fever dreams

She dialed his extension, and after a long pause his voice surfaced, slurred but intelligent. An outgoing message, grainy and pre-recorded god knew how long ago. Instead of voice mail, it warbled like an old tape-run answering machine. An ancient one. "I would like to... tell you the story.... of a rabbit. The hare." Her eyebrows furrowed quizzically. She had expected a curt message of one whose profession is much to busy for fairy tales. "Once upon a time," he began, and paused, the line being overwhelmed by the hiss of silence, dead air. His voice again, the voice that could be his father, or his father's father, perhaps telling a bedtime story. The story of Brer Rabbit? She had just been calling in response to his letter about her medical records. She wonders if she got the wrong line. Yes, maybe this was his father. He is a third generation attorney after all, and every man before him shared his same name. Perhaps she did not listen to all of the options on the menu. But this third generation lawyer is the only one still in practice. She thinks maybe it is his father or grandfather because this man sounds old and learned, his voice gravelly and amused. The voice of a storyteller. He finally continued, "She tells me-- she tells me there is not enough time to--" *beeeeeep* The tone signifying her turn to talk rung loud in her ear.

She leaves her message and puts the phone back in its cradle. She sits and thinks of him wearing one of his expensive suits, shiny and grey and starched. Better looking than any suit she has ever seen on the rack (where do rich men shop for suits anyway?) at any store she has ever been to (do they buy their own suits or does someone do that for them?) She thinks of his trim physique, his confident stride, his odd way of speaking in riddles (what are you up to today? working hard? I am working hard too.) She remembers his offices, the staff courteous but for the most part coolly professional. His expensive cologne, newspaper clippings of his family's forays in government framed in the hallway. The rambling two story Victorian that had been converted into his office on the very edge of downtown. The creak of the staircase when the secretary ascended. The antique cognac decanter, the wingback chairs. Taxidermy. A cobra fighting a mongoose.

Had he too much brandy before recording that message, or was he just intelligent enough to know that no one wants to fight someone who is possibly off their rocker? A fable used as a threat. She suddenly had a whole new respect for him.

But in the afternoon she feels feverish. She has received several hang up phone calls throughout the day. One from a man who starts off "Hello," an introduction not a question. She feels her forehead under her palm, hot, waits for him to go on. She did not recognize the area code. "Hello," he begins again, just as she opens her mouth to speak. "Have you time for a tale of the rabbit?"