Loonglow by Helen Eisenbach Page A

though he’d vowed to wait until she called, he had a sudden, overwhelming need to hear her voice, as if by sensing something in her tone he would be given a vital clue as to her ultimate decision. The phone rang and rang. Finally he hung up, glancing at the clock beside the bed. Of course no one had answered, he thought; it was after eight. (Saved from committing a tactical blunder by sheer logistics.) He staggered into the bathroom to examine the effects of his drinking. When he looked in the mirror, the gleaming eyes of a desperate man peered back at him.
    Two days later she called him. He returned from grocery shopping to find a message on his machine, her voice cheerful, friendly. No editor was supposed to sound like that, he thought, trying her number without waiting to see if there were other messages on his tape—editors should be subdued professionals, not frisky kids. Shifting from one foot to the other, he waited for her to answer. Just as he was beginning to think about redialing, he heard an abrupt “Hello?”
    â€œLouey Mercer, please?”
    â€œWho’s this?” He answered the tense voice and the tone grew instantly warmer. “Oh, Clay, it’s Louey, I’m on my other line. Kevin must not be at his desk, or I’d—let me call you back in a few minutes, okay?”
    â€œSure,” he said, momentarily deflated. He hung up, waiting for a few moments for the phone to ring before shaking himself. Get up, asshole, he thought, going to put away the groceries; she didn’t have all day just to talk to him, after all.
    He had settled down with an Irish coffee when the phone rang. Nerves slightly dulled by the alcohol, he answered, “Yello?”
    She laughed into his ear. “Clay? It’s Louey Mercer.”
    â€œHi, how are you? Thanks for calling me back.”
    â€œI called you first, remember? Listen, I’ve had a chance to read your manuscript, and I want to talk to you about it.”
    â€œUh—sure, great. When would be a good time to talk?”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with now? Or did I get you in the middle of something?”
    â€œOver the phone?” For some reason the prospect filled him with dread. Five minutes on the phone, dismissing him, and he’d be left with a dial tone? “Can’t I buy you a drink while you break it to me gently?”
    She resisted, repeating her earlier edict against drinking. I could teach you a thing or two, honey, he thought grimly; he’d never known anyone who seriously felt as she claimed to about alcohol. “I’m sorry,” he said after a few moments of trying to persuade her, “this is wasting your time. I just wanted to thank you somehow; of course we should do it during business hours. I can come to the office next week, if you’d prefer.”
    â€œOh, I don’t mind meeting you after work; I stay late most nights, anyway.” She paused, weighing her options. “Oh, what the hell, let’s meet for a drink, why not. It’ll do me some good to act like a real editor and expense-account you.”
    â€œI won’t hear of your treating me,” Clay said. “You’re doing me the favor—you’ve already done me a huge favor. When is good for you?”
    They made an appointment to meet early the next week, struggling to come up with a place that suited their purposes. Sometimes Manhattan seemed as limited as a small town, Clay thought; it had endless options, but most of them were bad.
    Clay hung up the phone with a time, meeting place, and feeling of slightly giddy anticipation. It was going to take some doing to get through the next few days, he realized. He paced the apartment, filled with extraneous energy, picking up the piece of paper on which he’d written the details of their meeting. As if he’d forget. He glanced at the circled location among the scribblings of places they’d both thought of.
    One name struck him