Read Online Wolfman - Art Bourgeau by Art Bourgeau - Free Book Online Page A

his corner
table at Moselle’s. Outside, students from Taft and Penn, bundled
against the chill in the best from Goldberg’s and Eddie Bauer,
bustled up and down the University City section of Walnut Street, but
he did not give them a second glance. He sat staring at the piece of
paper he was holding.
    A waiter appeared, menu in hand, and stood in front
of his table. Loring looked up. “No, I'm waiting for someone,"
he said. As the waiter turned to go Loring stopped him. "On
second thought, would you bring a Bombay martini on the rocks with a
twist?"
    The waiter nodded and for a moment Loring felt
compelled to explain himself. To say it was after two. That he wasn’t
going back to the office. That the stock market had already done all
the damage it could to him for one more day. He looked back at the
paper in his hand. On it was written the name Margaret Priest and two
phone numbers. Her office number and her home, the latter of which he
had gotten from the phone book, although it was listed as "M.
Priest." In one corner of the paper was written the word
"Margaret" three times. It didn't look like his
handwriting, but he knew he must have done it, doodling
absent-mindedly as he sometimes did.
    A busboy filled two water glasses and brought bread.
As Loring watched him he could hear the words she had spoken to him
at the close of their first session . . . My given name is Margaret .
. ." Now she called him by his given name, too. At first she had
been reluctant, but when she saw that it was important to him she
gave in. Good . . .
    He looked around and wondered what he was doing here.
The thought of another business lunch sent his stomach into a spasm
of pain. He breathed deeply and pressed his diaphragm down, willing
the pain to go away. Sometimes that helped. This time it didn't, but
it didn't frighten him either. The pain was only tension, the doctor
said. However, if he didn't do something for it he knew he would not
be able to eat. He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a
small bottle with a medicine dropper. The label read: "Belladonna,
ten drops in water, three times per day." He never traveled
without it. Deadly nightshade, the only thing that would relieve the
pain, and later the only thing that would bring sleep. He reached for
his water and counted the drops of the brownish liquid, barely
stopping at twenty-five.
    Good for what ails you, he thought, as he raised the
glass to his lips, tasting the familiar bitter metallic taste. Almost
instantly he felt his stomach begin to relax, and with it a sense of
peace began to return. A peace he knew would be short-lived, but one
which he was thankfully able to give himself five or six times a day,
sometimes more.
 
He picked up the
paper and looked at it again. To hear her voice would make things
better, and the warmth of the belladonna seemed to ease the way. "Why
not?" he said half-aloud, and pushed back his chair.
    The phone was located in the hallway leading to the
restrooms. Loring picked up the receiver, deposited a coin and
dialed. As he heard the phone begin to ring at the other end, a man
entered the hallway and began to drop coins into the cigarette
machine beside the phone. Loring wanted to hang up. This was one call
he did not want anyone to overhear, but a voice answered before he
could.
    It was her voice. In his annoyance he didn't catch
what she said, but he did hear her soft, sure tone.
    The man beside him seemed to be having trouble with
the cigarette machine. Loring glanced at him out of the corner of his
eye . . .
    He heard her voice again and wanted to say, "Hello,
Margaret, it’s me. I just called to say hello." Of course he
didn't, it would be too stupid. Instead he listened, silent, until
she hung up.
    As he walked back to his table he thought of her . .
. the rustle of her clothes when she walked, her hair over her
shoulders, the blueness of her eyes, yes, and the way she held her
cigarette . . .
    At his table he was startled to find