Submerged

“Pussy Willow’s back home,” Mrs. Mortimer said when she called in the second time. “One of my neighbors was kind enough to coax her down from the maple tree. They bribed her with—”

“Thanks for calling back,” Marcus cut in, “but 911 is for emergencies, Mrs. Mortimer.”

“This is an emergency. I didn’t want you to trouble yourself by sending out a fire truck.”

Marcus gritted his teeth. “Thank you, Mrs. Mortimer.”

“You’re welcome, dear. You have a nice day now.”

He couldn’t help but grin.

The third call had been a false alarm. Some kid had pulled the fire alarm at the elementary school. School staff had conducted a thorough check of the school and found nothing. No smoke, no fire. That was one of the good calls.

“Supper time,” Leo said behind him.

“You read my mind.”

Leo and Marcus preferred to take the five-o’clock slot, while the casuals―Carol and Rudy―took the six-o’clock supper break. That way there were always two people on the phones. They alternated the two fifteen-minute breaks the same way. Of course, if there was a major emergency during that time, Leo and Marcus would rush back to the phones.

Marcus followed Leo into the cramped break room with its bare walls and mismatched chairs. He grabbed a plastic container from the bar fridge, popped the lid and placed it in the microwave.

“Got anything good today?” Leo asked, eyeing him hungrily.

“Leftover lasagna.”

“That’s three days in a row, Marcus.”

“I thought Italians were supposed to love pasta.”

Leo scowled. “Not three-day-old lasagna. Besides, I was hoping you made one of your fancy dinners.”

It was no secret that Marcus enjoyed cooking. He spent hours flipping through the cable channels on the prowl for the next great recipe. He watched Gordon Ramsey, Jamie Oliver and a few others, then concocted his own recipes using fresh herbs and lots of vegetables. He’d cook, day or night, depending on his shift. There was something almost magical about cooking up something delicious in the early hours of the morning, when the sun hadn’t even made an appearance yet and his neighbors were all sleeping soundly in their beds.

With the container of hot lasagna in hand, he sat down at the single table in the break room, a warped slab of melamine with deformed metal legs, one of them propped up by a bent piece of cardboard. As Leo sat down in the chair across from him, Marcus rocked his chair back and forth, waiting for the legs to settle into the grooves in the old linoleum.

He took a bite of lasagna. “What about you, Leo? What’s on the menu?”

“KFC.” Leo held up a crispy drumstick.

Marcus laughed. “Again? Haven’t you had that the past three days?”

“It’s KFC.”

Fried chicken was Leo’s weakness. Marcus was concerned that one day all the grease would catch up to Leo and his arteries. The man was already overweight. And exercise wasn’t in Leo’s vocabulary, unless it was picking up the phone to order take-out on the way home.

But Leo did love Marcus’s cooking.

At least someone does, Marcus thought.

“You and Val should come over for dinner Monday. Before work.”

“Maybe. We might be busy that night.”

“What, you got a hot date planned?”

“Naw, man.”

“Why’s your face so red? What’s going on?”

“Val wants to try again.”

“Try what?”

Leo leaned close. “She wants a kid.”

“Ah, and Monday is D-Night.”

“Yeah. De night for love.”

Marcus chuckled. “Then how come you don’t look too happy about it?”

“It’s so… I don’t know… planned. You know. Feels like the damn doctor is standing over us, telling us where to put what and for how long.”

“You mean you haven’t figured that out yet?”

Leo took an angry bite of a drumstick. “Hey, stop laughing. This ain’t funny. Trying to have a kid puts a lot of pressure on a guy.”

“At least you’re getting laid.”

A rumble of laugher came from deep within Leo’s burly chest. “Yeah, there’s that.”

Marcus scraped the last bite of lasagna from the container. “You’re a lucky man, Leo.”

“And don’t I know it.”

Marcus studied his friend. Leo would make a great dad. The kind that would always be there, always be cheering his kid on.

And God forbid anyone dumb enough to bully his kid.

“Why you staring at me like that?”

“I’m trying to imagine you with a teenage son.”

Leo beamed. “A son? That what you think I’ll have?”

“Yeah, a big, burly kid who looks just like you. Talks like you too. We’ll call him Smartass Junior. What do you think?”

“You talkin’ to me?” Leo said in his best De Niro.

Marcus laughed. “Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you.” Unfurling his long legs, he walked over to the sink and washed the empty container.

“You coming to the meeting tonight?” Leo asked, licking greasy fingers.

“I’m not sure.”

“Marcus…”

There was a piece of onion stuck to the bottom of the plastic container, and Marcus spent a minute trying to scrape it off with his fingernail. It kept him from having to see the disapproval he knew was in his friend’s eyes.

Leo grunted. “This’ll be the second week you’ve missed. That’s not good.”