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And Peg’s voice, swiftly, would respond from two thousand miles off. “Tell him it’s Peg! Peg.”
And I would pretend to go away and return.
“He’s not here. Call back in an hour.”
“An hour—” echoed Peg.
And click, buzz, hum, she was gone.
Peg.
I leaped into the booth and yanked the phone off the hook.
“Yes?” I yelled.
But it wasn’t Peg.
Silence.
“Who is this?” I said.
Silence. But someone was there, not two thousand miles away, but very near. And the reception was so clear, I could hear the air move in the nostrils and mouth of the quiet one at the other end.
“Well?” I said.
Silence. And the sound that waiting makes on a telephone line. Whoever it was had his mouth open, close to the receiver. Whisper. Whisper.
Jesus God, I thought, this can’t be a heavy-breather calling me in a phone booth. People don’t call phone booths! No one knows this is my private office.
Silence. Breath. Silence. Breath.
I swear that cool air whispered from the receiver and froze my ear.
“No, thanks,” I said.
And hung up.
I was halfway across the street, jogging with my eyes shut, when I heard the phone ring again.
I stood in the middle of the street, staring back at the phone, afraid to go touch it, afraid of the breathing.
But the longer I stood there in danger of being run down, the more the phone sounded like a funeral phone calling from a burial ground with bad telegram news. I had to go pick up the receiver.
“She’s still alive,” said a voice.
“Peg?” I yelled.
“Take it easy,” said Elmo Crumley.
I fell against the side of the booth, fighting for breath, relieved but angry.
“Did you call a moment ago?” I gasped. “How’d you know this number?”
“Everyone in the whole goddamn town’s heard that phone ring and seen you jumping for it.”
“Who’s alive?”
“The canary lady,. Checked her late last night—”
