Anybody Out There?
Page 85
“Stop, stop! You’re killing it for me.”
“Sorry.”
The next phone call was from Mitch. “Good luck tonight.”
“Can you believe the two happening together?” I asked.
“No. It’s got to be a sign. Call me later if you want to talk.”
Every cab and car service in Manhattan had been commandeered and I got drenched running from the subway to my apartment; my bag on my head provided no protection whatsoever. Not that I cared; I was elated. I paced the floor, drying my hair with a towel and wondering what time could be officially considered “after sunset.”
When the storm had started, day had turned to night, but I worried that just because it looked dark out there, it didn’t necessarily mean it was “after sunset.” The sun might have been scared off by the thunder and lightning but mightn’t have actually set.
I wasn’t sure how much sense that made but the instructions Nicholas had sent were very specific—the recording must not start until “after sunset”—and I couldn’t afford to cut any corners because it would be another four weeks until the next full moon.
Waiting to talk to Aidan was killing me but I forced myself to hold out until after ten; under normal nonstormy circumstances, the sun would have definitely set by then.
I put the tape recorder up in the bedroom because it was far quieter than the front room, which faced onto the street. The rumbles of thunder had stopped but the rain was still tumbling from the sky.
To make sure everything was working fine, I said “testing, one, two” a couple of times. I felt like a roadie but it had to be done, and at least I didn’t say it in a stupid roadie way (“Dezdin, wan, jew”), then I took a deep breath and spoke into the mike. “Aidan, please talk to me. I’m…um…going to leave for a while, and when I come back, I’m really hoping to hear a message from you.”
Then I tiptoed out and sat in the front room, jiggling my foot, watching the clock. I’d give it an hour.
When the time was up, I tiptoed back in; the tape had come to an end. I rewound it, then hit play, all the time praying, Please Aidan, please Aidan, please have left a message, please Aidan, please.
I jumped when I heard my own voice at the start, but after that came nothing. My ears were straining to hear anything, anything at all. But all there was, was the hiss of silence.
Suddenly a high-pitched shriek came from the tape; faint but definitely audible. I recoiled with fright. Oh my God, oh my God, was that Aidan? Why had he screamed?
My heart was thumping as fast as an express train. I put my ear close to the speaker; there were other sounds, too. A muzzy jumble, but undeniably the sound of a voice. I caught a word that might have been men then a ghostly oooooooh.
I couldn’t believe it. It was happening, it was really happening, and was I ready for it? Blood was pounding in my ears, my palms were drenched, and the follicles of my scalp were tingling. Aidan had contacted me. All I had to do was listen hard enough to hear what he had to say. Thank you, sweetheart, oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. The voice sounded more high-pitched than Aidan’s; I’d been told that this could happen and that I should slow the tape down in order to hear better. However, that made it harder to pick out anything meaningful, so I put it back to normal speed, every one of my muscles tensed, desperate to hear something that made sense. I was still only getting a sound or a word here and there, when out of nowhere I caught an entire sentence. There was no doubt as to what it was. I heard each word with crystal clarity.
It was, “Ab-so-lut-lee soooaaak-ing WET!”
It was Ornesto. Upstairs. Singing “It’s Raining Men.”
As soon as I knew what it was, all the other muzzy indistinct sounds instantly fell into place.
“Hall-ell-ooooooooooooooh-ya! It’s raining men! La la la la la LA.”
For a moment I felt nothing. Nothing at all. I’d never been in such a situation before and there was no precedent.
I sat in the dark room for I couldn’t tell you how long, then I went through to the living room and automatically switched on the telly.
64
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Neris Hemming
I contacted you on July 6 so that I could speak to my husband, Aidan, who died. You confirmed that I would have an appointment with Neris Hemming in ten to twelve weeks. It has been over five weeks and I was wondering if it would be possible to have my appointment moved to an earlier date? Or even if you could tell me what date it’ll be on, it would probably make things a little easier to bear.
Thank you in advance for your help,
Anna Walsh
Impulsively I dashed off a P.S.
I am sorry to badger you, I know Neris is very very busy but I’m in agony here.
A day later I received this reply.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Neris Hemming
It is not possible to move your appointment to an earlier date. At the moment it is not possible to confirm your appointment date. You will be contacted approximately two weeks before the date. Thank you for your interest in Neris Hemming.
Mute with frustration, I stared at the screen. I wanted to scream but it wouldn’t do any good.
Let’s do something on Saturday night,” Jacqui suggested.
“What? No two-personed poker matches lined up?”
“Stop.” She giggled.
“You just giggled.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Jacqui, you did.”
She thought about it. “Shit. Anyway, let’s do something on Saturday night.”
“Can’t. I’m doing Super Saturday in the Hamptons.”
“Oh! You lucky, lucky bitch.”
That’s what everyone said when they heard I was going.
“The dirt-cheap designer clothes!” Jacqui said. “The freebies! The parties afterward!”
But I was working at it. Working. And it was very different when you were working.
65
In the Friday-afternoon haze, Teenie and I sat on the Long Island Expressway in bumper-to-bumper traffic. The car was crammed with boxes and boxes of product—in the trunk, on the floor, on our laps. We had to bring it all ourselves because if we trusted it to couriers there was a very real chance that it wouldn’t arrive on time. (Or if we sent it the day before, there was a very real chance it would get nicked.) But we weren’t complaining: at least we hadn’t been made to go on the jitney like last year.
“Sorry.”
The next phone call was from Mitch. “Good luck tonight.”
“Can you believe the two happening together?” I asked.
“No. It’s got to be a sign. Call me later if you want to talk.”
Every cab and car service in Manhattan had been commandeered and I got drenched running from the subway to my apartment; my bag on my head provided no protection whatsoever. Not that I cared; I was elated. I paced the floor, drying my hair with a towel and wondering what time could be officially considered “after sunset.”
When the storm had started, day had turned to night, but I worried that just because it looked dark out there, it didn’t necessarily mean it was “after sunset.” The sun might have been scared off by the thunder and lightning but mightn’t have actually set.
I wasn’t sure how much sense that made but the instructions Nicholas had sent were very specific—the recording must not start until “after sunset”—and I couldn’t afford to cut any corners because it would be another four weeks until the next full moon.
Waiting to talk to Aidan was killing me but I forced myself to hold out until after ten; under normal nonstormy circumstances, the sun would have definitely set by then.
I put the tape recorder up in the bedroom because it was far quieter than the front room, which faced onto the street. The rumbles of thunder had stopped but the rain was still tumbling from the sky.
To make sure everything was working fine, I said “testing, one, two” a couple of times. I felt like a roadie but it had to be done, and at least I didn’t say it in a stupid roadie way (“Dezdin, wan, jew”), then I took a deep breath and spoke into the mike. “Aidan, please talk to me. I’m…um…going to leave for a while, and when I come back, I’m really hoping to hear a message from you.”
Then I tiptoed out and sat in the front room, jiggling my foot, watching the clock. I’d give it an hour.
When the time was up, I tiptoed back in; the tape had come to an end. I rewound it, then hit play, all the time praying, Please Aidan, please Aidan, please have left a message, please Aidan, please.
I jumped when I heard my own voice at the start, but after that came nothing. My ears were straining to hear anything, anything at all. But all there was, was the hiss of silence.
Suddenly a high-pitched shriek came from the tape; faint but definitely audible. I recoiled with fright. Oh my God, oh my God, was that Aidan? Why had he screamed?
My heart was thumping as fast as an express train. I put my ear close to the speaker; there were other sounds, too. A muzzy jumble, but undeniably the sound of a voice. I caught a word that might have been men then a ghostly oooooooh.
I couldn’t believe it. It was happening, it was really happening, and was I ready for it? Blood was pounding in my ears, my palms were drenched, and the follicles of my scalp were tingling. Aidan had contacted me. All I had to do was listen hard enough to hear what he had to say. Thank you, sweetheart, oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. The voice sounded more high-pitched than Aidan’s; I’d been told that this could happen and that I should slow the tape down in order to hear better. However, that made it harder to pick out anything meaningful, so I put it back to normal speed, every one of my muscles tensed, desperate to hear something that made sense. I was still only getting a sound or a word here and there, when out of nowhere I caught an entire sentence. There was no doubt as to what it was. I heard each word with crystal clarity.
It was, “Ab-so-lut-lee soooaaak-ing WET!”
It was Ornesto. Upstairs. Singing “It’s Raining Men.”
As soon as I knew what it was, all the other muzzy indistinct sounds instantly fell into place.
“Hall-ell-ooooooooooooooh-ya! It’s raining men! La la la la la LA.”
For a moment I felt nothing. Nothing at all. I’d never been in such a situation before and there was no precedent.
I sat in the dark room for I couldn’t tell you how long, then I went through to the living room and automatically switched on the telly.
64
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Neris Hemming
I contacted you on July 6 so that I could speak to my husband, Aidan, who died. You confirmed that I would have an appointment with Neris Hemming in ten to twelve weeks. It has been over five weeks and I was wondering if it would be possible to have my appointment moved to an earlier date? Or even if you could tell me what date it’ll be on, it would probably make things a little easier to bear.
Thank you in advance for your help,
Anna Walsh
Impulsively I dashed off a P.S.
I am sorry to badger you, I know Neris is very very busy but I’m in agony here.
A day later I received this reply.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Neris Hemming
It is not possible to move your appointment to an earlier date. At the moment it is not possible to confirm your appointment date. You will be contacted approximately two weeks before the date. Thank you for your interest in Neris Hemming.
Mute with frustration, I stared at the screen. I wanted to scream but it wouldn’t do any good.
Let’s do something on Saturday night,” Jacqui suggested.
“What? No two-personed poker matches lined up?”
“Stop.” She giggled.
“You just giggled.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Jacqui, you did.”
She thought about it. “Shit. Anyway, let’s do something on Saturday night.”
“Can’t. I’m doing Super Saturday in the Hamptons.”
“Oh! You lucky, lucky bitch.”
That’s what everyone said when they heard I was going.
“The dirt-cheap designer clothes!” Jacqui said. “The freebies! The parties afterward!”
But I was working at it. Working. And it was very different when you were working.
65
In the Friday-afternoon haze, Teenie and I sat on the Long Island Expressway in bumper-to-bumper traffic. The car was crammed with boxes and boxes of product—in the trunk, on the floor, on our laps. We had to bring it all ourselves because if we trusted it to couriers there was a very real chance that it wouldn’t arrive on time. (Or if we sent it the day before, there was a very real chance it would get nicked.) But we weren’t complaining: at least we hadn’t been made to go on the jitney like last year.
