Chapter Nine: When a Man's in Love

Saturday morning dawned bright and beautiful. All was right with the world. I had successfully flirted with one Calla Wiley and obtained her telephone number without any new craziness cropping up. I stood before the wide windows of my skyscraper apartment, watching the sun come up with a smile.

I wondered if I should call her for breakfast? No, we’d both had late nights. She deserved to sleep in. Maybe I could call at lunchtime? Well, maybe it was too soon. Calling the very next day could come across as desperate. Where was Matt when I needed him? He might not know George Washington from Abraham Lincoln, but he could smell desperation from a mile away.

I decided to call him instead. Besides, I had silently promised revenge last night, and waking him at this early hour was a nice first step.

It rang three times before he picked up.

“Wha?”

“Good morning, Matthew! How are you this wonderful day? I woke up early to see the sunrise, and thought you’d like to share in it!”

“Who the fu… Mr. Rogers? Take your sunrise and shove it up your ass!”

“Matt, it’s Digger. Good morning.”

“What the hell, man, it’s like six-thirty. What are you doing?”

“Payback, my friend. Couldn’t keep your mouth shut last night, could you?” I was gleeful.

“What? That chick? So what? That wasn’t going anywhere anyway.”

“Oh, I beg to differ. I respectfully disagree. I wave my victory in your face: she gave me her number!”

“Whoop-te-doo. I’m in bed with Petra and Daphne right now.”

There’s nothing like news like that from your best friend to dampen your victorious spirit. “Thanks for raining on my parade.”

“Dude, I think it’s cute you thought her number was such a big deal. Seriously, that’s sweet. I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch.”

Matt hung up and I sat down on the edge of my (empty) bed.

“Son of a bitch.”


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I am a creature of habit. I really enjoy routines. Every weekday morning I get coffee at the same place, go to work at the same time, work my butt off until I’m the last to leave. I go to the same bar almost every Friday with the same people. I buy my newspaper at the same corner every day. The only variations in routine are forced on me by random circumstances, like the occasional business trip or an invitation from my parents. Or random people, like Matt, who take pleasure in disrupting organized lives.

So, I did the same thing that Saturday morning that I do every Saturday. I watched cartoons and ate cereal. The only real difference between an adult Saturday and the one I enjoyed as a child was that now, I had a big screen plasma television all to myself. Oh, and I stopped eating Fruit Loops in favour of a healthy oat and bran thing.

I lounged on my couch in just boxers and a t-shirt, enjoying a lazy morning. I would go jogging in the afternoon and do some working out, before catching up on paperwork or planning my week. But Saturday and Sunday mornings were really my only inactive times. I kept myself busy the rest of the week, with work or my routine social engagements.

The telephone rang at about eleven o’clock, reminding me of one of those social obligations.

“Hello, Mother.” I said, checking the caller ID before picking up.

“Good morning, Diggory dear. Are you coming for lunch tomorrow?”

“Yes, Mother. I haven’t forgotten.”

“You work so hard, dear, I don’t see you nearly enough. I don’t fully understand it. Your father owns the company, your future is assured. You could take some time off now and again.”

“Yes, Mother. I know. I like working, it keeps me busy.”

I didn’t know how to explain to her that I resented my cozy, assured future. And I didn’t want my peers to resent me for just assuming it. I had some desire to actually deserve it. It was a conversation my mother and I had repeated many times, with neither one of us getting anywhere.

“Well, I don’t want you working too hard. You need to have some fun, too. I do want grandchildren some day, you know.” I thought to myself, Subtle, Mom.

“Yes, Mother. I will see you tomorrow at the club. Don’t worry about me, Mother. Have a great day.”

I decided to go jogging early, just to get away from the phone. I changed into running shorts and sneakers, and pulled on a hooded sweatshirt. September was almost over, and the air was getting cooler. I headed out, locking up behind me, and rode the elevator down to the lobby.

I jogged lightly down the street for two blocks, until I reached the park around the corner. I would run a few laps, work up a good sweat, and then head back to my apartment to work out. I had my own equipment in one of the spare bedrooms.

The air was crisper than the past few weeks, despite the warm sun. I knew it wouldn’t be long before I’d be running in snow. I loved the outdoors, and refused to run on treadmills. It was the one piece of equipment I refused to purchase. I ran without a cell phone, without a wristwatch. For an hour or so, I was free.

I got back in a good sweat, and ready for my workout. I passed through the kitchen first, grabbing a bottle of designer water from the refrigerator. There was a message on my phone, blinking away. I hit the button as I drank.

“Hi, Mr. Franklin. Um, Diggory. I don’t know what to call you, we’re not quite on a first-name basis, are we? Well, maybe we are.”

My eyes went wide as I stared at the telephone.

“It’s me, Calla. Calla Wiley. I guess you’re not in? I’m sorry I disappeared last night, Bianca’s parents were really proud of her and took us out for drinks… Like you care about that. I’m sorry I’m rambling on your phone. Anyway, I just wanted you to know I didn’t take off on purpose, but I really wanted to see them, it’s been months. I’d like to hear from you. I mean, I hope you found my number on the picture… I left it for you, but I wasn’t sure if you’d find it. I hope you did. I hope you call.”

I reached for the phone.

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Chapter Eight: Girl on a Swing

“I’m not sure I follow.” I looked at Calla Wiley with some confusion.

Calla smiled. “Well, I guess I mean that Mark Twain is a great writer, and can’t quite help reflecting the biases of his age. I’m certainly not going to hold it against him. Your friend seems to think being male constitutes being macho, which is quite out of date.”

“Ohhhh,” I replied knowingly and brilliantly.

“In other words, he’s entertaining but I wouldn’t want to live with him.”

“Got it.” I smiled. “I did live with him, in college, and it’s not pretty.”

“Sometime we’ll have to exchange room-mate horror stories. I could tell you things about Bianca that would turn your hair white!” Calla giggled.

“Does that mean you’ll see me again?” I pounced.

She kind of tilted her eyes to one side and I could see a slight blush on her cheeks.

“Well… Maybe we’ll run into each other and have coffee.”

“Or you’ll call me again?”

“Maybe,” She smiled, shrugging.

“Or, we could try something really radical. Unprecedented, even. You could give your number to me, and then I could call you.”

Calla looked up at me, and her grey eyes drew me in. I could see that she was going to acquiesce. It was there, bright and sparkling in her gaze. She opened her mouth to speak.

“Hey, there you are!” A bouncy blonde appeared at her elbow, her hair plaited with braids and beads. “My parents finally showed up, they want to say hi.”

“Bianca,” Calla said, turning to her friend in a daze, “Have you met Diggory Franklin?”

“The lawyer? He actually came?” Bianca turned to me and shook hands vigorously. “Nice to meet you, dude. Do you mind if I steal Calla?”

I barely blinked, and they were off through the crowd.

“Oh, come on!” I said.


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I weaved through the small groups of art-aficionados, trying to spot either Calla or Bianca. Everyone was clustered around, chatting and sipping wine. I couldn’t sort out which way they had gone. The buzz of conversations made it impossible to just start yelling and hope they’d find me. I tried shouting once, and all I got for my efforts was the stare-down from some wealthy dowager.

“Dude, do you have epilepsy or something?” Matt the Pimp appeared at my elbow, smiling as I waved my arms at people to move out of the way.

“Dude, you have an Ivy League education. Why do you always say ‘dude,’ huh?”

“Someone’s having a bad day. Did you miss your nap? Do you want a cookie?”

“Not now! I’m trying to find Calla.”

“She disappeared again? The girl must have trained with Houdini.”

“Do you actually know who that is, or are you repeating something you’ve heard someone else say?”

“Couldn’t pull it off?”

“No. But then, I know you. In history class you once put ‘Babe-raham Lincoln’ as the answer to a question about the first president.”

“So I spelled it wrong! That teacher couldn’t take a joke.”

“Matt. George Washington.”

“The dude on the dollar? No way. Lincoln is on the penny because he was first. One cent, first. Right?”

I started walking away, shaking my head.

Matt rushed to keep up, talking over the crowd. He was persistent, I’ll give him that.

“Anyway, Digger, I came over to tell you: Daphne is off in twenty minutes, and I’m taking her home. You can come and meet her roomie, Petra, or you can stay here chasing the Elusive Femme. It’s up to you.”

I turned back to him. “Matt, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not interested in Barbie Two. I’m looking for Calla, I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Dude, Petra! Who’s Barbie?” Matt called out to me as I wandered away through the crowd.

I went from room to room. It didn’t help that every room of the gallery had white walls and bright lights, and was filled with posh people looking at pictures. I lost track of which room I had found Calla in, and which way I had seen her go. None of the pictures made good landmarks, so I couldn’t tell if I had been somewhere before if I got turned around wandering through a crowd of people.

Okay, part of that problem might have been four glasses of wine earlier in the evening, but only part of it.

I began to think that Matt the Pimp had been right. Which was a sign of how low my morale was at that point, Matt was rarely a person known for his wisdom. But, maybe I was trying too hard to find a connection with a girl I barely knew, and who had been a major pain in the ass over the last two days. Her behaviour was erratic, and circumstances seemed to conspire to keep us apart.

“Either she’s crazy or I am,” I mumbled to myself.

And then I saw it. Something familiar and comforting in a world of chaos, and it brought hope with it. I found the photo of Calla. The lonely girl on a swing that I felt I had so much in common with.

I pushed through the mass of people, which was finally starting to thin out as the evening waned. I didn’t want someone else to get there first. I stood before the photograph, staring at hope. There was a tiny piece of paper taped to the frame.

I pulled it off carefully and unfolded the little scrap. I found a telephone number and a smiley face written inside.


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