moment later her aunt had appeared, and Terri, half-furious, half-relieved, had cried accusingly, âYou better stand on your tiptoes next time!â
âI wish I could see you right this moment,â she said, now. âWhat are you wearing? Is it hot in California?â
âAbout seventy degrees. Very nice. How is it there?â
âItâs beautiful. Itâs fall. Where are you calling from, Aunt Vivian? Work?â Her aunt clerked in a shoe store.
âNo, darling, Iâm calling from a phone booth.â
âWhy?â
âWhy?â She half laughed. âWhat is this, twenty questions? I donât have a phone in my, ah, apartment. Terri, did I tell you I love you?â
âI love you, too, Aunt Vivian.â She glanced at Shaundra, wondering why her aunt had sounded so funny about the phone booth. Uneasy. Or maybe, embarrassed. Because she didnât have the money to have her own phone?
âTerri, it seems your father is impatient for my visit.â
âWe both are, Aunt Vivian.â
âYes, but thereâs something new, isnât there? A young woman Phil wants me to meetââ
âNancy? How did you know about her?â
âWhen your father called, he mentioned her.â
âDaddy called you?â Terri said, in surprise. Why hadnât he told her?
âThis young woman, Nancyâsheâs a widow, Terri? Sheâs all alone?â
âNo, Aunt Vivian, sheâs divorced, and she has a little boy, Leif.â
âLeif? What an odd name. How do you feel about her? Do you like her?â
âYes, I do. I like her a lot.â
âThatâs good. That part is good.â She fell silent. Terri wondered which part wasnât good. âSo itâs serious?â she said, in a moment. âWell, I thought so when Phil called.â Her voice trailed off, then came back strong again. âWell, weâll talk about everything when Iâm there. Good-by for now, darling.â
âGood-by, Aunt Vivian.â She didnât hang up until she heard the phone click on the other end. Then, just as she put the receiver into the cradle, she thought of something and said, âAunt Vivian? Aunt Vivian?â The connection was broken. She hung up, thinking that her aunt had said she was calling from a booth because she didnât have a phone in her apartment. But then how had Terriâs father known where to phone her? It didnât make sense unless Aunt Vivian had called him first and arranged with him to call her back. But why would they do things in such a complicated way?
Then she thought how, once a year, there was Aunt Vivianâs phone call to say, âIâm coming.â And then she was hereâwherever the here was for Terri and Philâfor a few days. And then she was gone. And then, no word until the next year, the next call, the next visit.
They werenât a letter-writing family. She couldnât remember ever seeing a letter to or from her aunt. But then how did her aunt always know where they were, even though it was always somewhere different from the year before? Did her father write her without Terriâs knowledge? Had he called Vivian more than this one time without telling Terri? Did he, in fact, telephone his sister regularly without telling her? The whole train of thought was really upsetting and uncomfortable for Terri.
Then something else she had almost forgotten flashed into her mind. The year before at Christmas she had told her father she wanted to send her aunt a card. He had said, âSure thing,â but about a week later when she asked for Vivianâs address, he had said, âI thought you wanted me todo it, Terr. I sent her a card the other day.â
Standing there now, staring at the mute phone, Terri remembered exactly how casually her father had said that. And how equally casually she had said, âOh, sure, thatâs okay.â Sheâd put
Learning to Kill: Stories