The Monk Downstairs: A Novel (Plus) by Tim Farrington

Author:Tim Farrington [Farrington, Tim]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2010-06-16T16:00:00+00:00

The telephone rang on Sunday morning at precisely ten o’clock, startling Rebecca out of a deep sleep. She and Mike had been awake until just after dawn, talking in hushed, intimate tones, exchanging life histories and rapturous confidences like children at camp after lights-out. She knew now that he had in fact played basketball in high school and that if he had had a better outside shot his religious vocation would have had to wait. He had first been kissed in the seventh grade by his best friend’s cousin from Philadelphia. He could play the clarinet. She was the fourth woman he had slept with, and she knew the stories of the previous three disasters, which all sounded mild enough to Rebecca, even the star-crossed affair that had led him into the monastery. They still had not talked much about God, which was a relief in a way, because Rebecca could not imagine talking about God without sounding stupid and crude. But she was afraid that they were avoiding the topic the way you would avoid discussing the wife while having an affair with a married man.

“It’s my mother,” she told Mike as the phone continued to ring. “Like a German train, the Sunday morning 10:01. I’ve finally trained her to not call before ten. She wakes up at six and starts tapping her toes.”

“Let the machine get it,” Mike said languidly.

“I can’t do that. She’ll fret.”

“Let her fret,” he said, and buried his nose in her hair just behind her ear, which seemed like an excellent argument indeed for letting Phoebe fret.

The phone rang for the fourth time, and the answering machine kicked in. They could hear Rebecca’s recorded voice in the kitchen, too far away to make out individual words but sounding excruciatingly chipper. Peppy, even, Rebecca thought. How had her machine greeting ended up sounding like a high school cheerleader’s? She vowed to change it at the first opportunity to something with a more existential tone.

The hideous beep sounded, and Phoebe’s voice came on, droll and indulgent.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to talk to her,” Rebecca told Mike. “She’ll imagine the worst otherwise. She’s perfectly capable of hopping into her car and driving over here to administer CPR.”

“I was hoping to do that myself,” Mike murmured, continuing with his attentions to her neck.

She smacked him affectionately. They were already getting silly with each other. It was wonderful. “I just wonder how I’m going to tell my mother I’m sleeping with a guy who works at McDonald’s.”

Phoebe was still chattering blithely away. Even from the other side of the house, it was clear that she was speculating on all the things that might be keeping Rebecca from the phone. Rebecca picked up before the theories got embarrassing.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Were you in the shower?” Phoebe asked, without missing a beat.

“Nope,” Rebecca said, amused at how smug she sounded.

Phoebe picked up on the note instantly. “My goodness, Rebecca, you’re in bed with a man.”

Rebecca smiled at Mike, who smiled back.

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