As soon as Eileen was out of the room Dora buried her face in Frank’s chest and cried until her tear ducts ached. That night she lay in bod alongside her snoring husband wondering what Bill Pratt — if that was really his name — looked like. Probably no worse than some of the creeps she interviewed. Besides, as long as they were separated by who-knows-how-many miles of phone line there was nothing he could do to her.
When Dora called Marcy from work the next day a man answered the phone. “I’m sorry,” said Dora. “I must have the wrong number.”
“Dora?”
“Who’s this?”
“I thought I recognized your voice. It’s George... George Johanson. Hold on. Marcy’s right here.”
Dora could hear the rustle of bed linens and her friend’s little-girl giggle.
“Howdy, stranger,” said Marcy. “Long time, no see.”
Dora wanted to hang up. “If you’re busy, I can call back.”
“George and I are eloping!”
“Excuse me?”
“We leave for Bora Bora mañana.” Marcy squealed and dropped the phone. “George! Stop that.” She retrieved the phone. “I would’ve told you sooner...”
“Marse — Please! Everyone in the office saw it coming.”
“You sounded so surprised,” said Marcy.
Dora changed the subject. “Ask George if he knows someone from AA named Bill Pratt.”
Marcy held the receiver away from her face and asked. “Nope,” she said. “Should he?”
“Guess not.”
“Well, sweetie...” said Marcy. “We still got a lotta packin’ to do. Wish us luck.”
Dora could hear George in the background. “Bye, Dora!” he shouted. She was glad she didn’t have a videophone. She could picture him lying in bed, his spent penis drooping between his slack thighs, a gin-and-tonic smile warping his shapeless lips as not-so-innocent Marcy attempted to straddle him for the third or fourth time since sunrise.
If anyone could cheer Dora up it was Frank. She dialed him at work and was greeted by a young man she didn’t recognize. “Good afternoon,” he said in a professional-sounding voice. “FPI.”
“Excuse me,” said Dora. “I must’ve dialed incorrectly.”
“What number are you trying to reach?”
Dora recited the number of Frank’s direct line.
“I see what happened,” said the young man. “We’re four three five three. You must have reversed the last two numbers.”
“I’m sorry...”
“No need to apologize. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
“Well,” said Dora, “now that I’ve got you...”
She gave a detailed account of the disturbing call she had received from Bill Pratt, and how at the very least she thought they could run a background check and make sure he wasn’t another Jeffrey Dahmer. The young man listened attentively, his hmms and hunhs intimating a familiarity and understanding that Dora was sure came from long-term exposure to the criminal mind. He hadn’t said a word and already she was feeling better.
“I don’t know how to say this, ma’am,” he said at last, “but I think you misunderstood me. This is the F Pee I, not the F Bee I. I work for the Film Preservation Institute.”
“I feel like such an idiot.”
“Don’t. Happens all the time.”
“I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than listen to other people’s sob stories.”
“The guy you told me about sounds like a real nutcase.”
Dora liked this person. “If you don’t mind my asking...”
“I was hoping you would. Mainly we document and preserve non-mainstream endeavors in cinema. Obscure stuff.”
“I don’t mean to sound dumb...”
“Film noir,” he said. “The wonderful world of demise. We currently house the world’s largest collection of snuff.”
“Snuff?”
“You know... Boy meets girl. Girl invites boy back to her place. Boy dismembers girl with a bone saw while the camera rolls. That kind of shit.”
“That’s awful!” said Dora.
“Think of it as a magic kingdom for psychopaths.”
Dora was overcome by a sudden chill. “Bill...” she asked. “Is that you?”
“God, Dora. I wish I could see your expression. I bet Meryl fucking Streep couldn’t capture the look in your eyes.”
Dora’s mouth fell open like a garage-sale nutcracker. He knows my name!
When Dora came to, Jerry the janitor was giving her mouth-to-mouth. She nearly gagged on his tongue. Everyone in the office was huddled over her as though she were dead. The top of her blouse was unbuttoned. It had been Jerry’s idea to massage her heart until the ambulance arrived.
When Frank tucked Dora into bed that afternoon she asked him to check the answering machine.
“Already did,” he said. “It’s empty. Eileen called the newspaper yesterday and told them about the misprint.”
“Oh,” said Dora. The little blue pills the doctor had given her made her face feel rubbery. “I thaw she’s whirring.”
“She starts Saturday.”
“I tho hap fo’er.”
Frank kissed her on the forehead. “We’ll be downstairs if you need us.”
“Frine?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“He cah meeth by my name.” Dora tried to sit up but the room was spinning.
“He probably got it out of the phone book.”
“Frine,” said Dora. “Ina wunnoo die.”
When Dora awoke, the house was quiet. “Frank,” she called. “Frank!” But there was no answer. He was probably in the kitchen with the door closed. She remembered Jerry the janitor sticking his tongue in her mouth and stopped in the bathroom to gargle with Listerine. She swished the bitter solution around until the roof of her mouth tingled and burned. The minty vapors made her lightheaded.
She descended the stairs and tottered into the living room, still slightly off balance from the drugs. Eileen was lying on her back in the middle of the floor with the cordless pressed to her ear.
“I didn’t know you were still up,” said Dora.
Eileen looked surprised and cupped her hand over the receiver. “It’s only eight-thirty,” she said. “How do you feel?” She sat up and crossed her legs Indian-style.
“I feel great.” Dora staggered to her left and almost knocked over the lamp Frank’s aunt had given them for their twentieth wedding anniversary. “Where’s your brother?”
“He went out to get you some wonton soup,” said Eileen. “He should be back any minute.”
“Who you talkin’ to?”
“Some guy,” said Eileen. “I think it’s a wrong number.”
“Then hang up.”
“It wouldn’t be polite.”
“Hang up! It might be him!” Dora could feel her legs start to give. She staggered into the entry, knocking over the coatrack, and unplugged the cordless at the base.
“That wasn’t very nice,” Eileen called from the living room.
At that moment Frank’s key bit into the dead bolt and the door swung open. Dora collapsed to her knees and sobbed until her eyes were nearly swollen shut. Frank helped her to bed and fed her another one of the little blue pills.
Despite Frank’s suggestion that she take a few days off to regain her strength, Dora wanted to get on with her life. There was no reason why everything shouldn’t be business as usual. The first day back at work she hired everyone she interviewed. Men without references, men with little or no experience, men whose faces twitched when asked if they had ever committed a felony, men with bad BO. She kept the letter opener close by, often clutching it in her hand beneath her desk. She had even started carrying it home with her in her purse. Go for the eyes, she would repeat to herself in the dimly lit bowels of the parking garage. Go for the eyes.