The Waiting Room by T. M. Wright Page B

you."
    I shook my head. "No, you don't."
    "I do," she said. "Your name's Sam." She stepped closer to the door, put one hand on it and one on the frame, and stuck her face into the opening so only her left eye, part of her nose, and the left side of her lips were visible. She whispered, her voice suddenly very low and coarse, "Let me into your house, Sam—tell me I can come into your house."
    The phone rang.
    She glanced quickly toward the noise, as if she'd been startled.
    I backed away from the door, toward the phone. I called again, "Find the super, he's on one, he'll help you.”
    She was gone.
    I hesitated, took a couple of steps toward the door, and called, "Hello, miss, are you there?"
    The phone continued ringing. I looked at it and snapped, "Hold on, for Christ's sake!" It rang again. "Goddammit!" I went to the door, looked through the opening, saw nothing. "Miss?" I called. Still nothing. The phone rang again. "Blow it out your ass!" I yelled, then went and answered it.
    It was Abner.
    "Listen to me, Sam, please listen to me."
    "No more bullshit, Abner. Let's just let the whole thing rest overnight, okay, then tomorrow I’ll—"
    "It won't rest, Sam. They won't rest, no one rests!"
    "Abner, did you send her here? Was it some kind of dumb joke?"
    "Send who? I didn't send anyone there. Who was there?"
    "That woman from the ferry. Is she part of your scheme, Abner, like the cop, and the woman at the house—"
    "You mean Al? What about her? Was she there?"
    "No, she wasn't here. The woman from the ferry was here—"
    "That redhead, you mean? She was there, at your apartment, Sam?"
    I shook my head in disbelief. "Good Lord," I whispered.
    "Sorry, I didn't hear you, Sam—what'd you say?"
    "I said bull shit, Abner. I said you're full of bull shit! And when you've unloaded it, then we'll talk—"
    "No, Sam, please, trust me—"
    I hung up and took the receiver off the hook.
    ~ * ~
    The cable reception got back to normal a half hour later, and I settled grumblingly down to watch the end of the football game—guilt and bad feelings pushing through me like a fever. The Cowboys won, but that didn't cheer me up at all, because I kept telling myself things like, "Some friend you are, some big brother you are," and, "The guy needs your help, for God's sake," and, "What if he ends up doing something to himself?" and, "You're just afraid of getting involved, admit it."
    I admitted it. In Nam I'd gotten involved a lot more, it turned out, than I should have. For one reason or another, I was one of the lucky ones who didn't spend half their time being homesick, or depressed, or strung out. I'd told myself that if I was fortunate, I'd make it through to the end of my tour of duty, but that along the way I'd have to bide my time, count the days, do what I was told, within reason, and eventually that miserable war would be behind me. But there were plenty of guys who didn't do that, and I was the one they chose to talk to. I was a big-brother figure, I suppose—not only am I big physically, I also look a good ten years older than I really am. They told me what they thought of the war and what they thought of themselves for getting involved in it—and opinions on that score varied widely. They told me about their lives back home, about their girlfriends (and some of them about their boyfriends), about Mom and Dad and little sister. After a while, I got awfully depressed just from the sheer weight of their agony. At last I said No more, and forced myself to climb up out of the pit they'd dragged me into.
    That's the way it seemed with Abner, too, there in his dismal Long Island beach house. He was someone drenched in his own pain, someone who was reaching out to me—big brother Sam—telling me to listen, to lift him up, out of the world of confusion he'd gotten himself into.
    I went to bed feeling like I was being slowly pinned to a wall by a semi.
    ~ * ~
    I woke at just past three-thirty