Ragnarök

Twenty: The Mystic

Before Liza departed, she left in Mason's possession an eighth to smoke at his leisure. She took sympathy on his plight with the widow, thought he needed something to help manage the stress and aggravation.

It's eleven-thirty at night. Before the mercury glow of the television, Mason rolls the first joint from his meager stash, a skill at which he's never exceeded. He sits cross-legged on the couch, a cutting board across his lap to help stabilize the operation. His pillow and blankets are pushed off to the side. Sleeping in his bedroom is not an option for the foreseeable future. If possible, he hopes to avoid setting foot in there ever again. He can't even bring himself to plug in the Christmas tree—that in itself is too pungent with sentimentality—so the house sits completely dark save for the photons beaming from channel eight. The only thing on besides infomercials and religious programming are reruns of Andy Griffith. After a few tokes anything can be entertaining, even Barney Fife, who he hopes bears some intellectual resemblance to Detective Horsley.

He's just taking his first drag when a hum reverberates from the table beside him. He glances over, sees his phone lit up, and more to the point, sees that it's the same unknown number from Oklahoma.

He mutters to himself, "Shit."

This blister will have to be lanced sooner rather than later, before it festers and spreads. Letting the pot work its magic on his nerves, Mason answers the phone without much preparation. He doesn't say a word at first, only listens. He listens to the Oklahoma static, some steady breathing, then the soft chirp of a woman's voice. "Hello? Is this Mason?"

There's a trepidation to the voice, as though not quite sure it's made the right choice in calling. Also (and maybe he is projecting his own pathos here), there's a palpable isolation to it, like this mystery caller is suspended in the black of web of space, casting lifelines every which way. She has his name. She has his number. It won't do to be rude or evasive. He figures his best angle is to play the same role he played for Horsley, that of the distraught, ignorant boyfriend.

"Who's this?"

She tells him her name is Bernadette. She's a long-distance truck driver from Oklahoma City for a company that distributes tractor parts. This is going to sound strange, but she found a cell phone taped to the running board of her eighteen-wheeler. "—I wound up guessing the password after a few tries. Four of the lock screen numbers had big greasy thumbprints on them and I tried every combination. By then the battery was about dead. Just seemed like an odd place for a phone to end up, that's all." She chuckles. Even her laughter reinforces his first impression: isolation, trepidation. He can't help cracking a wistful smile at the reference to greasy thumbprints, how Liza seemed to subsist solely on junk food: Cheetos, Doritos, pancakes.

Bernadette goes on, "So I seen there was lots of missed calls, like twenty or thirty, and half of 'em came from here—from you, I mean. I had just enough time to write your number down before the thing died. I would've charged it back up but my cord ain't compatible."

Mason is bowled over. He imagines if she had called Patty instead. It helps that she is listed as Patty, and not Mom, in Liza's contacts.

Strapping the phone to the Mack, while meant to be a short-term diversion, was expected to buy him more time than this. Who the hell inspects under their running boards? But he's proud of the things he did get right: the face-saving precautions of calling Liza, texting Liza, and leaving her six or seven overwrought voicemails. Yet he can't help but wonder, is that the full story? A mixture of luck and preparation on his part? Is that why this Bernadette character chose to call him over Patty, who must've called and texted at least as many times? Or—theoretically, her being a lonely road-bound trucker and all—did Selby's dick pic factor into the selection?