
    “Nice, huh... I got tickets for Debussy yesterday. For January sixteenth. Is that good for you?”
    “I’ll make it good for me...” she lowered her voice to be blatantly sexual, “...I’ll make it good for you too.”
    “Holly...”
    “Oliver, I have to go. I’m going to be late.”
    “What about tonight? When do you get home from work?”
    “About six-thirty.”
    “Dinner, then. I’ll meet you for dinner.”
    “Oh, Oliver, I can’t. Tuesdays we do condoms and needles.”
    “You do what?” He sat straight up. “Holly?”
    “We pass out condoms and needles to the prostitutes and addicts downtown.”
    “On street corners?”
    “That’s where they are. Some of them come to us, but most of them don’t. So we go to them. I have to go. Please, Oliver. Have a good day, okay?”
    “Holly?”
    “Yes, Oliver?”
    “Be careful.”
    “I promise.” The line went dead.
    “Holly, it’s ten-thirty. I was hoping you’d gotten to every drug addict and prostitute in Oakland by now. I guess not.” A heavy pause. “I hate sitting here and