It rains overnight. Curtis wakes to see lightning flash against the bathroom door, rolls over to get a better look, and dozes off again right away. He remembers hearing drops against the glass, but in the morning there’s nothing, no sign of moisture at all.
He’s already dialed before he thinks to look at his watch—it’s Friday, nearly noon now in D.C.—but Mawiyah picks up anyway. Curtis! she says, a broad smile in her voice. As-Salaam-Alaikum, Little Brother! I didn’t recognize your number on the Caller-ID. You get a new phone?
I did, Curtis says. I sure did. Say, I just remembered what day it is. I’m surprised to find you home. I figured you’d be on your way to the temple by now.
Well, we’re running a little late this morning. And thank God for that, or we would have missed your call! How are you?
I’m doing all right. I don’t want to hold you up too much, though. I was hoping to catch my dad. He’s around?
Curtis hears a soft tap as Mawiyah sets the receiver down. Her whippoorwill voice grows distant, abstract, as she moves through the house. As he waits, Curtis is struck by a couple of memories in quick succession. First, her photo, hung outside the library at Dunbar: six years ahead of him, still a legendary presence there. Four days a week he passed it on his way to the practice field and another asskicking courtesy of the defensive line. Second, years later: her singing “Let’s Get Lost” in a tiny 18th Street club, eyes closed against the blue light. His father behind her, in shadow, leaning on his bass. Out of prison, not yet cleaned up for good. She was Nora Brawley then; his dad was still Donald Stone. Curtis had come straight from National, on leave from Subic, jetlagged and exhausted, still wearing service-alpha greens. He remembers a beerbottle’s sweat beneath his fingers, and the way everything seemed to be tipping over. Stanley was there somewhere, too. Invisible. His voice a loose thread in the dark.
Curtis hears his father’s heavy footsteps, telegraphed through the floor, the table, the phone. Little Man!
Hey, Pop.
Real smart, calling when you know I can’t talk for too long. Let me call you back on my cell.
No, that’s okay, Pop. I just want to ask a quick favor. I’m trying to get in touch with Stanley.
Curtis feels a bubble of silence open between them. Stanley? his father says. Stanley Glass?
Yeah, Dad. Stanley Glass. I need to get a hold of him. Do you maybe have a telephone number, or—
What in the hell you need to talk to Stanley Glass for, Little Man?
It’s—I’m just trying to help somebody out, Pop. Friend of mine’s looking for him. This is the guy I told you about, the one who’s gonna hook me up with that job at the Point.
At the what? I thought you said you’re gonna be working for—
The Spectacular. I am. It’s the same thing, Dad. Everybody who works there calls it the Point, because—
Well, then what does your friend want with Stanley Glass? And has he ever heard of dialing 4-1-1? Stanley’s right there in the Philly White Pages. You just gotta—
I don’t think Stanley’s in Philly anymore, Dad. Or in AC. I think he’s out here.
Wait wait wait. Out where?
Vegas, Curtis says. I’m calling you from Las Vegas.
His father draws a heavy breath, lets it out. Curtis has made a mistake by bringing him into this. Look, Dad, he says. I know you don’t have time to talk—
I haven’t kept up with Stanley too much, Curtis, his father says. Stanley is a great man and a great friend, one of my oldest friends in the world, but I haven’t talked to him too much since Mawiyah and I got married. I don’t judge him, and I don’t bear him any ill will, but the fact is, Curtis—
I know, Dad.
The fact is—if I may finish—the fact is that Stanley is a professional gambler. And Mawiyah and I are good Muslims now. Or I’m trying to be one, anyway. And the teachings of the Prophet, peace be upon him, very specifically prohibit—
I know all about this, Dad.
I know you know. But you need to understand. Stanley is a gambler all the time. He is a pure gambling machine. To be with Stanley is to gamble with Stanley. And so: I cannot be around Stanley. I love him, he’s my brother, but—
Look, Dad, I’m making you late. This is not that important. I understand what you’re saying, and—
I just need you to hear me out on this, Curtis.
I’m hearing you out, Dad. All right? I’m sorry I bothered you. I gotta go. Tell Mawiyah goodbye for me.
Curtis hangs up. He stares at the new cellphone for a moment, pondering his own apparently limitless capacity for misunderstanding and foolishness. He still hasn’t called his wife.
He makes the big hotel rack to calm himself down, pulling the sheets flat and tight. This provides a kind of cheap satisfaction and solace. Outside, the rinsed-and-dried city buzzes in the morning light, inventing itself for the coming day.
5