And I was finally done pretending not to see.
At ten o’clock my phone rang, and it was Marcus, and his voice was the broken one, the one I had never heard before, not even in 1987.
“Mama.”
“I’m here.”
“I looked at the books.”
The silence after that was so long I thought the call had dropped.
“How much?” I asked.
“Enough,” he said, and I heard him crying, quiet, the way men cry when they think no one can hear.
“Come home, baby,” I said.
“Come to my house.”
“I can’t just leave her.”
“You can come here and think.”
“There’s a difference between leaving and getting some air, and right now you need air.”
I heard him breathing on the other end, and then a door closing softly, and his car starting.
I put the kettle on and waited up, because some conversations can’t happen over the phone.
Some need a kitchen table and tea.
