June
Two phones for a hundred twenty souls. June pushes through the orange crush of bodies. Hair wild, hands trembling, her thumbnail knawed to the quick.
Someone shouts, “I’m next!” from three bodies back. Someone else disagrees.
A receiver drops, June lunges before anyone else can claim it. She huddles into the wall, presses the plastic receiver to her ear, still warm, tacky with sweat.
A distant dial tone crackles to life. Her fingers press a pattern into the worn keypad.
A woman’s bulk presses in from behind, “Five minutes, bitch.” She lingers, radiates a musky heat.
Static. Click, a voice—female, calm, recorded long ago.
“This is a collect call from a prisoner at the Wayne County Jail. Do you accept the charges?”
“Mother! Pick up! It’s me, June!” June cups the mouthpiece, “Mother!”
The musky woman slaps the wall with the flat of her hand above June’s head.
“This is a collect call from a prisoner at the Wayne County….”
“Mother! Please! It’s June!”
“Hurry it up!” someone shouts.
“This is a collect call from a prisoner…“
“Mother! Please!”
“I’ll accept,” Mother says.
“Mother! Thank God! Why am I here?”
“Why are you always there?” Mother snaps. “How the hell do I know? I know what the police are telling me; that’s what I know.”
“What did they say, Mother?”
“They say you tried to kill him, June. That’s what they told me. They say you stabbed him and stole his motorcycle.”
“Him? Him who, Mother? What’s his name?”
“Jesus, June!” Mother shouts. “Jesus! You said his name was Jesus. You sent me those pictures. ‘Look!’ you said. ‘Doesn’t he look like Jesus?’”
“You have to get me out of here, Mother! Please! These people are crazy!”
“Well,” Mother sighs, “it’s your own fault, June.”
Voices snarl, bodies collide behind her. Rubber soles shriek across the floor.
“What Mother? I can’t hear you.”
June hollows herself against the wall. The receiver cuts into her ear. She plugs her other ear with the heel of her hand.
“Mother! Please!”
The line hums.
“You do it to yourself, June! Every damn time.” Mother bellows.
“You never listen! Never have! Always getting yourself mixed up with those, those people,” she hisses. “Always doing whatever you want. Party, party, party… All fun and games till you need my help.”
“Mother, please! You gotta get me out of here!”
“Mother!”
“Serves you right, June. This is what you get.”
“Mother, no! These people are crazy! I don’t belong here!”
“Well, where do you belong, June? Or maybe I’m speaking to July, all hot, fiery, and festive. Is that who you are today, dear? Channeling your festive, free-spirited self these days?”
“You know I hate that name.” June spits. “Why do you call me that? Why do you tease me? What’s wrong with you?”
A sharp tone cuts the line, “You have one minute remaining,” the voice says.
“Mother, please! I’m sorry! You’re all I have! Please! I need your help! I didn’t do it, whatever they say, I didn’t do it, Mother, you have to believe me! Please!”
Mother holds a long silence.
June’s eyes close, her forehead knocks the wall.
“You have to stop drinking!” Mother erupts. “And stay on your meds, and do whatever the judge says, including therapy, June. No excuses!”
“Yes! Mother anything! Yes! Whatever you say!”
“And you’re going to pay me back! Every dime!” Mother demands. “Attorneys! Hospital bills! Everything, June! Every last dime!”
“Okay! Okay! Yes, I will! I promise! Thank you! I..”
Click.
“I got a new job,” June’s voice bubbles over the line.
“Well, that’s nice, dear.”
“And it pays really well -even better than my last job. Good vacation time, bonuses, even paid leave if I need it….”
“Paid leave!” Mother blurts. “Ha!” she snorts. “Well, we know you’re going to need that.”
June keeps talking; her words sizzling with excitement.
All static to Mother’s ears.
Mother sinks into her tattered old armchair. All the years, the emergencies, always rushing to her daughter’s aid...
All the vacation time wasted, sick days taken, all her savings drained.
“Mother?” June huffs. “You’re not even listening right now, are you, Mother?”
So many failed friendships, and the relatives—all gone silent.
“Mother? I swear to god I knew it. You can’t stand to hear me happy. No. No, you hate it when I’m happy, don’t you?”
It’s so hard to love a child like June.
“You know what? Fine. I’m hanging up, Mother. I’m hanging up, and don’t expect me to call back either. Ever!”
Can anyone blame her?
“Do you hear me, Mother? Are you listening now? You never fucking listen! You’ll never fucking hear from me again, do you understand? Never! Never! Ever! Never! I hate you! I hope you fucking die! Some sorry excuse for a Mother you are. You know that? You’re never there for me. You’ve never cared about me. I fucking hate you! I hate you, Mother! Do you hear me? I fucking hate you!”
Click.
Mother stares forward, sets the phone on the end table beside her, eyes fixed on the carpet where it meets the wall on the other side of the room.
At the baseboard where the television used to sit, sold for bail money, to post bond, something.
She savors the empty silence.
The phone will ring again.
She knows it will.
Always another call. Paramedics, police, a courthouse, a jail. The morgue, maybe, someday, eventually.
Isn’t that how it ends? Someone dies?
Maybe she should be that someone.
Maybe that’s what needs to happen.
Bzzzzt!
Bzzzzt!
Bzzzzt!
“Well, hello, June.”
That was different in a good way. I enjoyed it very much. June doesn't sound like much of a daughter but who am I too judge. I did the same or worse when I was young. I just was only caught one time and we worked that down to a ACOD. Keep writing my friend it's all good