Till Tomorrow, Then

Whitehall 2743

This number is too old. It shouldn’t work. I dial it anyway.

When it rings, I grip the phone tighter. I didn’t expect it to.

“Front desk.”

I freeze. The sanitarium closed decades ago.

“Hello?” I murmur.

“Well, hello, love. Haven’t heard a new voice in ages.”

That can’t be right. The line carries more noise than usual.

“May I—”

A breath.

“I thought I might. Not you, not— just… someone.”

A small laugh, dry.

“Anyone, really. By now.”

I press my thumb to the end-call button.

“I suppose you’re still there, since the ringing didn’t return.”

He’s still there. Louder now.

“I… I am,” I reply.

“Good, I thought I lost you.”

I thought I had.

“Would have been a shame.”

“What front desk?” I venture before he can say anything else.

“The front desk, dear. Reception. Where else would I be?”

“I mean, like, Whitehall Health Retreat?”

“Well, yes. But that was always a weird name for this place.”

“This must be a joke or something.”

Did I just say that aloud?

“A joke? Miss, you’re the one who called. Remember?”

He has a point.

“But…” I begin.

“I do enjoy a good conversation, love, but if you’re not speaking, I’ve a light bulb to change.”

“Yeah, uh, sorry, I was wondering if I might be able to speak with Mrs. Margaret Witt.”

He laughs, then coughs so hard he nearly chokes.

“Her?”

“That old witch. I’d wager she’s the one howling down the west wing. I’ll tell her tomorrow, when I go there. I doubt she answers. She never did. But she could scare anyone. Even then.”

“You see, I need to talk to her about an old account,” I break in.

He laughs again.

“Dear, you’re giving me the best afternoon I’ve had in a long time. I suppose you don’t mind if I make myself some tea. I’ll be right back.”

A knock sounds on the line.

I hold the phone for a moment, not quite believing he really did go. I put him on speaker and mute my mic. The line goes back to its static hum. Nothing else.

What a character! I think as I go back to the file. I smile. He’s made my day too.

“Hi there,” his voice cuts through my thoughts.

“Welcome back,” I say.

Two more files have joined the stack to my left. I return the next one to the box.

“You there, miss?”

The mic. I unmute it.

“Welcome back, how’s your tea?”

“Oh, there you are!”

I can almost hear the smile in his voice. I find myself smiling too.

“My tea? Well, almost gone. I’m starting to think they’ve forgotten about me already. Supplies usually come the first Tuesday of every month.”

He takes a second before continuing.

“I can’t quite remember when that was,” he adds.

“I see.”

My espresso machine hums as the coffee drips through the spout.

“Do you live there?”

“Yes, love. Otherwise the vandals would tear this place apart. And there are things here best left alone. Not that I mind. I can always go for a walk. It’s just inconvenient.”

“What about you?” he asks.

I freeze for a moment. It’s the first real question he asks me. I’m used to him talking.

“Not much, really.”

I stop there, but he doesn’t fill the blank.

“I review financial files and make some calls. Boring stuff.”

“That’s not what I mean. I might as well talk to you about rats and boilers. Or screws and bulbs. I mean you.”

That catches me off guard.

Why would I talk about me? This is just work. Or maybe it isn’t. I’m the one who started this.

“There’s not much to me these days. Files, calls, takeaways, sleep.”

The silence on the line seems to ask for more.

“All right, then. Let’s make it easier. Do you live there?” he asks.

This is where I should ask for whoever handles Margaret’s account. My words come out mechanically.

“Yes. Yes, I live here. I work from home.”

“Interesting. That makes us two,” he says, sounding oddly pleased.

“I wouldn’t call this a home. Not exactly. But it is my place now, in a way. The staircases, the rooms, the halls. All of it, really. I guess I would miss it if they made me leave.”

His voice trails off into a pause.

“I miss the streets though. I came here dreaming of becoming a famous painter, carrying my sketchbook all over the city,” I say.

I can’t believe I just said that.

“Good! There we are!”

He laughs and claps on the other end of the line. My cheeks grow hot, as if he were sitting right in front of me.

“What’s stopping you?” he asks.

I don’t have to think this one through too much.

“Life, you know. Bills, rent, those little pleasures.”

“Sounds to me like life’s the part you keep leaving till later, dear.”

I frown.

“Hey. That was condescending.”

He sighs.

“Perhaps I earned that.”

“What about you?” I snap.

That sounds a little harsher than I intended.

“Who, me, dear?”

He sighs again.

“I was all I wanted to be already: a husband, a father…”

I let him have that pause.

“I used to work at the ammo factory in Whitechapel. At the office, actually. I used to be a clerk too.”

“I… I mean, what? That factory closed decades ago.”

“Yes, love, it did. I was there, remember? But now, don’t let me feel so old.”

“I—”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

I guess.

“Never mind, dear. Never mind.”

“Can I ask you something?”

He doesn’t give it a pause.

“Of course you can. Out with it. I’ve been short of company so long I fear silence more than questions.”

For a moment I think I might feel the same. Nah.

“Why don’t you go home to your family?” I dare to ask.

Another long sigh. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.

“Ah— they’re not with us anymore.”

I definitely shouldn’t have.

“Sorry. I didn’t—”

“That was a long time ago,” he says, brushing it off.

His voice carries something else.

He takes a deep breath.

“I tell you what,” I say.

He waits.

“You know this café at the corner of Whitehall and Northumberland Avenue? Why don’t we meet there? Tomorrow. Tea at five.”

The silence lasts a second more than feels comfortable.

“I’ll try,” he says softly, almost a whisper.

It’s as if something in him has gone quiet.

I hope it wasn’t my fault. I liked his chatter.

“Right, then. See you tomorrow. I have a feeling I’ll know you when I see you,” I say lightly.

“Till tomorrow, then.”

The knock on the line reminds me of the phones you really had to hang. Then, it goes silent.

****

I nearly talked myself out of going three times this morning. Every time, the room argued back in silence, so I dressed up and picked up my coat.

I checked the number twice before leaving, but the line refused to come alive. The taxi drops me at the café door at ten to five. My little trick to leave myself no chance to back out.

The café is warm — way smaller than I imagined — but I manage to find a table with a view of the door.

I watch every older man entering the café. Most of them don’t realize, some straighten up and smile at me. When they do, I look for a sign, a gesture, something I can take for recognition. Then I look away. Their shoulders drop again and they buy something at the counter. Mostly, baguettes.

My tea arrives at five to five. It’s served in a china pot. Flowers and leaves on the pot and cup bring old times to mind. The spoon plays a high note when it clinks against the saucer.

At five o’clock sharp, my phone buzzes on the table. A message:

“It was a pleasure talking to you, love. Enjoy the tea for me.”

I read it twice.

It’s him. I know.

But then I see it. No sender.

Not “Unknown sender.”

Not “Private number.”

No sender.

I take my sketchbook out of my bag and start drawing him. The way I imagined him, at least.