Papal Return

TWO

TWOTHE MESSAGE SIMPLY read: “Urgent. Pot.C. Xpct callback. 1hr. CD.”

Urgent. Potential Contract. Expect a call-back within the hour. Clarence Deeley.

Deeley always used instant communication like he was a telegraph operator from some nineteenth century gold rush town. The message delivered at 21h51, it was 22h19 now, giving me 32 minutes or so to get some privacy. I didn’t listen to the voicemails yet, knowing they would probably just be the same info or Deeley complaining about me not answering.

Jason said, “Who’s that from, a girl finally?” We were waiting at an intersection, under an overpass for the main highway cutting through this part of town. He reached forward and turned down the radio chatter, pointing his chin at the phone in my hand, eyes laughing. His drivers were doing well tonight, it sounded like. Middle of the month, Monday night. People go out and get into plenty of fender benders.

“No. It’s something else... I didn’t expect to hear from this guy so soon. Someone from work.” I tossed the phone in my bag and zipped it up.

“Ah, work,” he replied, and I could hear him italicize it. Work. I haven’t been working, in the strict sense of the word, since being back in South Africa. Or seemingly gainfully employed, since I looked him up seven months ago. “You gonna tell me what you actually do for a living? Where you really got that shoulder busted up?” He looked ahead, driving like a pro, easily maneuvering the large truck in the narrower streets of the suburb I lived in.

“Motorcycle accident, man. I told you.” Jason usually didn’t push the topic, but he did that night. Maybe he sensed things were about to change again. Our friendship, which we picked up after fifteen years of nothing, had been an easy one to just continue, but he knew I had been hiding a lot.

After several minutes of silence, he continued, “You also got the scars on your arms from falling on some kitchen knives maybe, right? Working on a cruise ship, right? And the spots on your sides and leg, those are from burning yourself with marshmallows in Canada or something.” Actually, getting shot in Norway.

“Jason, listen,” I started. The clock on his dash read 22h38. We were slowly pulling up to the street where my uncle’s townhouse was. I knew he was trying to finish this conversation first.

He interrupted again, not looking at me, just keeping his gaze straight ahead, a large tattooed arm leaning on the steering wheel. “Are you going to leave us all again? I mean, are you gonna just disappear into thin air? Leave Uncle Dave too? Like seriously, I don’t wanna get mushy here,” I was sure he was about to. When I joined the legionnaires all that time ago I told no one. Only Uncle Dave got some post cards now and then.

“I don’t have lots of friends, Alex, like real real friends. I’ve known you for thirty years, and you’re my brother.” He was still not looking straight at me while saying this. “If you go again, just tell me and I’ll know, and it’ll be okay, okay?”

I didn’t say anything just yet. We pulled onto the driveway and I got out at the security gate, keeping the door open.

22h43. I leaned back in.

“Okay, I’ll tell you. But can we do this tomorrow afternoon some time? Over a beer?” That wasn’t really fair, I had no idea what Deeley had to tell me, if I would even be in town tomorrow.

He still didn’t look at me, but the big man was mad. His instincts had been right at least.

“Tomorrow we have Emma’s recital at school. But I’ll meet you early on Wednesday if you want...after work.” Emma was his daughter of ten.

We agreed, and I closed the door. He gunned the V8, roaring down the street, waking countless dogs and sleeping neighbors. Like every Monday. I went inside. Uncle Dave was asleep, but always kept the lights on.

It was 22h49 when I plopped myself down on the bed in the guest bedroom. The same room I occupied since Hong Kong—and also the last three years of high school.