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"Listen to me, Mista One Hand," the answering machine said. "I'm gonna grind up your prick in a blenda. Then I'm gonna make ya drink it!" That was the end of the charmless call.
Wallingford was packing for Wisconsin when Angie woke up.
"Boy, have I gotta pee!" the girl said.
"There was another call--not your mother. Some guy said he was going to grind up my penis in a blender."
"That would be my brother Vittorio--Vito, for short," Angie said. She left the door to the bathroom open while she peed. "Did he really say 'penis'?" she called from the toilet.
"No, he actually said 'prick,'" Patrick replied.
"Definitely Vito," the makeup girl said. "He's harmless. Vito don't even have a job." How did Vito's unemployment make him harmless? "So what's in Minnesota, anyway?" Angie asked.
"Wisconsin," he corrected her.
"So who's there?"
"A woman I'm going to ask to marry me," Patrick answered. "She'll probably say no."
"Hey, ya gotta real problem, do ya know that?" Angie asked. She pulled him back to the bed. "Come here, ya gotta have more confidence than that. Ya gotta believe she's gonna say yes. Otherwise, why botha?"
"I don't think she loves me."
"Sure she does! Ya just gotta practice," the makeup girl said. "Go on--ya can practice on me. Go on--ask me!"
He tried; after all, he'd been rehearsing. He told her what he wanted to say to Mrs. Clausen.
"Geez ... that's terrible," Angie said. "To begin with, ya can't start out apologizin' all over the place--ya gotta come right out and say, 'I can't live widoutcha!' That kind of thing. Go on--say it!"
"I can't live without you," Wallingford announced unconvincingly.
"Geez ..."
"What's wrong?" Patrick asked.
"Ya gotta say it betta than that!"
The phone rang, the fifth call. It was Mary Shanahan again, presumably calling from the solitude of her apartment on East Fifty-something--Wallingford could almost hear the whoosh of cars passing on the FDR Drive. "I thought we were friends," Mary began. "Is this how you treat a friend? Someone who's having your baby
..." Either her voice broke or her thought trailed away.
"She's gotta point," Angie said to Patrick. "Ya betta say somethin' to her." Wallingford thought of shaking his head, but he was lying with his face on Angie's breasts; he considered it rude to shake his head there.
"You can't still be fucking that girl!" Mary cried.
"If ya don't talk to her, I'm gonna talk to her. Someone's gotta," the compassionate makeup girl said.
"You talk to her, then," Wallingford replied. He buried his face lower, in Angie's belly; he tried to muffle his hearing there, while she picked up the phone.
"This is Angie, Ms. Shanahan," the good-hearted girl began. "Ya shouldn't be upset. It hasn't been all that great here, really. A while ago, I nearly choked to death. I almost died--I'm not kiddin'." Mary hung up. "Was that bad?" Angie asked Wallingford.
"No, that was good. That was just fine. I think you're great," he said truthfully.
"Ya just sayin' that," Angie told him. "Are ya tryin' to get laid again or what?"
So they had sex. What else were they going to do? This time, when Angie fainted again, Wallingford thoughtfully removed her old gum from the face of his clock before setting the alarm.
Angie's mother called once more--at least that was who Patrick assumed the caller was. Without saying a word, the woman wept on and on, almost melodiously, while Wallingford drifted in and out of sleep.
