I picked up the phone. I could tell it was Bev right away. She has a nasal, Judy Holiday kind of voice, though not exactly.
“Hello this is Bev,” She always sounds a little tentative on the phone as if she is unsure that her voice is in the same century and can travel through 21st century technology. “Stan’s OK, but they’re keeping him overnight for tests.” Stan is her husband.
“I tried to call you at work, but you had already gone home,” She continued after I made a little sound that told I had heard what she said. “I talked with Myra. I’m gonna come in tomorrow anyway since I’ll only be ten minutes away from the hospital.”
I had just put down “A Movable Feast” by Hemingway, and through most of the phone call, I was making a journey from 1920’s Paris to a place where Bev’s words made some sense coming through the phone in my living room.
“You do what will be best for you. We would love to have you cooking tomorrow, but don’t worry about us,” were the words that almost automatically formed in a part of my mind that wasn’t in Paris with Hemingway.
“No, it’s best I work.” Bev finished and we said our good-byes.
I went back to Paris, and she went back to worrying about Stan and tomorrow.