Chapter 37
Not Alone by the Telephone
Matt fidgeted beside the phone, staring at the notebook number he'd called a couple times before.
Maybe it was too late to be calling, but he couldn't afford to wait.
He glanced at his watch. Seven-forty. Almost ten P.M. on the East Coast. Definitely too late to call someone he'd never met.
But he couldn't wait.
He punched in the numbers and listened to the first three rings, almost hoping no one would answer.
"Hel-lo!" A lively, husky voice. Like Temple's.
"Miss Carlson, this is a friend of Temple's calling. Matt Devine."
"Yes, of course. What can l do for you?"
"Quite a lot, actually. I'm sorry to call so late, but I was tied up and things are reaching a desperate state."
"Gracious. I adore desperate states. Haven't had any myself since l left the theater. Or it left me. Don't worry about the hour. Inquiring minds never retire. Besides, we just get cooking in Manhattan at ten PM. Now I'm sitting down, with my toes tucked up and warm, and a nice toasty Calvados in my hand. Tell me anything, darling. I can take it."
"Then you should have my new job."
"And what is that?"
"Recently, I've been a late-night radio counselor."
"Not so different from what you were doing before, if l remember rightly, and I've only had one tiny sip of brandy so far, so I remember pretty rightly."
"I'm flattered; you do remember. Anyway, l got this new job and the first night out had a rather sensational call."
"Don't tell me! You're in Las Vegas. Sensational call . . . sensational call. Elvis! Elvis called you and . . . admitted he's an undercover alien for the FBI!"
"I like your scenario better than the real one. No, a very troubled young girl called me. She was giving birth in a motel room and so . . . mind-warped she thought her baby was an alien. She would have drowned it, except that I kept her on the line and got her to read off the motel's phone number. My producer called 911, then kept the line on the air while the firemen broke in and . . . everything."
"The baby was all right?"
"Yes."
"Wow. Sorry to have been flip. It's a family failing."
"I've noticed."
"We Lake Wobegoners aren't allowed to show feelings, so we become quite good at defensive humor. What a dreadful situation. But you proved your credentials your first night out."
"I did more than that, l attracted attention."
"Your producer must be elated."
"She is, Everybody is. Sordid, tragic story; happy ending by Matt Devine. I'm suddenly a celebrity. The talk shows are calling, even It's crazy."
"Did you say 'even Oprah?"
"Yeah."
"My God, that's better than Elvis."
"Publishers--"
"Oh my God, you're even better than a celebrity, you're a topical celebrity! There isn't a talk show you can't do. Our unwed parent problem, our mothers-who-kill-babies problem . . . You need a book contract!"
She must have sprung to her feet with excitement; he could hear her come alive over the phone line.
"So Temple tells me. She says I need an agent first."
"You need a good agent; there's a difference."
"Can you--would you . . . help me out?"
"Yup. I'll check with some people I know here. You're lucky you live in Las Vegas; there are some top people there, but you'll want a class act."
"I don't want any kind of act, Miss Carlson. That's the problem."
"Kit. My name is Kit." Her voice and excitement-level had settled down to fairy godmother level. "Not liking the hoopla is not a problem. Liking it too much. I know where you're coming from, Matt."
"You do?"
"Temple likes you. A lot."
"She . . . l--"
"You could do a lot of good with this opportunity, for yourself and the people who put their faith in you. Think of it that way. But Temple's right. You need help. I'll try to find you reliable help."
"You make an agent sound like a house-cleaner."
"Not too bad a comparison. The right agent sweeps out all nasty dirt; keeps things pristine and above-board. Let call around on it. Give me your phone number and I'll be back in touch."
"Ah . . . wait! I don't have an answering machine. Yet."
"That's so sweet! You do need help! You can get the answering machine; I'll get the agent."
"And, before you go. I was wondering . . . if you could recommend some titles."
"Titles?"
"Of your books. Temple said you wrote and I . . . to read some of your books."
"A man! A man wants to read one of my books. I am so thrilled. Not that men wouldn't like them, mind you, if they could get past those swooning cover inanities. Dear boy. What to recommend. Don't let the titles throw you either. Let's see. For you . . . One Faithful Harp. Or Black Rue. I should be back-listed in the superstores, and have nothing new in paper out in the supermarkets at the moment. You do like Irish backgrounds?"
"Uh . . . no."
"Odd. You are Catholic, so to speak. They love the Auld Sod. Well . . . I know! Iron Maiden.
Spain. the Inquisition, forbidden love. l even have a saintly monk in that one. Fra Anjelico. Like the liqueur. Comes to such a tragic end, as the good so often do. Now: Get an answering machine!"
"I can't tonight."
"Tomorrow, first thing. Promise?"
"I . . . promise."
" 'Bye. Don't worry about a thing. Auntie Kit is on the case."
Matt hung up. Talking to Temple these days made him smile for hours. Talking to her aunt made him want to laugh for at least twenty minutes.
The next call would not be so jocular. This number he knew by heart.
His mother answered on the third ring, sounding breathless.
"I was doing dishes. My hands were wet." She owned no dishwasher.
"What . . . what's the matter?"
"Nothing wrong, Mom. I just wanted to warn you. I've got a new job here, same work.
Counseling. But on the radio. And one of the callers was in severe difficulty and it became kind of a media thing. So I'm calling to warn you. just in case something showed up in a local paper.
So you wouldn't be surprised."
"I don't understand."
"I inadvertently helped stop a teenage mother from killing her newborn. It happened over the air. Every talk show in the country wants me to go on it. I don't think I will, but it's like being at the center of a tornado. The radio station people want me to get caught up in the whirlwind; it's good for them."
"What about what's good for her?"
"Exactly. I'm getting professional help. I don't mean. . . counseling. l mean. media control help. But l might do one of the top shows. It's a chance to get my message across."
"And what is that message?"
"That people are human. Sometimes they need help."
"Is that the message, or are you the message?"
"I'm trying to keep track of the difference, Mom. And, when this dies down, I've made up my mind."
"About what?"
"That matter of the lawyers and the house needs looking into. Before too much time has passed and nothing can be traced. I'll help you with that, when l can."
"Maybe I'm wrong, Matt. Maybe digging up the past is pointless."
"No. I'm not sorry I found Effinger. I'm a lot better for it."
"Happier?"
He thought of his too-late-recognized infatuation with Temple. "No. But better."
"Maybe I'm fooling myself, Matt. Maybe I want some Cinderella ending l used to believe in thirty-five years ago."
"Thirty-four. I'm going to only be thirty-four this year."
"That girl on the radio. You kept her from killing her baby?"
"I could never have killed you. l never thought for an instant about an abortion. Never, never! You've got to believe that."
"I do."