She called one morning just as he'd stepped into the bathroom. He was fiddling
with the shower knobs; his feet were wet; he tied a towel around his waist and,
leaving a trail of wet footprints on the floor, rushed to the phone.
"It's been ringing a long time," she said irritably. "Where were you?"
"In the shower."
"It kept ringing and ringing. We're not supposed to make personal outside calls.
I was just about to hang up."
He didn't feel like saying more in defence. He tied the knot of the towel which
kept coming loose.
"Anyway, I just called to tell you to take the meat out the refrigerator."
"What meat?"
"Hold on a second.." she said, speaking to someone in the office.
Radix sat shivering a little on the bed. He scratched his arms idly and noticed
a bit of excess fat around his waist.
Amarelle was taking her time getting back to the phone. He heard background
noises and he pictured a tiny room with women, all technicians in white coats,
chatting or joking as they labelled samples or called the next patient in for a blood
sample.
The skinny one from the Philippines who didn't speak much; and two Hispanic
women who were fond of Avon products; and a Jamaican who bragged about her son,
the honors student, and her house in Westchester; who still received welfare checks
she was no longer entitled to ("I mean, what am I supposed to do? They keep sending
me these cheques?" Amarelle liked to mimic.)
These were her co-workers; all immigrants, they were one happy family of
dreamers and chatterers. In their company Amarelle felt grounded and secure.
She'd come home physically tired but bursting with news about these women,
talking from the moment she'd dropped her bag and kicked off her travel sneakers,
as if talking was one sure way to relieve the working day's stress.
The telephone line went quiet; then someone came on, impatient, asking Radix
with authority what he wanted. Not sure if he should reveal his identity Radix put the
phone down.
(from "Ah, Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 