Writings and Reflections

Last Call

by Lloyd B. Abrams

Donnie Childs downed his glass of draft, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and belched. When the bartender gave him a look, Donnie said, "Sorry. It slipped out."

"Don't ya know Mulcahy's is a high class establishment?" the bartender said with a laugh.

Donnie was in no mood. If the Mets won, he'd buy a round for the house. But the pathetic Mets had just lost another out on the West Coast, and he was into his bookie for more than five grand. He was hoping to work his way even but he was going downhill fast.

Then there was Lenore. She brushed him off last time he was in the bakery - "Donnie, I don't got no time now. You know how Old Man Houser gets." She had also stopped coming around Mulcahy's. And she wouldn't return his calls.

He flipped open his cell and punched 2 to speed-dial Lenore. Listened as he got her machine. He wanted to throw the phone against the wall, but last time he smashed the screen and had to replace it. At the beep, he'd give it one more try. "Hi, Len? It's me, Donnie. I gotta talk to you. Why doncha ever call me back?"

Donnie paused. Thought for moment. The beer wasn't making it easier. "You know I've tried to do everything for you. Be everything you wanted me to be. But I've had it. I can't take it no more. And you know what? This is the last time I'm gonna call you."

He heard a click. A pick-up. "Donnie? Why are you being so mean?"

"Mean? Waddya mean, mean? I buy you anything you ask. I take you out ..."

"Yeah, I know. But ... do you love me? Do you love me?"

"Sure I do. You know I do."

"You say that. But do you really love me?"

"Of course I love you. How can you ask me such a stupid question?"

"I don't know, Donnie. But it seems that when we're together, you're not really there. Like you're someplace else. Maybe thinking about somebody else."

"Jesus Christ, Lenore. What the hell are you talking about?"

"Donnie ... don't you dare curse at me. Anyway, it's just the way I feel."

"Listen ... I can't do this over the phone. Can I come up now so we can ..."

"No way. It's really late. I gotta get up early and get to work."

"C'mon Lenore. This is, like, really important, you know."

"Oh, all right. Damn it. But just for a while."

"I'll be right over."

Donnie grabbed his change off the bar. Left no tip, as usual. Went into the bathroom. Washed his face. Combed his hair. Scratched the stubble on his cheek. Wished he had shaved. Left the bar. Hit the buzzer at Lenore's in under twenty minutes. Heard her unlocking.

The door swung open. She had on a thin white blouse and pink sweat shorts. Funny. She looks kinda puffy in front, he thought.

"Sorry, Donnie. I didn't have no time to get made up. Just combed my hair and a little lipstick, is all."

"That's all right. You look fine to me. Just the way you are." He smiled wide, then reached out to embrace her. But she slipped away into the kitchen. As he followed he wanted to ask, "Whatsa matter? Not even a hug?"

"Can I make you something? Coffee, maybe?"

"Nah, that's all right. I'm good" he answered between clenched teeth.

Lenore picked magazines and a Daily News off the kitchen table, piled them up aside, sponged off the worn grey formica, and sat down. Donnie sat across from her.

"So what's so important you gotta come up here at two in the morning? What the heck couldn't wait?"

"I dunno, Lenore. I been doin' a lot of thinkin ..." - although this thought had just occurred to him on his way over - "... and ... maybe we oughta get married, or something."

"Married? To you? You don't even work steady. How can we possibly get married?"

"C'mon, Lenore. I'll find a job. A good job. I promise."

"That's not it. You just don't get it."

"Get what?" He was feeling the pounding in his head.

"It's just that ... I, uh, don't know ... I don't know if I love you anymore."

"What the fuck are you saying?"

"How can I keep on loving you if you can't really love me? Despite all the crap you say to me."

Donnie glared at her. Felt himself breathing hard. Stood up, grabbed the chrome table frame and lifted it way up. Wanted to scare her. But the table slipped, jammed against her. She grabbed at her stomach as she fell backwards, slamming her head against the radiator. Her body slid to the floor.

He knelt down next to her. Banged his fists on the floor. Screamed, "Oh no! What the fuck did I do?" Felt for a pulse. Couldn't find one. Tried to revive her, tried to breathe air into her mouth. Put his head on her chest. Couldn't hear nuthin.

Sat on the floor, rocking, mewling. "Oh no. Oh no! ... Oh goddam no!"

Pulled himself up, yanked opened a drawer, then another. Found a knife, a chef's knife with a black plastic handle. Held it in both hands. Stuck the point against his chest. Jabbed it in. Way in, in one thrust. Felt the warm liquid oozing through his fingers. Dropped to the floor beside her.

Watched, fading, as Lenore stirred, turned her head, focused her eyes, fixing on him. Her mouth was agape. In a weak voice, "Donnie? Waddja do?"

His lips quivered. Mumbled something unintelligible.

"You dumb jerk." She reached out to him. "I was gonna say yes."

Rev 3 / December 23, 2009

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September, 2009…Copyright © 2009, Lloyd B. Abrams
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