On Wings Of The Morning by Marie Bostwick

Author:Marie Bostwick
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Kensington Publishing Corp.
Published: 2011-09-13T22:00:00+00:00

The telephone rang and rang. Pick up! I commanded silently.

There was a woman outside the phone booth, impatiently waiting her turn. She was a big, matronly lady. She wore scuffed tie-up shoes and a shapeless gray overcoat that seemed strangely at odds with her headgear, a black felt confection that dripped with clusters of cherries and red ribbon. I stood facing the telephone so I could pretend I didn’t see the woman, who tapped her foot impatiently as she waited, making the clusters of cherries bounce with every tap.

“I’m sorry, miss,” the operator said in a bored voice, “no one is answering. You can try again later.”

“Please, Operator! Just let it ring a few more times. It’s an emergency !”

The operator started to protest just as the receiver clicked and a tired, somewhat confused voice on the other end said, “Hello?”

“Long distance calling,” the operator twanged. “I have a collect call for Miss Cordelia Carter Boudreaux from Mrs. Georgia Welles. Will you accept the charges?”

“Yes,” Delia said, and even as the operator informed us that we could go ahead, Delia interrupted her with a worried, “Georgia? Is that you? Is everything all right? Where are you?”

“I’m in a phone booth.” I answered. “Everything is fine. I just ... I just wanted to call you. I wanted to hear your voice.”

Not unkindly, Delia said, “Georgia, it’s two in the morning here. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m sorry, Delia. I was out walking, and I just wanted to talk to you. I didn’t think about what time it was in Chicago,” I apologized. Then, without quite understanding why, I started to cry. “I’m sorry, Delia. I’m sorry I woke you. I just ...” but I couldn’t finish the sentence. The tears caught in my throat and mind and washed away everything I’d thought I wanted to say.

“Georgia!” Delia said, the alarm in her voice trumping the usual studied calm of her drawl. “Georgia? What’s the matter? What is it?”

I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t do anything but sob. My head dropped and rested against the wall of the phone booth, the rough grain of the wood scratching the skin of my forehead. My knees were weak, it was all I could do to keep them under me. Delia’s voice, insistent and anxious, radiated worry through the phone line, repeating the question, pleading for an answer. “What is it, Georgia? Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Delia!” I sobbed desperately, incoherently. “Delia! Mama! I ... I want.” But that was as far as I could go. That was all I knew.

Outside, the woman who had been waiting for the phone booth, started tapping on the glass panels of the door, asking if I was all right in there. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t do anything but cry.

“I want! Mama, I want!” I said again and again, helpless and despairing, begging her for an explanation, pleading for a word that would define and fill the emptiness that enveloped me. “I want ...”

“Hush, Georgia. Hush,” Delia’s voice, soothing and deep, breathed comfort long-distance.

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