"Courtesy Call"

Susan J. Kroupa

Copyright © 2010 by Susan J. Kroupa

Smashwords Edition

Published by Laurel Fork Press

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"Courtesy Call"

Susan J. Kroupa

It was hard, Peter thought, not to escape the spirit of the season. He negotiated the icy steps that led to LockTite, Inc., snow stinging his toes and dampening his socks, Not a spirit of joy, as so many thought, but the true spirit of Christmas, apparent to anyone honest enough to admit it: Disappointment.

The lights, unevenly strung around the doorway, and the wreath, tired and misshapen, both looked like leftover decorations that some Christmas die-hard had donated.

No chance that LockTite would spend money to cheer up the workplace. Fine by him. He'd started with LockTite right after Ann had left. The company gave good commissions and that was all the cheer he needed.

Inside, he stamped the snow off his shoes, and then shook out his coat and scarf before hanging them on the rack in the corner of the room.

Carla waved from her desk. "Have a good dinner?" She didn't wait for a response. "Some snow, eh? And just in time for Christmas."

"Yeah," he mumbled, sitting down at the terminal next to her. Wet feet and slippery walks certainly added to what he considered the spirit of the season. And then, sneaking into his mind before he could cut it off came the image of Ann, standing bareheaded in the snow, laughing as she lifted her face and blinked away the snowflakes.

His head hurt.

He rubbed his temples and then turned on his terminal, noticing that most of the thirty or so computers in the room were dark. The snow probably kept people away. Or perhaps they'd all taken vacation time for Christmas. Good. Fewer people to bother him.

Carla flashed him a smile, her bright lipstick making her look older under the florescent lights.

Ann rarely wore make-up.

He slid his earphones into place. Time to get to work.

He was surprised to hear a click and then a warm, liquid voice. "Hello? Mr. Mallick?"

Certain that he hadn't pushed the dial key, he checked the monitor. The computer was still booting up.

"Hello," he said, tentatively.

"Mr. Mallick, my name is Jeanette and this is a courtesy call to wish you a Merry Christmas."

"What?" he said. The screen still hadn't changed. "Who?"

"Jeanette, Mr. Mallick." The women had a slight accent--French, perhaps?

"Who are you with?" This came out more loudly than he intended and Carla turned to stare at him. "What do you want?"

"Oh, we don't want anything. This is just a courtesy call from the Christmas Foundation to inform you that we're sending you a one-time gift of the Spirit of the Season. No obligation. Merry Christmas!" And then he heard a click and a dial tone.

Carla now made no pretense that she hadn't been listening.

"Who was that?" She tilted her head and smiled, her eyes wide, as if she were a child.

Peter shrugged. "I don't know. Some woman."

"I thought these phones weren't set up for incoming calls," Carla said.

"They're not. I don't know how that one got through."

"Hmmm. Mysterious." She winked at him, and said in hushed, mock-conspiratorial tones, "What'd she want?"

"She...she wished me a Merry Christmas."

Carla gave a little laugh. "How odd." She paused and then said, "Speaking of which--Christmas, not odd--I'm giving a party tomorrow night. Some people from here and a few other friends. Good food and drink. Would you like to come?"

He hesitated. He didn't really want to go, but he knew she'd be disappointed if he refused.

"You do know we're closed tomorrow," Carla said.

"Yeah, yeah, no one wants to be called on Christmas Eve." His habit of working every holiday was well known. "Sure, sounds fun," he lied. Better than sitting in an empty house enduring Christmas Disappointment. He'd won a LockTite system as a bonus and had had it installed, but there were some things you couldn't protect against no matter how hard you tried. He tried to push the image of Ann out of his mind.

He logged in and brought up the contact list, and then clicked on the name at the top and watched the profile scroll down the screen. Irene Jacobson, aged 82, widow. Recent purchases included a new hot water heater with an extended warranty, new gutters, and clothing in different sizes from a trendy catalog store--probably Christmas presents for grandchildren. A sidebar contained a list of the books and DVDs she'd purchased from online vendors in the last year, and another sidebar estimated assets, in addition to social security, ranging between fifty to seventy-five thousand dollars. Should be an easy sale.

He heard a click and a querulous hello.

"Mrs. Jacobson?" He pumped his voice full of warmth and concern.

The woman gave a faint "yes" in response.

"Merry Christmas, Mrs. Jacobson! My name is Peter and this is a courtesy call from LockTite to thank you for your recent purchase. Are you happy with LockTite, Mrs. Jacobson?"

"Well...I think—"

"I know the peace of mind that comes from having the best security system on the market." Peter's head began to throb in earnest now. "I'd like to tell you about a special one-time offer available only to premium customers like yourself. We're offering a service contract on this system. For 10 years, we'll pay the cost of any needed repairs. In addition, and this is really the great part, we're throwing in a $100,000 liability policy against any legal action that may result from use of the product."

"Well..." Her voice trembled. "I don't know. The man said I had a warranty...he said that LockTite would last a lifetime."

Your lifetime maybe, Peter thought. "And he was absolutely right," he said, rubbing his eyes. "LockTite is a quality product and you do have a one-year warranty. But if, for some reason, say after a few years, the control box went out--they're pretty expensive to replace--if anything happened at all, with this warranty we'd repair or replace absolutely free. And with the liability protection you'd be safe not only from any attempt at breaking and entering but from any resulting legal action as well."

"Legal action?" A note of fear crept into her voice.

Getting closer. Set up the need, then fill it. His eyes burned.

"The salesman didn't say anything about this." the woman's voice quavered now in real distress.

Peter spoke in soothing tones over the hammering inside his skull. "Well, it doesn't happen very often. In fact, we've never had legal action yet against LockTite. After all, it only stuns the thieves to give the police time to get there--it doesn't kill them. Still, in this age of lawyers and lawsuits, it's good to be protected. . .”

He talked until he sold the woman the 10 year warranty and supplemental liability plan. Only $2599. She didn't see the absurdity of a ten-year plan at her age or think to question whether or not she already had liability coverage under her homeowner's insurance.

"Merry Christmas," he said, when he closed the sale.

He dropped the earphones down around his neck and massaged his temples.

Carla turned from her monitor. "I don't know how you do it. I haven't had a sale all evening." She reached across the desk, a piece of paper in her hand. "Here's my address.” When he gave her a blank look, she added, "For the party." As he took it, her fingers brushed his hand and her smile held more than a hint of invitation.

Or maybe he was misreading her, misreading everything as Ann had accused him of doing. "You don't have any idea. You don't have any idea what I'm feeling," she'd said before she left. "You build such high walls to keep people out that you can't see over them any more."

"Thanks," he murmured to Carla. He opened his desk drawer and took a couple of aspirin. He had a bottle of stronger stuff at home but he wasn’t supposed to take those more than two or three times a week, never mind that the headaches came every day, never mind that even the prescription stuff hardly worked anymore. He shoved his earphones back into place, punched the dial key, and tried to concentrate on what was on the screen.

Mr. Lester K. Clemens, widower, age 78, no record of recent purchases--probably one of only three people left in America who didn't shop online. Assets estimated to be between twenty to thirty thousand. He sold Lester the 5 year plan.

And then he heard a click and the woman's voice was on the line again. Jeanette.

"Nice work, Mr. Mallick," she said without preamble.

For a moment he couldn't speak. "They can afford it," he said more defensively than he would have liked. Carla glanced up from her screen.

"The question is, can you? Anyway, this is just a courtesy call to wish you--"

"How do you get through? These lines don't take incoming calls."

"Desire is a direct line," she said. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Mallick." And she hung up.

"We'll have to speak to Mr. Lopez about the phone lines." Carla said, when Peter told her about the second call. She pulled a compact from her purse and primped for a moment, then snapped it shut.

"I can't say that shift was worth much. I couldn't even get through half a sentence before they'd slammed down the phone." She smiled at him and said, "You'll have to teach me some of your techniques." Her smile turned suggestive. "About your sales, of course," she added with mock innocence as she bundled into her coat and gloves.

She waved at him from the door. "Don't forget. Seven tomorrow.”

Techniques? Set up the need and then fill it with your product. And the corollary was Everyone Gets Rejected. The trick was to plan on it and then you weren't disappointed. The trick was to keep yourself separated--it wasn't really you they were rejecting but the shell, the front man for your soul.

"You should go for a career in the CIA," his mother used to tell him. "Or a professional poker player. Your face never gives you away." He'd always thought his mother should have been proud of his maturity, proud when he, only eight years old, hadn't shed a single tear when she'd told him his father had gone and wouldn't be returning. Instead, she had seemed hurt, bewildered by his calm, though she'd done enough crying for the both of them.

And, in fact, his "techniques” had served him well. He could be as warm and cheery on the phone as the customer needed and it didn't cost him anything because the warmth was only voice deep. He had the highest sales at LockTite.

Click. "Hello, Mr. Mallick."

It was her again.

"What do you want?"

"I was just wondering if it's really served you that well."

He felt his stomach drop and his heart begin to race. How had she--? "Wha..what are you talking about?"

"Your famous techniques based on your famous maxims. Plan on Rejection. Life Disappoints. Seems to me they lost you the biggest sale of your life."

Peter didn't ask what she meant because he knew. He saw the scene all over again, Ann telling him she was leaving while he listened stone-faced, forbidding the tears that begged to form behind his eyes. He'd cleared his throat so he could speak, his mouth dry as ash and had said, "Fine."

"Fine? That's all you can say?" Tears had run down her face--she couldn't hide her emotions--it was one of the things he’d always loved, that she was so transparent, her face a window to her heart while his own wore a protective shield of lead.

"That wasn't a sale," he said in a small voice.

"You set up the need but you didn't fill it," she said softly.

"Why do you keep calling me?"

"This is just a courtesy call, Mr. Mallick. To wish you a Merry Christmas."

Click. Dial tone. Peter stared at the screen for a long time before he punched the key and had the computer start dialing again. And then, too soon, Mr. Lopez, the small, energetic man who managed this telemarketing branch of LockTite, rang the buzzer. Closing time. Peter bundled up in coat, scarf, and gloves and trudged out to the parking lot along with Mr. Lopez and the few others who had worked until closing.

"Look at this! " Mr. Lopez gazed upward until his face was freckled with snowflakes. "Really gives you the Christmas spirit."

"Yeah," Peter said glumly. Scraping "Christmas spirit" from his windshield did nothing to improve his mood.

When he got home, the phone was ringing. He heard it from the garage. Who could be calling? Ann? The thought sent him racing inside.

He grabbed the receiver. "Hello," he said, his heart pounding.

"Hello, Mr. Mallick."

Peter choked back the disappointment. "Don't you ever give up? This is harassment. There are rules governing telemarketers you know." He realized suddenly he was shouting.

"Rules?" Jeanette sounded genuinely interested. She spoke in a quiet voice. "What kind of rules?"

Peter took a deep breath and calmed his voice. "Restrictions as to when you may call." He glanced at his watch. "It's nine fifteen here. You're not allowed to call after nine. Or before eight a.m.

"Oh." She sounded disappointed. "I thought the rules might be more… significant. Do unto others… that sort of --"

He interrupted. "And if I request that you take me off your list of contacts, then you have to do it. I'm requesting you take me off your list. Quit calling me, do you understand?" He found himself shouting again.

Jeanette was silent for a moment and then she sighed. "Another wise decision from the man whose motto is Life Disappoints? Of course we'll honor your request. Merry Christmas, Mr. Mallick." And she hung up.

Good, Peter thought. But he sat in the dark, wondering about her calls, which led, inevitably, to thinking about the one call he wished he would get, the one call he couldn't make. Ann had left just after Christmas the year before. A whole year, and he still hoped every call was hers, still searched for her face everywhere he went. He picked up the receiver several times and dialed her number, but then hung up before it began to ring. What could he possibly say now, a year later?

He began to shiver. In his rush to answer the phone, he'd left both the inside and outside garage doors open. He got up and hit the switch and watched the wide door descend slowly to shut out the snow still quickly falling, sparkling in the reflected colors of the neighbors' Christmas lights.

Ann had left just after Christmas, and, when he was a child, his father had left just before. What else could he expect from the Season of Disappointment?

The thought of sitting in the empty house depressed him, but where could he go? He only had contacts, not friends.

He wished Carla's party were tonight. He remembered how her hand had brushed his when she'd handed him the invitation. Maybe he could call her. See if she'd like to go out for a drink or something. What he needed was to forget Ann and move on.

He dug the card out of his pocket, but before he could dial the number the phone rang.

He yanked the phone off the receiver. "I told you—" he shouted, but then stopped when he heard a voice, trembling and breathless.

A woman's voice whispered, "Help. I've fallen and I can't get up. Please send someone."

"What?" Peter said. The voice sounded familiar.

"I can't get up. Send an ambulance to--"

"Wait," Peter said. "Who were you trying to call?"

"Nine...one...one." She said each word slowly, as if each might be her last. "Send...an...ambu—" her voice broke and Peter started to tell her she hadn't reached 911 but he heard her take a gasping, wheezing breath and realized she might not be able to make another call.

"What's your address?" he asked instead. He'd make the call for her.

Her whisper was so faint that Peter held his breath in order to hear it. "Mrs. Jacobson," she said in the same, oddly staccato manner. "3511 South Briarwood Avenue."

He recognized the street and the location. Only a few blocks from his house.

"We'll send an ambulance. Don't worry, Mrs. Jacobsen. Stay calm. Help will be there soon." He made his voice as reassuring as if he were at work selling LockTite. And then he made the connection: Mrs. Jacobson. The 10-year warranty.

"Hurry," she whispered, and all he heard was her ragged breathing.

He hung up and called 911 and gave the dispatcher her name and address.

How had she dialed his number, which didn't have any nines or ones in it? Not to mention his had seven digits instead of three. That was strange enough, but it unnerved him to have the caller be one of his contacts. He felt responsible, which was ridiculous. He'd just sold her a warranty; he hadn't made her fall. He hadn't made her old.

But he'd promised her protection. "With our combination warranty and liability plan, you'll have no worries whatsoever..."

No worries whatsoever. No one could keep that promise. Only a fool would expect anyone to keep that promise. But what if all those unfulfilled promises acted like some form of psychic acid, eroding his soul? Silly thought.

He wondered how long it would take the ambulance to get to her house. He could make it there in less than two minutes, even with the snow. He pushed the thought away. Absurd. Ridiculous. She was just a contact.

But what if the police couldn't get in? She had a LockTite system, warranty and all. The police could probably disarm it—surely they knew how.

"No worries whatsoever.."

His head throbbed, and he saw a string of broken promises stretching like a fence alongside a highway, defining him, marking the boundaries of his life. And suddenly he couldn't stand it, couldn't stand the thought of even one more.

He grabbed his keys and rushed out to his car. The snow lay deep in his driveway, the tracks from his homecoming barely visible. He gunned the engine and the car hurtled backward through the snow, crashing through the mound deposited by the snow plough and careening sideways. The road was bad but not impassable and he made it to Mrs. Jacobsen's house in just under two minutes.

He stomped through the snow to the front door and tried the handle. Locked, of course, and solid wood. No chance of heroically breaking through it.

"Mrs. Jacobson," he called, "I'm here to help you."

No answer. "Help is on the way," he called again as loudly as possible, hoping she could hear and take some comfort. She had sounded so very weak on the phone. Where was that ambulance?

He slogged to the side entrance to the garage. Also locked, but this door had a window on the top. He searched for something he could use to break the glass. Nothing. Finally, he ran back to his car and snatched the jack from his trunk along with some rags he kept to check the oil. He hurled the jack through the glass, and then wrapped his arm in the rag and gingerly reached through the jagged opening to unlatch the lock.

The door swung open. Silence. No indication that the LockTite system was on, but that didn't mean anything. If he remembered correctly, the system was silent. He talked a good line when he sold the warranties, but he had only a vague idea how the system worked. Now he wished he'd paid more attention.

Cautiously, he stuck a finger into the doorway, ready to feel a shock. Nothing. He pushed his hand in a little farther. Nothing. He stuck his whole arm into the garage. Nothing. The system had to be off.

Relieved, he ran through the door shouting, "Mrs. Jacobson, I'm comi—"

A jolt hit him, slamming him backward onto the ground. By the time he could breathe again and begin to focus his eyes, a policeman stood over him, slapping handcuffs onto his wrists.

*

He spent the night in a jail cell with two drunks and a jittery, anorexic-looking man who talked to himself continually in a low voice. Worse than the thin man's barely audible monologue, though, was the music that leaked around the corner from the guard station. Christmas carols. They must have come from a CD because the same eleven songs (he counted) played over and over again. Every time "Silent Night" came around, Peter thought how blissful it would be if the night actually had even a moment's silence.

It took a lawyer and most of the next day to get things sorted out, mainly because the policeman who had found him unconscious was certain he'd caught a thief and showed no enthusiasm for trying to verify Peter's story. Finally, though, at the lawyer's insistence, the fact was established that Peter had made a 911 call only a few minutes before he had tried to break into Mrs. Jacobson's home. This alone hadn't convinced the policeman who asked Peter repeatedly how he had known she needed help. There was no record of Mrs. Jacobson's call to Peter. His dogged insistence that he'd somehow received her 911 call was met with patent disbelief. Finally, his lawyer found a neighbor who remembered Peter’s shouting outside Mrs. Jacobson's door. That, along with no sign of any wrongdoing other than the broken window, was enough to get Peter released.

The lawyer charged double rates for working on Christmas Eve. Peter thought that a night in jail, a reputation as a thief, and a hefty legal bill was adequate repayment for trying to do a good deed. Surely, the Christmas Season had nothing more to throw at him.

He was wrong. When he inquired about Mrs. Jacobson, he discovered she’d been found dead at the scene. The officer, a balding man with a Santa-like belly sighed as he read from his computer screen. “They might have saved her if they could have gotten in more quickly, but it looks like it took a while to disable the security system."

By the time Peter made it home, it was almost too late to go Carla's party. Too much effort, he thought, as he showered away the jail stench, but after he was dressed, he felt restless.

He couldn't get Mrs. Jacobson out of his mind. No worries whatsoever. Well maybe she had none now, but he wished he'd never called her, never uttered such facile promises. The commission he would receive from the sale felt like blood money.

He called Mr. Lopez, who made it clear he didn't appreciate the intrusion on Christmas Eve, and explained the situation.

"I want to cancel the sale. Give a return credit on her card. I don't want the commission."

Mr. Lopez wasn't enthusiastic about the idea—it was his commission too--until Peter said it would be good public relations. "They could sue, you know. The police couldn't get inside in time."

"That's not our fault," said Mr. Lopez. "They're supposed to have the codes to disarm it." But he finally agreed to cancel the sale first thing when he went back to work.

Peter hung up feeling a little better. For the first time in a week his head didn’t throb. Maybe he'd go to Carla's party after all. He changed clothes and got into his car.

Carla's address turned out to be a condo with well-lit walkways. The party was in full swing when he arrived—the door opened to laughter and voices struggling to be heard over a jazzy arrangement of "Deck the Halls." More carols! He almost turned and fled, but Carla had already seen him.

"Come in! I'm so glad you made it!" Carla's smile was the first warm thing Peter had experienced all day. She hung his coat on a rack by the door "Everyone's here!" she said a little breathlessly. "I think half the condo association decided to come." She leaned into him until her lips nudged his ear and said in a stage whisper, "There are people here I don't even recognize."

Peter stepped back, smiled, and let her talk him into a piece of fudge and a ginger ale. Given how his day had gone, he felt it would be tempting fate to drive home with anything inside him that would show up on a breathalyzer. The fudge was overly sweet, and the room too hot, and Peter almost wished he hadn't come.

And then he looked up and saw her across the room. Ann. She stood in front of a red and gold aluminum Christmas tree, staring at him, an openly inquisitive look on her face.

He found it hard to breathe.

"Excuse me," he said to Carla, who was in the middle of saying something he hadn't heard at all. "I know that woman." With an apologetic smile, he turned and crossed the room to Ann.

"You're here.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

She looked puzzled. "Didn't you expect me to be?"

"Expect you?" As she stared, he stammered, "I mean, I’m delighted you're here. Wonderful surprise." He couldn't seem to stop talking.

"Surprise? But you asked me to come." Ann began to rub her hands together, as she always used to do when she was nervous. "The call..."

"Call?"

"I got a call. From a woman saying that you'd been tied up—actually, locked up was the phrase she used but she had an accent and I assumed she meant busy—"

"Wait a minute," Peter said. "Was her name Jeanette?"

"Yes, Jeanette. From the Christmas Foundation? She said you desperately wanted me to meet you here, and would I forgive you for having her call for you but that you really wanted to...to talk." Her voice trailed away.

She was thinner than when he'd last seen her and she had dark circles under her eyes. He wanted to hug her, to feel her warmth against his chest. Not that he had any right anymore, or any illusions as to how welcome his touch would be.

She flushed. "You didn't ask her to call,” she said, her voice flat.

And Peter realized that she would leave if he didn't find a way to stop her.

" I...I'm glad she called. I wanted to see you. “

"Oh." Ann stood stiffly, rubbing her hands.

“Peter!” Carla headed toward him with two drinks in her hand and a determined look in her eye.

"Can we go outside?” Peter asked Ann quickly. “Where we can talk?"

Ann nodded. They threaded their way through the crowd to the door and fished their coats from the rack. Peter gave Carla what he hoped was a cheery wave, and then led Ann outside into the welcoming silence.

"My car's pretty close." Peter said. Ann followed him without a word.

It had stopped snowing and the sky was bright with stars and reflected light. After only a few steps the cold seeped through his coat and numbed his toes, but it was his mind that seemed frozen. This was his chance, his only chance.

They reached the car and Peter fumbled in his pocket for the key, then stuck it in the lock, his hand trembling but not from the cold.

The key wouldn't turn. He tried it again and again, but it wouldn't budge.

"It must be frozen," he said, now truly in a panic that she would leave. He’d lose her all over again and then he'd be alone, he'd be like poor Mrs. Jacobson locking out the ones who'd come to help. But what could he say to stop her? The words he needed had been shut inside for so long that he'd lost the key. His brain felt iced over. He couldn’t think.

Terrified that she'd leave if he waited even a moment longer, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to him.

To his amazement, his eyes watered, tears spilling down his cheeks and with the tears, at last, he found the words. "Please don't go, Ann," he whispered. “I've missed you so much...And I need you. I've always needed you."

And then the tears came, unstoppable, in huge gasping sobs. He clung to her and cried like a boy who'd lost his father, like a man who'd lost his only love.

Finally, he stopped and took a deep, shuddering breath. Ann's arms still held him like a lifeline. She hadn't pulled away. She was still there. He didn’t move until his tears began to freeze on his cheeks and he started shivering.

"Maybe we could go get a cup of coffee." Ann said softly. "I'm pretty sure I can get my car door open."

She took his hand and together they crunched through the snow to her car.

His cell phone rang. Who could--? But then he knew. He flipped it open with one hand, keeping his other in Ann’s.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He wanted to say more, but found he couldn’t speak.

In a voice warm enough to melt the snow, Jeanette said, “You’re welcome. Merry Christmas, Mr. Mallick.” And she was gone.

Ann raised her eyebrows, curious. Peter squeezed her hand and then pulled her into his arms once again.

Merry Christmas indeed.

[END]

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Table of Contents

Courtesy Call