Hi. It’s Miguel
I had nine messages on my cell phone.
“Hi. It’s me Gail…”
The way Gail says it fast it sounds like: “Hi. It’s Miguél…”
”...I just wanted you to know I’ll be leaving town for a while. I love you.”
Gail is a crack whore I know. I know more than one. I don’t know why that surprises some people.
Push the button.
Message erased.
“Father Luke, this is Lawrence’s sister.
Can you give me a call collect? It’s important.”
There were some other messages. Gordy is ninety days sober and is going bug-fuck nuts; my cousin Brad is in town wanting to get away from his mother – my Aunt, can he come over. Shit like that.
So, I call Lawrence’s sister. I’m on Front Street, and I’m ordering Chile Rojo in a dirty Sombrero Mexican Restaurant. I’m fighting the flies for the cool air from the fan spinning slowly on squeaky ball bearings above my booth.
It’s dark outside, and still very hot tonight.
“Hello, this is Father Luke.”
“Father Luke, this is Lawrence’s Sister.”
I called her, and so that didn’t
come as too much of a surprise.
“Father Luke, Gail went to the bank the day my brother Lawrence died and withdrew nearly three thousand dollars.”
Jeezus.
“Has Gail called you?”
“Well, she wanted to come take care of me, you see I’m in a wheelchair. Father Luke, forgive me, but if I ever see her I’ll have her hair hanging on my wall.”
“Well, that’s okay, dear. I don’t mind hearing that.”
“It just has me so upset.”
“I’m sorry, dear.”
“Okay, Father Luke. I’ll let you eat dinner.”
“Alright, dear. Buh bye.”
“Good night Father Luke.”
I looked at the Chile Rojo. It was cold. I let the flies have it, and I tipped the waiter two dollars. Then I walked out into the night.
