#HangingOn

a short story and artwork by

K. Michael Williams

What Mads missed most was cooking for someone. Sitting around the table as everyone enjoyed a well-prepared and presented meal.

Tonight, it’ll be a creamy, crispy chicken cordon bleu. For one.

She wrapped thin chicken breasts — already rolled in layers of swiss cheese and ham — in plastic wrap. Carefully and evenly.

Two pieces only. It’d taken Mads a minute to get in the habit of cooking for one. In the beginning, she made huge pots of spaghetti and stew, oversized hunks of roast beef or brisket. More collard greens than she’d eat in a month.  

She hated cooking for one.

She was getting better at it.

Mads hated that too.

Setting the tightly wrapped food on a small cooking tray, she placed the tray in the fridge. One of those high-end, oversized, shiny appliances with a touch screen, glass in the doors, Alexa, and Spectrum. It complemented all the other shiny, high-end appliances. 

Mads took two plastic bags from the fridge. Fresh spinach leaves and a smaller bag of garlic cloves. She returned to the island, ready to —

The telephone rang.

Mads started. There were two landlines in the house. One here in the kitchen. The other upstairs in the master bedroom (for one). But those phones seldom rang. Anyone that needed Mads called her cell. The only calls on the landline were robocalls and solicitors. And that was only during the day. Mads couldn’t remember the last time either phone rang after six.

She set the bags on the island, walked across the floor.

“Hello?”

The beat that came made Mads think this might be one of those fucking machines. 

“Hello?” 

“Mom?”

Mads started.

“Hey, Mom. How’s it goin’?”

The voice on the other end was buoyant, familiar. Disturbingly familiar. 

Mads struggled to clear her throat. “Who’s this?”

“Mom? It’s me.”

The voice — crisp confidence, slight twinge of cockiness — went into the ear and down Mads throat, muddling anything she might say.

“Mom?”

“Who—” She took a moment to swallow. “W-who is this?”

“Mom, what’s going on? Where’s Dad?”

She felt her heart bulge, thrusting a pain into her chest. But somewhere in the middle of all this came tweaks of fast-growing anger.

“Do you think this’s funny? Do you?”

“Mom, what’re you tal—”

Mads slammed the phone back into the cradle and immediately noticed her hand shook. Almost uncontrollably. She grabbed it with her other hand, noticing that hand wasn’t doing too great either. Mads swallowed the gob of anxiety tightening her throat.

The phone rang. Mads leaped like a manic toad. The idea of not answering never crossed her mind.

“Look here, whoever you are, I don’t appreciate this. Not one bit. Don’t make me call the poli—“

“Mom, what’s wrong with you? Where’s Dad?”

That voice. Unmistakable. She’d heard it all her life. Laughed with it so many times. Felt her heart warm whenever it had touched her ear.

“Mom. I don’t know what’s going on. I just called to wish you a happy birthday.”

The words that almost blurted forth stalled on her tongue. Mads was suddenly awash in confused bemusement. 

“Mom?”

Her eyes darted, looking for answers. Water filled her auburn eyes. She didn’t want to blink. If she did, the tears were inevitable.

“Mom? Mom! Let me talk to Dad.”

Mads forced composure. Put a hand to her mouth to bite down.

“Mom!”

“He’s not here,” she said suddenly.

“Where is he?”

There it was. That comforting concern. Her dead son’s unrelenting digging to get to the bottom of her pain.

“He’s — he’s not here.”

“Why? Where is he?”

Mads shuddered. She dug, plowing for reasons to convince herself she hadn’t lost her mind. Shit, she could barely draw breath. Which was good. Mads could blame lack of oxygen.

“Clifford… ?”

He stopped talking before saying, “What?” 

With that, the anxiety fell away. With that single word. Mads still feel the shakes but there was as much relief as threat, anger, confusion. She made herself not burst into tears.

Hesitantly, Mads asked, “Cliff… a-are you okay…?

It thundered to all hell outside. The dark gray sky lit sporadically white alongside a series of thunderclaps. The winds slapped the rain northward in angered slants. It left cars stranded in ponds where none should exist. By morning, trees that stood strong for decades would lay atop cars and rooftops. At least one car would not only be flipped over but would end up thirty feet from where the owner left it. 

The rain worsened as the day progressed, angry and stubborn, putting stress on Mads’ suburban cobbled streets and pines. 

Mads sat in her little McMansion. On a couch in a bedroom as big as a small apartment. A slender buffet lamp on her bedside table projected a muddied ambiance as the rain made the afternoon look like the dead of night.

She smiled sadly. There was a picture in her left hand. An image framed in glistening metal. Her fingers lightly followed lines in the photograph.

The telephone rang. Mads’ reaction was near indiscernible. She reached for the receiver in a calm, expectant gesture. Stopped. Instead, she pressed the speaker button.

“Hello?”

Mads smiled, a melancholy wash of relief. “Hi, baby.”

“What’s up?”

She closed her eyes but the image in her hand lingered. A dark chocolate man with a grin, all handsome, devilish, and fun-loving. 

“I’m fine, baby,” Mads said. “How you doin’?”

And so he told her.

Mads didn’t have to check any video to know who was at the door. Claudia was the only one who had a key. She always rang the bell before letting herself in. But Mads didn’t need any of that info to know who she’d meet at the bottom of the stairs.

“Mom? What’s happening with you?”

Mads made her way down the circular staircase. She was in her robe, a silky number imported from London. 

Claudia did her best to not sound irritable, but her frustration was evident. 

Stopping at the last step, Mads replied to her daughter’s query with irritating calm. “Nothing wrong with me, sweetie. I’ve never felt better.”

“Don’t feed me th—” Claudia caught herself. Her cheeks flushed red. “You were supposed to meet me at Dr. Acker’s.”

“And I told you I wasn’t going.”

Claudia gave herself another moment. “You have to go.”

Mads’ smile was easy and gnawed at Claudia.

“I feel fine,” Mads reiterated.

Claudia rippled with irritation. “Cancer doesn’t feel fine, Mom. It doesn’t get better. You have to get treatment. Now, let’s get d—”

“Told you, I’m not going.”

Claudia asked, “Why not?”

Mads said nothing. She started for the kitchen because … well, it gave her something to do. Of course, her daughter followed.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you, Mom, but you’ve been acting, well, odd. Aunt Sadie said you missed your last couple of nights out with your friends.”

“I—”

“You haven’t been to church or bible school.”

“Cl—”

“You canceled lunch on me. Three times” Claudia stressed the point with a trio of commanding fingers. “And you’ve missed two radiology appointments this week.” More accusing fingers. Her shoulders dropped. The angry lines on her face began to melt into concern. “Mom, you…” 

The hesitancy hit Mads like a punch. She was already shaking her head in soft reassurance.

Claudia said tersely, “You haven’t given up?”

The fear bulged in Claudia as Mads embraced her child. She clasped her arms around Claudia’s neck like whatever was about to explode would take Mads out like a soldier falling on a grenade.

“No, baby,” Mads almost begged. “No, no. Don’t even think it.”

“Then what is it? What’re you doing? Why aren’t you leaving the house?” 

Claudia’s quivering voice made Mads tremble. Mads pulled back and saw a face of tears. She clumsily stroked the water with her palms.

“I’m fine, baby. You have to know that.”

“Then why?”

It started out as a sigh but instead, Mads loosed a shuddering moan. “I, I … I was just waiting for a phone call.”

Claudia was incredulous. “From who?”

Mads went to speak, stopped herself, and went in another direction. “It doesn’t matter.” She smiled. “It doesn’t matter.” She pulled Claudia close, inhaled the strong Chanel in Claudia’s neck.

They stood in the still of the house. Claudia gradually returned the hug. It started gingerly and morphed into desperation, filling Mads with a mournful joy. 

“I’m sorry,” Mads said. “I did — Look. Let’s go. Let’s just go. Okay? I’ll go upstairs, get dressed, and we’ll go see Dr. Ackers. Okay?”

“Mom… what’s going on? Why’re you sitting in the house for a phone call? Where’s your cell?”

The slight traces of relief at the corners of Claudia’s eyes, Claudia returning to control mode. It meant the world to Mads.

“It doesn’t matter. Let me go upstairs and put something on.”

Mads didn’t want to let go. Like she was terrified Claudia might collapse.

“Okay, okay,” Claudia said, tapping out. “I told them I’d be back with you in tow.”

Their tear-stained face brought smiles.

“Go on,” Claudia said half-jokingly, all serious. “Get dressed.”

Mads nodded, slow and thankful.

In the last week, the furthest Mads had walked was ten feet into the yard. That was all the air she’d needed. 

Now, twitches of anxiety pinched her innards as she picked an outfit for her radiology treatments. A summer dress, pair of flats, a few accouterments. 

There wasn’t time for a shower but Mads wasn’t comfortable going without at least a little grooming. She decided on a quickie. That’s why she didn’t hear the phone ring at first. Mads kept imagining the phone called for her. Until it did. 

Mads snatched a towel from the shelf. She stumbled soaking wet across cold tiles in the bathroom and then bedroom carpet. She hustled, holding the oversized towel over her visible parts with one hand.

“I’m coming.”

She came to an abrupt stop in the bedroom when the ringing stopped. 

“No.”

Awash in disappointment, Mads wiped the wet from her eyes like wiping away dread. She sighed so loud the soles of her feet shivered. She went back into the bathroom to finish. Mads was frowning in the mirror when the phone rang.

She bolted. It stopped in the middle of the second ring. She stopped briefly before racing for the phone. She heard the yelling before getting the phone off its cradle. Yelling from somewhere in the house. By time she got the phone to her ear, her heart pounded. She knew what was happening. What had happened the first time the phone rang. 

“What the fuck? You son-of-a-bitch! What is wrong with you?” she heard her daughter say into the phone.

“Claudia, what’re you doing?” was the offended response.

“What’re you doing, you sick fuck? Do I need to call the police?”

“Claudia,” Mads yelled into the phone. “Stop!”

“Mom? Mom? What’s going on over there? Why is this girl acting so damned crazy?”

“Mom, what the hell’s going on here?” Claudia demanded. “Who is this?”

“Claudia,” Mads begged, “just hang up. I got this.”

“This? This? What’re you talking about? What is this?”

“You know, Claudia,” he said, “I’ve always said you were coo-coo for Co-Co Puffs but this? This right here, it’s a game-changer.”

The silence dropped like a disassembling brick wall. He did always say that.

“Mom, who is this?” Claudia asked. The tone dripped with confused disgust.

It took Mads a second to find words. “It’s okay. Just hang up, baby. Please. I got this.”

“I agree,” he said. “You can’t be civil, get off the line.”

Silence.

Mads said, “Please, Claudia. Hang up.”

There came a careful, hesitant, soft click.

“Thank you,” he said dramatically. “What the hell? I haven’t talked to that girl in a minute and I get that. What’s that about?”

Standing there, holding the towel up, Mads shivered. “My fault,” she eventually said. “I was supposed to meet her at the doctor—”

“Doctor? Is she okay? Is Claudia okay?”

“She’s fine.”

“You? Something wrong, Mom? Jesus, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I-I’m fine,” she said. 

She wasn’t. 

“Well, nothing sounds fine, Mom. Claudia’s on the warpath about something.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I-I’ll talk to her.”

Mads shifted slowly. Turned her naked wet backside away from Claudia. Claudia stood behind Mads. Hands on hips. Face the color of blood. Eyes glaring like hot pokers. Lips sliced so thin the corners could cut her cheekbones.

Three days later.

Mads sat under an offset umbrella on an outdoor wicker-cushioned sectional. A pair of grandma reading glasses on the bridge of her nose. In one hand, a favorite, Gabriel García Márquez’ One Hundred Years of Solitude. In the other hand, a double-bowl glass of margarita. On her feet was a pair of ridiculously oversized, fluffy slippers with bunny ears. The last birthday gift Mads got from her son. A gag gift. Sort of.

In front of Mads, the kitchen phone receiver sat atop an Ella Coffee Table. Beside it, Mads’ iPhone and a half-full pitcher of margaritas. There was a shaker of salt for lining the wide rim of her glass.

Somewhere out there, landscapers tightened up a neighbor’s greenery.

She took in a hearty stream of air. Mads couldn’t have imagined such a wealth of relaxation three months ago. Her sighs were filled with comfort and relief. Not washed in the burden and wariness she’d been buried in for … forever.

When the phone rang, her heart did a little skip of joy. Realizing it was only her cell, Mads fumed a little. She sat up, reached for the phone. Mads sort of sighed and laughed and dreaded. 

“Mom?”

Mads sat back, threw up her crossed ankles, set her big bunny-slippered feet on the table. “Hey, baby,” she said. “What’s the word?”

A slight, sad smile poked at Mads’ features. She felt Claudia tighten.

“I … was just calling to see how you’re doing.”

“Never better.” Mads said it before asking, “And how’re you?”

Claudia said hopefully, “I’m good, Mom. Dad’s on the line.”

Mads started. 

“Hey, Mads. Didn’t mean to catch you off guard.”

His voice was, as always, rich and melodious. As smooth a sound as the Temptations.

“Oh, please,” Mads responded. “How’re you?”

“No,” Charles said. “How’re you? Claudia gave me the news. I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you,” Mads said. “How’s Geena?”

A soundless ‘thud’ fell like an anvil.

“She’s fine,” he eventually said. 

Awkward silence hovered until Claudia cut through it, polite and purposeful. “What’re you doing?”

“Just sitting here. Reading. Having a drink.”

“Good for you,” Charles said and he meant it. 

While Mads liked where the conversation seemed to be going, a small knot in her chest wondered where it likely would end up.

She was right. After a few minutes of often stilted, clumsy banter, Claudia made her attempt for an exit. Something about getting to Walgreen’s before picking up the kids. Or was it Walmart? K-mart? Whatever, it was bullshit.

Mads tried to get out of there too. Hopefully before Claudia disconnected.

“No, wait,” Charles told Mads. “I’d like to talk a minute.”

Mads opened her mouth, not sure what needed saying. Claudia, on the other hand, was gone like the Road Runner.

Charles remained charming. “Oh, com’on, Mads. A minute. It’s not like we talk all the time.”

No. It wasn’t. They hadn’t spoken alone in at least six months, in fact. The last time was when Charles called to say he was wrong. Nobody was having a baby. Still, the subtext remained with Mads. He was having sex!

“You there, Mads?”

Her initial response was a sigh, so controlled and concise there was almost no evidence of it. “Yes, I’m here.”

Charles took a breath. “So, how’re things?”

“Fine.”

“So,” Charles finally said, letting the word drag too long.

Claudia had told him. Of course. Probably called the second her daughter dropped Mads home after chemo last week. Mads imagined father and daughter went back-and-forth about whether Mads was nuts. The conversation likely spanned several calls. And Claudia badgered her father to do something. And Charles avoided it long as possible. He was very busy being retired. And banging Geena. 

Get to it already, Mads thought. 

“So, listen…”

Finally. A chilled relief simmered in Mads’ bones. She realized Claudia hadn’t made this call video because Charles didn’t want to see Mads’ face. Or vice versa. Once upon a day, she might’ve used the word cowardly. In a whisper.

“Claudia told me something. Something that’s got us a little worried, Mads.”

He told her what he thought. Mads listened patiently as Charles dragged it out. Going on without actually saying anything objective. When he seemed finished, Mads’ bosom grew large and deflated heavily. 

“I mean,” Charles said, “very worried. You taking your meds, right?”

No. I stopped taking them over a year ago.

“Of course,” Mads said. A smile he couldn’t see plastered her face.

“Because,” he stumbled on, “remember what the doctor said.”

She knows what the doctor said. She was there. He wasn’t. Mads set the book aside and sipped her drink. 

“He said,” Charles continued, “if you don’t take your meds, there might be another psychotic break.”

She was amused. He hadn’t yet said what he was worried about, hadn’t repeated what their daughter told him. Charles couldn’t say it outright. 

You think you’ve been talking to our dead son.

Mads waited for those words. For some time, she’d carefully rehearsed an articulate response, a killer blow that would knock Charles to one knee. 

“So listen, I gotta go.”

Mads felt a sting of disappointment. “Com’on, baby. Do you have to?”

“Well, I’d rather not,” he said with joyful empathy. “But my phone’s getting ready to die.”

“Why can’t you plug it in?” Mads asked. She always asked.

“I can’t find the damned plug.”

There was shuffling on the other line, obvious movement of someone in a desperate search. It was a fuss she’d gotten used to with these calls. He was looking for the charger. That was followed by a back-and-forth of amused and bemused don’t-know-where-it-is or it’s-okay-I’ll-call-you-back.

“I keep telling you get a landline,” Mads said, trying to not sound forceful.

“What? When’d you tel— Never mind. I don’t need one, Mom.”

He always said that. Or said he’d think about it. The only thing every exchange had in common was the overall reaction. He always responded like she’d never made the suggestion before.

He made a noise. “Can’t find that fu— that damned thing.” Another noise, bubbling deep inside his chest, signaled his annoyance. “Guess we can talk until the phone dies.” He was hopeful. “After, if I find it, how about I call you back? Or you can call me later?”

No, I can’t.

Mads didn’t have a number. A working one anyway. She took the number she saw on the screen — HIS number. But no matter how many times she called it Mads got a wrong number response.

As usual, they kept talking until his line went dead. He was in mid-sentence, telling her about someone named Terry. A coworker. This schmuck needed firing for a lot of reasons. Reasons Clifford kept telling his mother. In a manner that seemed like she’d never heard the stories before. Clifford complained about this Terry when her son was alive. 

Among other topics, her son also talked about his new girl. Beth. Elizabeth. He really liked her. Beth/Elizabeth may’ve been the one. She came to Clifford’s funeral. It was the first and only time Mads met the girl.

She set the receiver down carefully. She looked up at the analog clock sitting in a mahogany frame above the kitchen entryway.

This call had been two minutes shorter than the last. The one before that came in at five minutes shorter than the one before that…

The front bell rang in three sharp bursts, startling Mads a bit more than she’d imagined. Only one person ever rang the bell that way. It was her ex-husband’s way of letting her and the kids know who was at the door. He’ll have forgotten his key fob or something and rushed back. It was how he got in the house most nights when he came home in a company car.

Mads swallowed.

“Good to see you.” He leaned in, putting an almost flaccid kiss to Mads’ cheek.

Mads smiled apprehensively at the handsome face. It was leaner with new creases. But, the moment he removed the shades, those eyes — a sparkling cinnamon color — still glistened with charm.

“What’re you doing here?”

He smirked. “What? I need a reason to come see my favorite girl.”

Favorite girl. She shivered. Prayed it wasn’t obvious.

“I was in the city. Thought I’d stop by and check up on you.”

She hadn’t seen this man in over a year. Before that, he never came over without calling first. And Mads didn’t have a doctorate but didn’t need one to put two-and-two together. Four days ago, mother, father, and daughter have a very disturbing discussion and — boom-shock-a-laka! — the ex shows.

Charles didn’t broach the subject. He was that guy who worked around the crevices and rat holes until he saw an opening. But sixteen years of marriage skilled Mads at avoiding the game. So, they had an afternoon of conversation. It started awkward and stilted and melted like soft ice cream. 

Mads made lunch. He appreciated that. (According to their daughter, girlfriend Geena burnt boiling water.)

They were soon laughing out loud amidst awkward silences. Clouds of nothing that reminded them they hadn’t really been friends in years.

Then, of course, the phone rang.

The realization hit Mads almost instantly.

There was the rat hole. What Charles needed to pounce. Air caught in Mads’ throat. Yet, she almost laughed. Wondering how long he’d be willing to sit in this kitchen until that phone rang.

He glanced over at the phone once or twice but kept the focus on his former spouse.

Finally, he asked, “You gonna get that?”

Mads sipped her lemonade. Gently gave her saucer (there was still half of uneaten honey ham-and-mozzarella on hoagie) a tiny push to one side.

“Why don’t you?”

Hello?”

Charles studied Mads, smiling hopefully. But he focused on the silence coming out of the phone. 

Until: “Dad?”

Charles froze a sec. “Who’s this?”

“Jesus. Dad? Where’ve you been? Every time I call Mom tells me you’re out. I mean, I know you love to work, old man, but you haven’t been home at all. I was starting to think som—” The caller backtracked. “Never mind. Man, it’s good to hear your voice, Pops. How you been?”

The fine lines in the man’s face hardened. His gaze was locked on the woman sitting at the marble-topped kitchen island with the double sink and dishwasher. Mads wasn’t looking at him. She was busy with her lemonade.

“Who is this?” Charles asked again.

Silence.

“Whatta mean?” the caller said. “Dad?”

“Who is this?”

The frost escalated.

More silence.

“Dad, what the hell’s going on?”

Charles let out a stuttering breath. His eyes still on Mads. The difference was now she was looking at him.

“Who is this?” Charles said with elevating rage.

Mads slid away from the island, stepped off the stool, set the lemonade down.

“What’re you talking about, Dad? It’s me. Has everyone out there lost their mind?”

“Look,” Charles said and that single word made it quite clear what was coming, “this isn’t funny goddammit. Do you think this’s funny, young man?”

Charles watched Mads close in on him, their eyes still locked.

“Dad, what’re you talking about? Is Claudia there? What’d she tell you?”

“She didn’t have to tell me anything! You’re the one who needs to explain himself before I call the police.”

“Police? Police? What the hell’re is going on down there? Where’s Mom? Where is Mom?”

Mads was standing right there. Two feet away. Waiting. Firm, but sympathetic. Tweaks of disappointment and sadness hinting in her pallor.

“Dad?”

The corners of Mads’ mouth leaned toward a small, quivering smile that could’ve easily come with tears.

“Dad. Put Mom on the phone. Please.”

He resisted the request. He wanted to keep going, to get this shit straightened once and for all. Instead, he stared into her eyes. Charles took a deep breath before setting the receiver in Mads’ palm.

“Hi, baby.”

“Shit, Mom—”

“Language.” 

Her dead son huffed. “What the hell? I’ve been wanting to talk to Dad and he’s never there. Now, he’s acting all crazy. Just like Claudia. What’s going on out there? Everybody start doing crack or something?”

Mads laughed. “No, baby. Nothing like that.” Her eyes stayed on Charles as she turned away and sauntered back to her stool. “We’ll get it all straightened out.” She gave a final glance over her shoulder. “So, how’s everything going?”

You can’t really believe that’s our son?” 

They were sitting on the porch on one side of the house. Resting on a big ol’ golden swing with cushy pillows and pillowy cushions. A gift from their kids. The one everyone pictured the parents resting on on cool days. Old and gray. Grandkids sprinting haphazardly on green-rich grass.

This was one of those picturesque days. All sunshine. But there were no grandkids. The lawn was certainly a rich green shade. The couple was melancholy. A bottle of Bicardi rested at Charles’s left foot. A tumbler was in his hand with a finger of the alcohol in it. That hand rested on his thigh.

Mads was still enjoying lemonade. For a brief time, they avoided the elephant, enjoying the day and the drinks. Until Charles abruptly asked the question. 

“Mads?”

“I heard you.” She took a drink. 

He sighed. “Mads, please.”

With a soft glint, she smiled at her ex. “I…” She took a distracting sip. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“You don’t know?” He replied with the air of the college professor he was.

She dove in. “I let you answer so that you could come to your own conclusion, Charles. So don’t ask me what’s going on.”

He ruffled. “So, you believe it’s Cliff?”

“I’m saying believe what you want.”

He stared into a broad vista of soft middle-level clouds traveling giddily across the sky. “You’re scaring me, Mads. You’re scaring us.”

Bemused, she took a sip. “Sorry.”

“Sorry. Sorry?” He’d hit a ceiling but forced composure. “What’re you doing here, Mads? This’s why you’re not leaving the house? You’re sitting here waiting for calls from some asshole pretending to be Cliff.” 

His free hand waved adamantly for a sec. Charles had a tendency of letting worry turn to frustration if he wasn’t getting satisfaction. The next ceiling was frustration building to anger.

Mads had no intention of making this a heated debate. Not this. “I wanted you to hear his voice. But I didn’t want you to waste his time.”

Now, Charles was puzzled.

Mads studied the perplexity in his features. “The first time he called we talked for almost an hour. There had been maybe five or six calls before I realized the calls were getting shorter. It’s a pattern. His battery starts dying sooner with every call, Charles.”

There were traces of doom even as vexation set in. “It’s always something. He can’t find his charger. He’s in a place where he can’t charge. He needs to get somewhere. Always something.” She took a moment to compose herself. “But the calls’re getting shorter, Charles.” 

She gave him a firm look. “I couldn’t let you be on the phone arguing with him when I have precious little time…”

Mads finished off the lemonade. He cleaned his shot glass. He swallowed hard and pretended to let it settle.

“You try calling him back?” 

“Many times,” she said with disgusted defeat. “I take the number I see on the phone — his number — I call it. And I get a wrong number. I get someone who ...” She smiled grimly at the thought. “I went on the internet and found the number belongs to a woman right here in—”

Mads remembered the bitterness she felt when Claudia shut off her son’s phone despite her protests. It was still there, but it wasn’t a hardball. It was a soft malleable clutch of gray clay. 

“You didn’t go over there?”

Another smile. “No, I fought the urge.” Her eyes glistened, narrowed. “You know, I think I know why he calls the landline.”

Charles didn’t dare ask. He was a practical man and didn’t want to encourage her. But he wanted to know. Had to know.

Mads held up her cell phone. Gave it a cursory look before turning the screen to Charles.

She inhaled. “I didn’t have this phone when he was alive.”

Charles swallowed. Stared at the phone even as Mads set it down.

“Why didn’t you just give him the new number?” he asked.

“I have. Many times.” Her face molded a question mark. “He keeps calling the landline.”

Uncomfortable silence enfolded them. 

“We were talking. And he talked about one of the trips you took him on.” She gave her ex a soft look of remembrance. “The one to Florida. Islands of Adventure.”

His attention was snagged. And he didn’t like it. Deep down in the pit of his ulcer-ed belly, Charles had an unsettling sense of … something … coming. And he didn’t like it.

Mads paced her words. “He said that weekend was the best time of his life. Just you and him. You had VIP passes that got you in early. There was almost no one in the park. You rode the 3D Spider-Man ride over and over and over … because there was no line.”

The days of father and son being big kids colored Charles. 

“He said he caught you smoking a joint.”

Charles jerked.

“Middle of the night. In the bathroom. You made him promise not to tell me.” She offered her ex a small smile. “He told me when he was older you two shared a joint or four together.” The smile broadened. “When I wasn’t around.”

Charles visibly shook as he went for the Bicardi.

So, you got Daddy all caught up now?”

Claudia’s indignity amused Mads.

“I don’t know what’re you talking about,” Mads responded.

Claudia’s look could’ve boiled an egg. “He won’t talk to me about it but I know he’s staying at a hotel. Told Geena he’s got business to take care of before he goes home.”

“What makes you think that has anything to do with me, Claudia?” Her tone dripped with satisfaction that betrayed feigned innocence.

Mads glanced over at the figure entering the kitchen. She shooed Charles away. He scooted with a question mark on his face.

Mads and Charles climbed the stairs with a deliberate sloth. As if a thick fog enfolded their feet. They crossed the tier overlooking the front door where Claudia had confronted Mads about missing that therapy session.

Charles took Mads’ hand and squeezed it. A warm gesture of reassurance that gave Mads both comfort and surprise. 

Charles smiled. “He’ll call tomorrow.”

Mags gave him a hopeless, if pleasant, return. 

They crossed the expanse, coming to the guest bedroom. They stopped, turning to each other.

“He’ll call tomorrow,” Charles said again, pulling a smile across his cheeks.

She nodded. He closed in and let his lips press against her cheek. They were moist and, and unlike the kiss at the front door over a week ago, this time a blanket of undiluted relief and reassurance overwhelmed Mads. 

They stood in the dim light a moment. Finally, he released her hand and went to the door. Before going in, he gave Mads a final smile.

She gave Charles a bright look. “He’ll call tomorrow.”

He nodded, went into the guest room, and closed the door softly.

Mads lie on her side. 

It had taken so long, getting used to being in that big bed alone. Yet, tonight, it felt like she was spending her first night alone on that mattress. In that giant room. 

He’ll call tomorrow, she told herself. 

Outside her window, light droplets fell from a black sky, tapping at the panes. 

He’ll call tomorrow.

She didn’t move as the door behind her opened with trepidation. The soft light of the hall poured in, reaching across the floor, stopping just before the window.

Mads closed her eyes. Her breathing slowed. She didn’t hear him. The carpet was too deep for the sound of bare feet. And she knew he was barefoot. Charles didn’t wear slippers. He liked the feel of carpets and rugs on his soles.

He stood over her now. She felt him, hovering there. He knew she wasn’t asleep.

“Move over,” Charles said.

Mads couldn’t help a smile. “No.”

With affection, he practically sat on Mads, forcing her to push away, to give him the room he needed to lay himself across the bed. And despite the bed’s ginormity, Mads didn’t go far. He lay his head on the satin-covered pillow, making an amused and satisfied sound. So did she.

Charles slipped his arm around Mads as she pulled into his embrace, setting her head on his shoulder. Mads placed a hand on his bare chest, the way she used to. Feeling the beat of his heart in her palm, like once upon a day.

He hugged her close. 

“He’ll call tomorrow,” he assured her softly.

She smiled, almost a purr. “He’ll call tomorrow.”

She’d come to bed restless, a little shaken, and very heartbroken. Mads had thought she’d be up all night. Instead, she slid into a deep sleep within minutes, the sweet scent of Charles’s mint mouthwash tickling the air.

Dad?” The voice was filled with rambunctiousness. “How you been, ol’ man?”

Charles inhaled deeply, rapt in the phone and Mads’ warming eyes. “You know how it is.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

This was the third call in four days, after five days of nothing. Each new call filled Mads and Charles with fresh hope, gave them an inkling sense of a brightened future. Yet, at the same time, each call getting shorter and shorter only prompted feelings of an evitable dawning.

But they didn’t have to think about that now. Any of the sandstorming or quicksanding determined to pull them into the pit was of minor importance. The couple simply had — shit, chose — to live in the moment. To be here. In the now.

Their son was on speaker. This ensures they both had him for what little time the good Lord afforded. Asked questions, they jumped to answer. Listening to stories, the parents happily counseled. Even if it were a story already told. Over and over.

The boy never remembered previous conversations. What they’d already discussed and allegedly put to bed was always ready to be brought out and tackled like fresh fish rolled in newspaper.

She set her hand on Charles’ chest and he lay his big hand atop hers. And their eyes danced in unison.

He’d called and sang “Happy Birthday” to Mads. It was the finest present she could’ve asked for.

With that, Charles conned, lied, begged, and justified like a dying man to twist, bend, and crack both her arms until Mads agreed to go out for a nice dinner. 

It became obvious the whole rigamarole wasn’t as spontaneous as Charles implied. The restaurant — one the couple frequented when still married — had a table waiting. The meal was pretty much ready before they arrived. She’d swear the music was an illuminating playlist of memories that brought smiles to their faces (Al Green: Let’s Get Married; Heatwave: Boogie Nights, Chuck D & the Soul Searchers: Bustin’ Loose). 

It was music and dancing and laughing and good food. Like the old days.

Until Charles cleared his throat.

It was a discomforting reminder, signifying anything from the delivery of bad news to trying to cover the sound of breaking wind.

Charles stared into his empty wine glass. Mads said nothing. If she asked what was wrong, he was more likely to say ‘nothing’ and drop the matter. So Mads waited, as the soft sounds of You Make Me Feel Brand New floated above the table.

She set her hands atop one of his. When he looked up, Mads was smiling.

“There’s something I need to tell you. Something I probably should’ve told you before.”

The revelation made Mads stomach drop. 

She took a breath. “What?”

He mulled his next move before speaking. “It’s about Geena. Me … and Geena.” His shoulders went up and down in a deep breath. “I moved out.”

Mads started. “When?”

“A year ago.”

She almost blurted ‘why’ before deciding it was best to let Charles talk at his own pace. Something else Mads had to learn.

He spoke again after a pregnant, thoughtful pause. “We agreed it just wasn’t working. Maybe it never did.”

Mads swallowed. “But you’ve been calling her. You never told anyone.”

“Well,” he replied sheepishly, “I didn’t call her that much. We still talk, Mads. Just talk. That’s all.” Something that might have been a laugh squeezed out. “Shit. I know how everyone felt about me moving to be with her.”

“But,” Mads said, “we were already divorced. The—”

“Maybe, maybe I was just as …” Charles shook his head. “Maybe I was ashamed … embarrassed …” He sighed. “I caused everyone a lot of grief, Mads. I hate myself for that.” He pushed out air, brought his eyes to Mads. “I left you alone.”

A half-smile pulled on one side of her face. She squeezed his hand. “It’s … okay,” she said with a shrug. 

Later, they’d fall asleep on the couch while watching a Medea movie on Comedy Central. 

The phone rang. Mads jumped like buckshot had burst a goose into a cloud of blood and feathers. She called out for Charles as she hit the button. 

She went to say hello but the sounds of frustration coming out of the phone speaker gave her pause. Clifford was cussing a storm, something she’d only heard her son do only when so upset he forgot his mother was there.

Charles was in the kitchen lickety-split, almost stumbling over his feet.

“Honey,” Mads said, focusing composure, “what’s wrong? What is it?”

Charles was already reading the room, wondering what could possibly be wrong. Except for the obvious. The last call only lasted a minute and a half before Clifford’s battery ran out…

“Hey, kid,” Charles almost yelled at the phone. “You okay?”

“Huh? Oh, hey, Dad.”

“I’m here, too, baby. Is everything okay?”

“Hey, Mom. I’m sorry.” He settled down. “It’s just, well, my battery’s about to die and I can’t find the damned charger. Typical, eh?”

The parents shared a knowing look.

Charles smiled sadly. “Typical you, yeah. Otherwise, how you doin’?”

“I’m alright. How you two doing?”

“We’re good,” Mads said, forcing a little strength in her timbre.

Clifford laughed, a little chortle. “I’m glad to hear that. Glad to know you’re both doing okay.”

“We miss you, sweetie.”

“Same here, Mom.”

A stilted silence filled the line.

“Hey, listen,” he said, “if I haven’t told you lately, I love you both.”

Both parents clumsily reciprocated the sentiment and laughed together.

“I mean, I do. I don’t think I’ve ever told you how much I appreciate everything you ever did for me. Me and Claudia. You were the best parents in the world.”

He was happy, glad to express himself. Not unusual but certainly not common. He was like his father, keeping those deep, dark intimate sensations to himself. Unleashing them only when there was no alternative.

“Hey,” he said and began to regale them with the memory of an afternoon during a long-ago icy cold New York winter. “We went to the playground and built a snowman.”

Charles said, “Well, you and your sister built the snowman. Your mom and I just watched.”

Mads said, “You and your sister were inseparable back then…”

“We were,” he said with hesitancy, regretting what was never fixed in the family dynamic. As if there were some way to make it perfect. To never have a disagreement, to never get mad or frustrated or disappointed. To leap over the myriad of obstacles every family since the beginning of time has experienced.

“So, listen,” he continued, “I’m gonna go. Phones getting ready to die.”

“You’ll call back, right?” the father said.

“Yeah,” Mads nearly yelled. “Call back.”

He made a noise painted with self-frustration. “If I can find the charger.” He grumbled something about where that damned thing was.

“Well, after you do,” Charles urged.

There was no response. Words were replaced by a chilling sense of finality.

“I love you,” Mads said. 

“Now and forever,” Charles said.

“Back at you,” he said.

The parents and son talked until the parents realized the line was dead.

It took Charles almost a week to consider leaving the house. By the tenth day, he ventured out to take a short walk, leaving a stubborn mother to monitor a phone no one believed would ring.

Almost another week and Mads finally agreed to leave the house. Charles was thankful he was there. Who's to say what Mads would’ve done otherwise?

A short walk.

The sky was cloud-filled and threatening to drop water like crazy. But they didn’t take an umbrella. The only thing Mads and Charles took was the other’s hand before stepping into the cool air.

K. Michal Williams is a freelance writer and a long-time member of the Re/Creation Collective. He writes under a number of pen names (none of which he’ll share because then what’s the point of having pen names?) K. Michael writes, draws, goes to the movies, and works hard to maintain his digital music collection. He lives in New York City with his family.