Misunderstandings
By Gene Aronowitz
Dinner was terrific until the chimes from Frank’s cell phone intruded. It was his mother and, anticipating another difficult call, he excused himself, went out on the deck, and shut the door. Sara couldn’t hear the muffled conversation. I wonder if that’s Carol, she thought, aware that Frank’s ex-girlfriend was now back in town. Two years earlier, Carol abruptly halted their relationship or, as Sara suspected, postponed it when she moved to San Francisco. When Frank returned to the table, Sara simply smiled, hoping to avoid any disputes that might spoil the exceedingly special weekend she anticipated.
Frank awoke the next morning before Sara and, after grooming, went into her kitchen, ground some espresso beans, and got the coffee maker ready to brew. About twenty minutes later, Sara walked in, rubbing her eyes. “Good morning,” Frank said. “The coffee’s almost ready and I’ll make you some eggs. This is what every morning can be like if we get married.”
Sara smiled, “Yeah! Sure! You know, last night was lovely. Dinner was delicious, and bed was beautiful.”
“I really love you, Sara,” Frank said, rolling his eyes and smirking “especially when you talk in alliteration.”
Sara laughed and said, “Listen, I’m going to make a very special dinner for us tonight. Can you be back by six?”
“Definitely,” he said, already regretting that this was his weekend on.
His day, working at the local newspaper, was routine until 5:15 when the Editor came over to his desk. “The battered body of a well-known woman was found floating under the Williamsburg Bridge on the Brooklyn side. I need you to get on it quickly.”
Frank was waiting to hear about the application he had submitted to become Associate Editor and hoped for at least near perfection on this assignment. He dialed Sara, but the call went into voice mail. “Hi. It’s me,” he said. “I just got put on a big story and I’m definitely going to be late. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
Sara didn’t hear the phone ring. She jumped into the shower after preparing dinner, timing a souffle to be taken out of the oven and eaten at 6:20 after a drink or two. When she got Frank’s message, she scrunched her face, thinking about the souffle, which had to be cooked perfectly. It wouldn’t rise if cooking stopped prematurely and would collapse if cooked too long. She searched her pantry and refrigerator to see if anything could substitute for the souffle but found nothing suitable.
Frank approached a police officer at the scene. “Do you have any suspects?”
“We do,” the officer said. “He’s at the Nine-O now for questioning.” It took Frank seven minutes to drive to the 90th precinct, but the only parking spot he could find was four blocks away. He rushed out of the car and ran to the police station.
Sara hurried to the supermarket to find something for dinner. When she arrived, she dialed Frank but heard only his outgoing message.He must be with Carol, Sara thought. Otherwise, he’d answer the goddammed phone. He can see it’s me. At the prompt, she droned "Got your message. Really disappointed,” then, a little louder, “What time will you be back?”
Inside the police station, Frank asked about the case. The desk sergeant said that the suspect was being interrogated. Frank sat down on a bench and patted each of his jacket and pants pockets, feeling for his phone. Oh shit, he thought and approached the desk sergeant, “When do you think they’ll be out?”
“At least another half hour.”
Frank sprinted to his car, retrieved his phone, and after hearing Sara’s message, tried to call her. But she was back in the supermarket's meat department where there was no phone reception.Goddamnit, never answers her phone, he thought . Really hard to reach. Irritated, he left a cryptic non-response, “I’m still tied up.”
When Sara entered the express lane, she saw she had a voice message, pressed the play button with one hand, while taking the rotisserie turkey and rolls out of her shopping cart. When she heard Frank’s message, she crashed the can of cranberry sauce on the check-out counter conveyor belt. “He’s not on any fucking assignment,” she exclaimed, loud enough for the cashier to hear. “Sorry,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. When her next call to Frank went into voice mail, she left him a message that she immediately regretted: “You need to be at my place by seven. I’m tired of this shit.”
Frank heard the phone ring, but just then, the detective came out of the interrogation room and said to the Desk Sergeant, “We’re gonna book him.”
Frank rushed over, introduced himself, and said, “What’s going on?”
“The man I was questioning killed his wife. We’re pretty sure of it. Got a statement. Need to get him over to Central Booking. Can fill you in if you want to meet us there.”
Frank nodded and, on the way, back to his car, listened to Sara’s last strident message. Who needs this? he thought, shook his head, frowned, and returned the phone to his pocket.
When he’d gotten all the information he needed, Frank returned to his car, typed his rough draft, revised it, and then revised it twice more. Nailed it, he thought, and while transmitting the story to his paper, noticed the time at the bottom of the laptop screen. Oh my god, he thought. It’s almost eight. He dialed Sara. It rang four times and went into voice mail. He dialed her cell phone with the same result. Then dialed again. His tires screeched when he pulled out of his parking spot. When he arrived at her apartment, he ran up the steps and rang the bell. No one came to the door.
