Night Call
Leslie curled up on the couch and sipped a cup of tea. The bus ride home had tired him out, yet for some reason he couldn’t name, he felt an inner excitement, a new and much more agreeable feeling than the ache and pain of unrelenting grief. He glanced around the room: the same furniture; Edward’s desk centered under the window; his favorite chair across from the sofa; and the drapes drawn across the blackouts. Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” jitterbugged in the background. Leslie couldn’t remember the last time he’d listened to the wireless for pleasure and not for news on the latest bombing casualties. The night so far had been quiet, no screeching of sirens, no street noise to speak of. London had been given a night off.
He reached out for the phone and dialed the rectory. Wai
