My cell phone
rang as I stepped from the taxi.
“Hello.”
“Jack?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Maggie.”
A chubby face below a sixties beehive came
into focus.
“Maggie Thompson?”
The only Maggie I knew was one of my neighbors
back in Omaha.
“Of course, Jack. No need to be formal. Where are you?”
“I’m in New York.”
“New York City?”
“Yes.
I’m here on business.”
“My goodness. I had no idea your business took you to such
exotic places. I’m very impressed.”
Not knowing how to take that comment, I
waited for her to continue. I could
almost smell her flowery perfume.
“How long will you be there?”
“A few days, as usual.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Jack. I was hoping you might drop by this
afternoon.”
Another confusing comment. To my recollection, I had never set foot in
her home, a modest brick ranch at the end of our block guarded by a pair of pink
flamingos.
“When will you get back in town?” she asked
in her husky smoker’s voice.
“I fly back on Tuesday. Should be in Omaha about seven or so.”
“Can you come over Wednesday evening then?”
she asked.
“Sure.
I guess so.”
“Great.
I’ll have dinner ready. Say about
six thirty?”
“That should work,” I said, glancing at my
watch.
I had no idea what prompted such an
invitation but I didn’t want to be rude by asking for an explanation. Perhaps she was just being nice since my wife
and I had split. Then again, that was
six months ago.
“I’ll fix my tuna casserole. I know how much you like it.”
Stumped again. Had I offered a comment at some neighborhood
party in the past? To be honest, I’m not
very fond of tuna.
“That sounds great,” I lied.
“Can I ask you a favor, Jack?”
“Sure, Maggie.”
“Could you dress up like a plumber this time?”
“Did I hear you correctly, Maggie? A
plumber?”
Could this be a dream? I gave myself a mild pinch on the cheek.
“Yeah, you know. A flannel work shirt, overalls, rubber
boots.”
Did she have a psychotic break? Perhaps a brain tumor? Maybe a head injury? I thought she might need to see a doctor.
“I’m not sure I have any overalls or rubber
boots.”
“Could you get some cheap ones then? Like at K-Mart or someplace?”
“I suppose I could try,” I said, checking
the time once again.
“And bring one of those gadgets that
plumbers use. You know, the pole with
that rubber cup on the bottom.”
“A plunger?”
“That’s it.
And remember, like last time, nothing under those overalls!”
“Nothing what?” Now I knew she had lost it.
“Who knows what might happen after dinner
and wine, lover boy!” she giggled.
“Lover boy?
Is this Maggie Thompson on Clark Lane?”
“Yes.
And you’re Jack Wilson on Taylor Hill Road.”
“No, Maggie.
This is Jack Walters.”
“Oh, no.
I’m so sorry, Jack. I must have pushed
the wrong bar on my I-phone. Just forget
I called.”
