Hanging Time

62

One after another the antique clocks around the apartment chimed the half hour. On the tenth dong another sound joined in to pierce the silence. It was a ringing deep inside the head, like the echo of a bad hangover. Jason rolled over and groaned.

Nine more clocks finished their roll call, but the ringing persisted. Shit. He opened his eyes. The vertical blinds were open enough for him to see that outside, the sky was just beginning to lighten with the dawn. Emma’s alarm clock with the Day-Glo face showed that it was six thirty-two. That made it three thirty-two in California, too early to be a wake-up call from Emma. The loud, unruly sound was the bell of his oldest telephone, the kind that most people had replaced a long time ago with the kind of phone that burbled like a mourning dove. Jason didn’t want to answer it. It was a half hour too early to get his brain in gear, and there wasn’t a soul in the world other than Emma he wanted to talk to.

Shit. He reached for the phone. “Hello.”

“Happy birthday. What is it—thirty-nine or forty?”

Jason groaned again. It was his birthday. “Same as you, Charles.”

“What’s the matter? Did I wake you up?” There was an edge to Charles’s voice.

Jason sat up, rubbing his eyes. “No, I’ve been up celebrating for hours.”

“Good, I wouldn’t want to wake you up. Did you get my message?”

“No, I got in so late last night I didn’t pick up the messages.” He paused. “You didn’t call at six-thirty to say happy birthday. What’s going on?”

“Maybe you should tell me. Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t call me in on this before.” The edge sharpened.

Oh, it was about Milicia. Jason waited for Charles to explode. He did.

“I don’t get it, Jason. Milicia is a friend of ours, a colleague. You met her in our home. The least you could do is keep me informed of a situation like this.” Charles’s voice was tight with anger.

“She came to me professionally, Charles. You know I couldn’t talk to you about that.”

“Milicia called me last night. She was so upset by the way you’ve handled things, she spent half the night with us.” He fell silent, then added, “Brenda told her she could stay over, but Milicia said she couldn’t.”

A heavy accusation hung in the air. Jason didn’t respond.

“Jason, is this true? Are you responsible for having Milicia’s sister arrested for murder?”

“No, she has not been arrested. But she is a very sick woman. And she was brought in for questioning. I was at the police station for hours last night. They wanted a preliminary evaluation of her and didn’t want to send her to Bellevue.”

“I’m just astounded by all this. Milicia is devastated. She’s afraid her sister will go to prison. She blames you for dragging the police into it.”

“Charles, Milicia came to me because she was fearful that Camille was dangerous. Since then two young women have died. Milicia told me she believed Camille was responsible for their murders. What was I supposed to do? I had no choice. Absolutely no choice. Milicia had to go to the police with the information she had. Look, do you have a half hour sometime today? I’ll fill you in.”

“Jesus, Jason, I can’t believe you didn’t call me. Shit. What is this—Wednesday? I have a cancellation at one forty-five. We could talk then.”

“Fine. I’ll meet you halfway. How’s Madison and Seventy-ninth?”

“That’s more than halfway for you, thanks. Ah, Jason, where is she now?”

“Camille? She’s at her home. Oh, and Charles—the suspect is her boyfriend. He had a gun, and apparently there was some kind of shootout.” The words sounded strange in Jason’s mouth. He didn’t know the kind of people who were in shootouts.

“God! Was anybody hurt?” Charles sounded shocked.

“Yes, the suspect and a policeman, as I understand it. I don’t know the nature of their injuries, but Camille has lost her caregiver. She’s going to need a lot of supervision.”

“Should she be hospitalized?”

“We’ll talk about it later.” Emma’s alarm clock started ringing. “I’ve got to get going.”

Jason hung up and stretched. He didn’t like the way the bed looked, only a small slice of it mussed, and the rest still made up, the pillows untouched. Twice a week Marta, the cleaning lady he’d had for a dozen years, made the bed for him. The rest of the time he messed it up and left it that way. He kicked the bedcovers off his naked body and pushed them around with his feet. The sun was now pushing in through the blinds, clearly revealing a thick layer of dust on the slats. His body looked slack and soft to him. He was damp with sweat, and his bladder was full. He got up to urinate for the first time in his fortieth year.