by Brendan DuBois
He was always one to sleep lightly and when the phone started screeching Sam Whelan was out of bed, slipping on his robe by the third ring. At his side his wife Terry murmured, “Whaz-zat?” and he softly reached out with a hand, stroking a bare shoulder. “It’s all right,” Sam whispered. “I’ll get it.” He padded out of their bedroom, past four-year-old Brian’s room and downstairs. As he was going down the carpeted stairs he scratched at his back, wondering, is the phone really ringing?
In the kitchen the tile floor was cool against his feet, looking freshly painted in the cold moonlight. The phone screeched again, making one of those new computerized tones he hated.
“H’llo?” he said, weaving slightly. He was still only half awake. His eyes were crusty, as if they had been dusted with beach sand.
On the other end was the hiss of a long-distance line, static crackling and popping from some unimaginable electrical interference. Briefly he thought of far-off stars exploding, sending their radiation this way, disturbing delicate phone lines.
“Hello?” This time his voice was demanding. “Who is it?”
He was set to hang up and ramble back up to bed when the whistling started. At first it seemed like another form of static or interference, but the whistling formed itself into a tune, a tune he had not heard for some time. He grasped the receiver tightly, holding his robe firm with his other hand, imagining he was being watched.
The whistling stopped. A man cleared his throat. He spoke.
“Sam,” the voice whispered. “I’m comin’ home.”
Click. The line was disconnected.
Sam replaced the receiver, his hand shaking. He leaned against the kitchen wall for support, looking at the familiar surroundings. The refrigerator in one corner, which dispensed ice cubes and water. The multi-featured microwave oven, with green numerals that blinked at him and said it was two in the morning. The mini color TV set and the dishwasher and garbage disposal, and the side door that led to the garage, and his and her BMWs.
He rubbed his hands along his arms, feeling the goose-bumps that were there. Before going back upstairs he made sure every door and window was locked, and when he went back into the kitchen for a glass of water, he disconnected the phone. A wrong number, he tried to think. Just a wrong number. The water tasted flat and metallic, and he put the glass in the sink. It made a ringing noise. For no reason he lifted the glass up again and dropped it from a little higher up. He did that three times until it finally smashed, and the sudden noise made him jump. He put the broken pieces of glass in the garbage disposal, washed his hands, and slowly went back upstairs.
He went back into bed, sliding underneath the warm and slightly moist covers. Terry snuggled over to him, resting her head on his chest. He found the weight oppressive.
“What was it?” she sleepily asked.
“Wrong number.”
“Hmmm.” She rearranged herself and some hair tickled his nose. He didn’t move.
“You were down there long enough.”
He had an urge to scream at her so what if I was! He gritted his teeth and said, “I was just up. That’s all.”
“Oh,” his wife murmured.
At work the next day Sam Whelan had pretty much forgotten the previous night. He owned and operated Whelan Security, and for a very long time it had been a shoestring affair, run out of his old house in the crummy part of Devon. Terry had answered the phone and Sam and two retired cops had provided the security. Most of the time it was hanging around fast-food restaurants down at Tyler Beach, chasing off drunks or rowdy kids. Then one spring a computer firm had moved into the area and they needed security, bad. Sam was the only firm within twenty miles, and he went out on a limb, a very long limb, to get their business.
Some limb. He remembered the long days, scraping up every piece of credit and money he could, buying up uniforms, running ads and practically raiding the high schools, looking for people to become guards. If it had gone bust, Sam would have ended back with the two old cops, with thirty uniforms in cardboard boxes, and with every bank and collection agency outside the door, howling and chewing on the shrubbery. But it hadn’t gone bust.
He went through the weekend reports from his guards. Nothing major. Nope, no busts. Not only did they still have the computer firm, they also had two malls, a factory, and a chain of outlet shops from Maine to Massachusetts.
His office door opened and Marcie came in. She was in her early twenties and wore a bright yellow dress, highlighting her tan.
“Phone call for you, Mr. Whelan,” she said. “Line two.”
“Thanks.” She walked out and he watched her with a critical eye. Not bad but young, damn it, too young. Terry was ten years older than Sam’s secretary, but she still had a smile that made his blood warm. On his phone the second line was blinking. He popped the button in and raised the receiver.
“Sam Whelan,” he said, easing back into his chair, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked over the downtown, open brick-mall look of Devon. A good view. Damn it, he deserved a view like that, after those long winters — there never seemed to have been summers — when he and Terry ran Whelan Security from that crummy house.
The whistling started.
He sat up in his chair, his back rifle-straight. He recognized the tune all right. An Irish tune. And another thing. There was no long-distance hiss on the phone line. He slammed down the receiver and buzzed the intercom.
Marcie came back in and Sam said, “You’ve been with us how long?”
She had been smiling but the look faltered, and she tightened her grip on a yellow legal pad. “Two years.”
“Two years,” he said thoughtfully. “Two years ago I told you one thing, one simple rule. Each and every time I get a phone call, you get the name of who’s calling, right?”
“Mr. Whelan, I—”
“Right? Each and every time. I don’t got time to waste with idiots on the phone and right there, that phone call cost me time. And time is money in this business. You think you can remember that?”
Marcie’s face was red and she avoided looking at him. “I’ll remember.”
“Good. You don’t, I’ll get someone in here who will.”
When she left, slamming the door behind her, Sam rested his head on both hands, rubbing his fingers against his skin. You’re going bald, you got little round sausages of fat over your kidneys, and you just insulted the best damn secretary a guy could want. Security guards, just hire them and give them uniforms, and a week later they’re ready. Simple. But to get someone in here who could run a computer, keep track of invoices and pay the bills and answer the phones, well, that was harder to find. And what do we do with someone when we find her? We insult the crap out of her. Marvelous.
He looked at the pictures on his desk. Three of Terry, one of Brian — taken a day after he was born — and one of him and Terry, arms around each other, at the beach in Maine where they spent their honeymoon. They had been to other beaches later in their lives, especially after the business took off, but he always smiled at the memory of the rocky coast and cool nights in that wooden cottage. No hot water, and no electricity. Some honeymoon.
In the bottom desk drawer was a holstered.38 revolver. Under the revolver were some old legal files and on the bottom was a framed black and white photograph. The photo was creased and stained and showed two young boys standing in front of a blueberry bush. A very young Sam Whelan was on the left, arm flung over the shoulders of the older boy standing next to him. The older boy was standing straight, arms at his sides. Their hair was cut impossibly short. The young Sam was smiling. The other boy wasn’t. He held the photograph in his hands and remembered other things.