I gather my mail from the floor and am about to stick it under my arm when I remember that, as of this morning, the United States mail is no longer my friend. I set down my briefcase and look through the letters, holding my breath. Bills: Philadelphia Electric, Greater Media Cable, Allstate,Vanity Fair. Two more catalogs, sent to DiNunziatoi and O’Nunzion respectively, and then a small white envelope, with no return address. My name is on the front, spelled correctly in block letters, and so is my home address. The stamp is an unfurled American flag.

Just like the note at work. I swallow hard.

I run my finger across the front. Laser-printed, not typed.

I tear open the envelope. Inside is a small white piece of paper:

I’M THE PERFECT ANSWER TO ALL YOUR

REAL ESTATE NEEDS!

And here’s the perfect recipe:

Artichoke Dip

1 8OZ. can artichoke hearts

1 cup mayo

1 cup parmesan cheese

garlic powder optional

Mash artichokes, mix everything together.

Bake at 350 for 30 minutes. Serve with pita

bread!

CallSHERRY SIMMONS at JEFMAR REALTY!

Christ. Artichoke dip.

I crush the paper and trudge up the carpeted stairs. I’m getting so paranoid I’m losing it. What’s the matter with me? Mike hasn’t been gone for a year and I’m kissing another man. What’s the matter with Ned? Is he trying to start up a romance, when one of us is about to be fired and the other canonized? I unlock my door with a sigh and flick on the light switch. I toss my briefcase onto the couch and plop down next to it, opening up the first bill.

Philadelphia Electric. You need a Ph.D. to break the code on your rate charges. I’m trying to decipher the tiny numbers when the phone on the end table rings. I pick it up without thinking. “Hello?”

There’s no response. No static.

I’m not paranoid. It’s real. “Leave me alone, you fucking asshole!”

But the only reply is a click.

“Goddamn it!”

I slam down the phone, my chest tight, and then grab it from the hook just as quickly. I hear the high whine of the dial tone. It runs interference for me, like a swift and burly lineman. See if you can get through that, you prick. Alice, who’s been dozing like the Sphinx on the quilted couch, blinks slowly and goes back to sleep.

Get a grip, girl. I keep hold of the phone. The dial tone gives way to a woman’s voice, speaking patiently and sweetly, like a young mother to a toddler. “If you want to make a call,” she says, “please hang up and try again. If you need assistance, please hang up and dial your operator.”

I lean back and breathe easier, listening to the young mother’s voice. She sings her lullaby again. I let it enter and pacify me.

But she’s squelched by a jarringBRRRRRRRRRRR.

I sit bolt upright.

“Goddamn you!” Furious, I get up and shove the receiver between the cushions of the couch. Alice’s eyes open wide, ears flat against her sleek head. Then she leaps out of harm’s way.

“Goddamn you to hell!”

I smother the receiver with another cushion, and another, so that the couch looks like it’s been trashed. But still I can hear the sound.

It won’t leave my head.

Ican’t sleep. I adjust the light level, the covers, the air-conditioning. I take off my T-shirt and put it back on again. I gather my hair in a ponytail on top of my head, then yank it out. I try everything. Nothing works.

My head is full of visions, faces that swim up at me out of the dark. Starankovic’s wounded mask. A baby-faced Hank, tears coursing down his cheeks. Ned, with his cat’s eyes, lying with me like an incubus. Finally, Mike’s robust face appears, with its coarse, working-class nose stuck in the middle. Framed by untamable brown curls, animated by eyes full of love.But you love me for it, he’d said. I bury my head under the pillow, which helps no more than the cushions over the telephone.

I feel wretched as I watch the night bleed into the dawn. Angry. Tired. Guilty. I feel the need to do penance, to make up for my date with Ned, so I get up to clean the bathroom. Penance, if you don’t know, is the notion that the soul can be Martinized While-U-Wait, like a camel skirt. Probably the most bizarre concept I’ve ever heard, after original sin. The idea that a child’s soul turns black the instant of its birth is something even Angie couldn’t make me understand. But I scrub behind the toilet seat just the same. Despite my best efforts, I’m still Catholic after all these years.

I scuff into the living room in my pink slippers, dust mops for the feet, and exhume the telephone receiver. I hang it up and rearrange the cushions on the couch. Alice watches me, looking faintly suspicious.

“Who asked you?” I say.

I scuff into the kitchen and crack a pressurized can of Maxwell House. The can opens with a fragrant hiss, then the telephone rings.

“Fuck!” I send the can opener spinning across the kitchen counter. Is it the caller? At this hour? I pound into the living room, my adrenaline pumping, and tear the receiver from the cradle. “Who is this?”

“Mary? It’s Ned!”

“Oh, jeez.”

“I know it’s early, but that’s quite a greeting.”

“Someone keeps calling me and hanging up. It’s not you, is it?” I’m only half joking.

“Did you push star sixty-nine?”

“What’s that?”

“If you push star sixty-nine after someone calls you, the phone calls them back.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m cool, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah.” I cringe.

“Okay. Well. Let me say why I’m calling before I lose my nerve altogether. I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry about what happened after dinner. About pushing things like that. I couldn’t sleep, I felt like such a bozo. I’ve always liked you, Mary. Been attracted to you. But still, I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

“Uh…that’s okay.”

“I really am sorry.”

“I know.”

“Well, I would love to see you again. If you want to see me again, that is. I promise I won’t attack you. I mean it.”

I pause. I don’t know how to say what I need to say. That I haven’t dated in ten years? That the last man I dated before Mike was Ned? That I’m not ready yet? That I may never be?

“Okay, fine,” Ned says suddenly. “Whatever you want. Maybe after June you’ll change your mind. Does that sound all right to you?”

“Okay. I guess.”

“We can be friends until then. Would that be okay with you?”

“Fine.”

“God, I hate this talking about feelings. It can be so bloody exhausting.”

“So cut it out. Be like me.”

He laughs softly. “I’ll see you later then, at work.”

“Sure.” I hang up, feeling somewhat empty. I like him, but I’m not ready for what he wants. And he’s a mystery to me, still. Why didn’t he tell me about Berkowitz?

Meeeooow!It’s Alice, wanting to be fed. She saunters into the kitchen, tail high.

“You only talk to me when you want something,” I say, and follow her in. I pour some allegedly gourmet cat food into her bowl. “You don’t call, you don’t write.”

Alice ignores me; she’s heard it all before. I squat down and watch her. She eats with her eyes closed, but still manages to find each little kibble fish. It’s her best trick, I decide, stroking her silky back. She’ll tolerate my touch until the kibble fish are gone; then she’ll return to the windowsill. Her next feeding will be the next time she acknowledges that I pay the rent around here. I’d give her away in a second, to a science lab, if it weren’t for Mike. He found her in a trash can and brought her home in the pouring rain, wrapped in his denim jacket. She didn’t move the whole time, so Mike thought she was dead.

“If she’s dead, why did you bring her home?” I asked, ever the pragmatist.

“I couldn’t leave her there, like she was trash,” he said. “I’ll bury her tomorrow, before school.”