Free Calling Out by Rae Meadows Page B

twenty-dollar bill.
*
    When I get home, Ralf is sitting on my doorstep in a
flannel shirt and paint-spotted jeans. His wet hair is combed
back and he shivers, holding his hands under his arms.
    â€œWhere’s your coat?”
    â€œI left it in Ford’s truck,” he says. “I was hoping he’d be
here.”
    â€œCome on in,” I say. “I’ll make you some tea.”
    He sticks his head through the door before stepping
inside.
    â€œWhere is everybody?” he asks.
    â€œI was going to ask you the same thing. Ember came
in to work today.”
    Ralf nods and takes a seat at the kitchen table. The
light is bright and sharp and it makes us shy. Through the
window the crepuscular sky deepens to indigo.
    â€œSo how come they’re called Latter-day Saints?” I ask.
    â€œBecause after the apocalypse, we’ll be left to frolic,”
he says.
    â€œPeppermint or Almond Sunset?”
    â€œAlmond Sunset,” he says with a bashful smile.
    I set a steaming mug in front of him and press Play on
my answering machine.
    â€œHi honey. Well now that we got through Thanksgiving, it’s time to think about Christmas. Let us know
when you’re coming home. Your sister has requested roast
beef for Christmas dinner. You know your father and I
don’t care. Whatever you girls want.”
    I press Delete. Ralf smiles.
    â€œHey, are you there? Pick up. I have to ask you something. Hello? Okay. Talk to you later.”
    â€œWho’s that?” Ralf asks.
    â€œMcCallister. He’s in New York.”
    Ralf looks at me with a curious grin and drinks his
tea. He seems to be without guile or pretense, which
strikes me at this moment as being as appealing as fresh
snow.
    â€œYou are a mysterious woman, Jane,” he says finally.
    I laugh. “Hardly,” I say.
    We move into the living room to watch TV—an old
episode of M*A*S*H —and sit side by side on the couch,
close, content, and warmed by the tea.
    â€œHey, feel that?” he asks.
    â€œYeah,” I say and smile.
    â€œWow. I didn’t know you could feel the train from
way out here.”

chapter 7
    Ember has taken the name Shena, fittingly exotic, and she
prepares for her first call out. She has tied her hair in a loose knot—no doubt
for the drama of letting it down later—and looks in my closet for a sweater,
opting for a snug black turtleneck.
    â€œIt’s like I’m getting ready for the Oscars,” she says as
she smudges black eyeliner on her lids. “Sort of.”
    I sit on the bed and watch like an envious little sister.
    â€œI hope you get sent to someone decent,” I say.
    â€œI’m not worried,” she says as she coats her already
dark lashes with mascara.
    In the other room, Ford drinks beer and reads the Deseret News .
    â€œListen to what the Mormon president says,” Ford
calls to us. “‘Our whole objective is to make bad men good
and good men better, to improve people, to give them an
understanding of their godly inheritance and of what they
may become.’ The nerve,” he says.
    â€œWhat do you have against improvement?” I ask,
walking out into the living room.
    â€œI’ll do it by my own rules, thank you.”
    â€œJust because it’s not right for you,” Ember calls back,
“doesn’t make it wrong.”
    â€œGood God,” he says. “Since when did the two of you
convert?”
    When Ember appears in the doorway, Ford winces,
recoiling into his body. She is stunning. The energy
crackles silently between the three of us.
    He turns away and drains his beer. She goes into the
kitchen and cuts lines of cocaine on the kitchen counter.
She snorts two of them and I have one. Ford won’t join us.
    The phone rings as if on cue and a flinch passes across
Ember’s face. She quickly hides it with a smile when she
sees me watching. I asked the phone girls to be easy on
her, but the name of