"Oh. It's you."

I can spot the distinct hint of gravel and old respiratory system in her as the door opens to a gap, larger than the window of an underground trench.

"Can I come on?"

Her eyes drizzle around the top of the kitchen towel that is covering the chicken salsa like illegal immigrants.

"Yeah, sure. But lose the shoes. I just cleaned the floor and I don't want any mucky boot prints on 'em."

The door seals in the smell of bleached towels, a bucket of cleaning detergents drown in the hallway of Mrs. Bonneville as I follow the slit of her fat, fluorescent grown onto the living room.

The sofa sits at the side in its half tilted manner, a sign that someone like her, has groaned in her 60 year old bones to move its heavy body.

"Do . . you . . would you want me to heat it up for you?"

"Nah, just set it down on the table, Gotfrey."

Her hoarse voice disappears into the arch of the settee where the accompany of a young girl's laughter fizzes out of the curve.

For a moment, I can feel myself being pumped with jealousy that someone like Mrs. Bonneville, who should be counting her last days on earth, has a visitor. Someone empathetic enough to peer into her boring, cathartic life of folding her ugly laundry, sitting on the porch with her eyes scanning all the same flowers and watching endless game shows on high volumes.

And someone like me, who's young, attractive, caring and observant of the people around him, stomped out of the Hindenburg whilst everyone jammed into the Lexus and towards Palladium.

I feel the increase in being miserable but it vanishes when the living room opens up.

The furniture are the guests or either her grandchildren are invisible or imaginary as the multicolored pixel of TVC 1 broadcasts an interview of a 19 year old girl.

"And, that's the news for tonight's 10 o'clock. Have a spooky Halloween and a safe night."

The 6 beat jazz of the news's end is the anthem for loners and losers.

"Where did Julia go? Out of town?"

"Yes, for a few days. "

"Where?"

"To—to one of her old friends house. Past Summertown."

"Oh. It's not like her. So, you alone in the house or what?"

In Geography class, Differentiation is Mr. Fransisco's favorite topic which includes the random pick of two countries. The answers lie in the students and it is their duty to explain which country is best and why.

I put myself and Mrs. Bonneville in the contrast chart, mapping out our differences.

Pros and cons.

Despite of my mother's disapproval of 'Old homes' and 'Retirement Houses', which are nothing more than a club or a hotel of old people, former fathers and mothers whose children are either too self-centered or too ambitious to take care of their parents.

In the subject of accommodation, Mrs. Bonneville wins because she lives in a duplex house of her own; surrounded by her familiar banister, furniture, crooked nails of screeching doors.

By 60, her standard dream would include misery but seeing her, she manages to enjoy herself in her own company of insulting the weekly social worker, shouting orders at Mum whilst Julia struggles to pull the weed from the back garden and the occasional Bridge playing members of an ancient community.

By 18, my destination is staged with reliable friends, better statistics in baseball, healthy parental relationship, adolescent romantic endeavors, an ambition that will help me get out of bed, celebrating life through the kaleidoscope of joy, supple body and hormonal frenzy.

Out of all the boxes, only the better statistics in baseball is crossed off.

"Good thing, you kept the lights on yer house. It's burglar's paradise in this season, I tell ya!"

"Hmm . . . yeah."

"Is Jack still out of town? . . Or wherever the places he goes?"

"Jack?" My mind's still busy in post result depression, imagining the coming years of my life where the age digit will conquer past the 'Teens' and onto the double numbers of 20s which sound and look like responsibility.

"Jack. Your father."

"Oh, you mean, Jerry?"

"Yeah, Jerry, is that his name?"

"Yeah, he's—he's in the living room."

The last picture of Dad sits in my head, which is the image of 9 minutes ago. The TV in our house is switched on but Dad is using it for the background noise as he stabs the beef stew with fork whilst impatiently waiting for the 'Halloween Special' to come on.

I settle the glass tray onto the dining table which is cleaner than my desk and dressed with a lively color of musty green. The Chicken Salsa is accompanied by a desert platter; chocolate cakes, carrot wedges, candy apples and some pellet sized sweets are sitting in and getting no attention.

"Louis brought 'em down, yesterday. Said it was the Confectionary's present for me. Huh!"

Her upper lip churns to establish how stupid the kind gesture of this unknown Louis was.

"Guy doesn't even know that if I eat anything this sugary, my diabetes will explode."

To her, diabetes is a time bomb in her stomach.

I don't criticize her lack of medical knowledge.

"I'm gonna bin 'em by midnight. Have one if you fancy."

Her strands of pepper white hair peer through the kitchen window, to our porch. The back of her nape reminds me of sheep's wool.

The thought of a certain Noah Garner Newell and no available grandparent cheers me on towards the pit of self pity.

Mrs. Serena Bonneville is not the hermit kind, unlike Noah Garner Newell. Despite of what lies my mother sells to me when the talk of Noah's wonderful and adventurous youth flashes on Julia's lips, I can still see through the façade of manliness.

The photo Album in my mother's literary den is one of the selective things that she lets other people see or volunteers to display to public. There are pictures of a young Julia, in her 20s which is contrasted in black and white.

The quality of the picture evolves along with time because the green robe staples onto her proud posture, chest puffed and head tilted to one side with an elderly man whose face displays the message that, my mother's graduation is undoubtedly the happiest moment in Noah Garner's life.

Mrs. Bonneville replaced the dining table cloth with a new, presentable one since the sides are not filled with mice sized holes. She saved the chocolates for someone, which she would not eat under any condition for her health.

The air is artificial with scented fresheners, a mix of orange and a familiar whiff of some flower.

This must be all for her grandparents who are not here and probably will not come anytime soon.

The laughter from the living room is humane but the screams are not as a zombie tramples over an open grave, falls into it as a feature of Comic Relief.

Mrs. Bonneville does not care that no one is driving across states, slaving their cars after miles and miles to see her.

She does not even bat an eye at the nonchalantly scary aspect that, she has raised four children with poor directions and morals who cannot value the social need of their mother.

"Is it okay . . . if I . . use the phone?"

Her laugh loses steam as she takes couple second to swivel her head from the armchair.

I think of an excuse that she would use to decline the offer. Maybe she's putting her bets on modern communication, hoping that anyone from her long family tree would accidentally dial her number.

"Yeah, knock yourself out." She waves, throwing an invisible banana skin over her shoulder.

This is a woman who knows when to move on.

***

"Fransisco Doctor Lounge, reception desk."

"Hello, hi, yeah. Is there . . . a Doctor Issac in today?" I feel the cool, clean metal of the receiver on my cheek as the grains of dust seeps through the holes.

"Um . . . which Doctor Issac? A last name, please?" The word are plummy, formal and filled with artificial attention.

"Issac. Issac Benningham. Cardiology?"

"Oh, Issac Benningham. Yes, he's not in tonight. Can I take a message?"

"Um . . no but. Where is he?"

"Sir, he's on Fransisco General's official business trip. I can pass a message through him, if you like."

"Oh . . . yeah . . a message?"

"Your name, please."

"Just, this is Duncan. The message is that, um . . . This is Duncan and Frey--Gotfrey is very ill at this moment. He said he would call sometimes."

"Alright, Duncan called and Godfrey is very ill and Doctor Issac would call sometimes."

"It's urgent!"

"Of course . . and anything else?"

"He said he would keep in touch."

I picture the receptionist woman's disposition, abrupt and astonished for a second from the sudden end to a call. Like someone has shut the door on her face before anything conclusive.

Another loud roar of cough mixed, stumbling laughter barrels down the dining room and onto the curve where the phone's hanging noose.

The 'Halloween Special' of this year, is handicapped by a limited budget, as a familiar faced zombie's arm dislodges with the clean sight to a red blood bag that seeps out a trail of 'make believe' blood and gore.

Just I am about to let the suicidal phone hang from the hook, I feel the lump of Olive oil in the pant pocket of my Battle Ready outfit.

The slip of paper, inked with 7 digits crumples up in my hand while the phone cuddles around my neck.

Mrs. Bonneville does not have any time or attention to hear the 7 beeps of her phone as the pathetic groan of pneumonia driven zombie takes forever to chase down a short dressed heroin.

The battle of regret, consideration, future planning and self pity ends without a result, unlike the Great War.

The speaker snarls with the womanly voice of an anxious Mr. Brady Crover.

"You better have good news for me, Levin!"

I quickly steal an answer from the time we teased Brian for calling the Suicide Hotline. He came to us, being a fellow Seine's Baseball player. Instead of solace, comfort and brotherly support, it was Harvey who started to recreate the reddened face of Brian and moaning how the world was too blue, how Brian was too gay and this life did not have any meaning at all.

Later I thought, of my version of the first line I would say on my imaginary call.

"Hello? Levin? This is you, right?"

My I.Q is suicidal, on a swan dive to zero.

"I'm sorry, hello? Who's this?"

"It's Gotfrey Newell. It's Frey." I pause to reassure myself of my identity. "Newell."

"Oh."

The line loses sound for a second, not even the crispy sound of static, the fizz of loud breaths or background noise seep out from the poked holes in the receiver's skin.

Mrs. Bonneville's hyper smirk sounds like rejection.

"Frey. How did you get this number?"

I have created this scenery in my mind, a screenplay of my own where she asks how and the impressive reply is too good to feel guilty of.

"I got it on the last day when I was filling the form . . . of Mrs. Jordi. You left early and she left the teacher's attendance papers on the clipboard."

For an instant, honesty sounds too explicit and creepy.

"So, . . you nicked it?" There's a slow chuckle and the squish of tongue and teeth.

"Why does the Summertown Editorial number is under your name?" I march, on the offensive.

The element of Surprise is making me cockier than necessary.

"You called that, too?!"

"Mum works in News House. She knows every Editorial's numbers by heart. Far better than my birthday."

Mrs. Bonneville's telephone set is clearer than ours because Ms. Eden's ballad of laughter pokes me to imagine what she could look like now.

"It's—only an internship, Frey."

"Oh."

"It was a train wreck. Hectic. Crazy. Terrible. Uneven."

She's reciting from an emotional thesaurus.

"This is my house's number, by the way."

"Who's Levin?" I ask.

"Oh. Levin? No one. Just . . . some guy."

I heard seniors, graduates of our school, who are equivalent of adults, utter the phrase, "Just some guy." whilst their boyfriends make the complexion of an overly suspicious detective.

"What does he have for you, then?"

"Nothing of any kind. Yet."

"Oh."

I mumble, then understand the mistake of saying a commonplace thing because from now, the conversation will lose momentum and I will not achieve what I intend to.

The start of our talk was like the pop of a champagne bottle, fizzing out in every direction.

I don't know what I intend to say.

My subconscious is a mysterious and vague man.

"So, what's the word?" She takes on the charge, asking.

"I have Stockholm syndrome."

In my mind, I can see her nose squinch in question.

"I miss my mum." The answer's born to make the message clearer.

"Oh. Is she--" She trails off so that the silence can implicate the word 'Dead' or 'Passed away'.

"No! No—she just forgets that she has a child. From time to time." The end of the line drags the suspense in through as I finish with a sigh.

"I must be an unholy offspring."

Loud bustles of laughter from the plastic, telephone wires conquer the buzz and silences the hum of Mrs. Serena Bonneville's accepted lonesome life.

The gulping sound of quickly swallowed bouts of saliva provokes me to imagine her Adam's apple, subtly bobbing up and down in her throat.

Suddenly, I don't mind being an offspring if it has the possibility to make someone laugh.

"Shoulda gotten an abortion, eh?"

"Probably not. Dad's the scientific, technical one. Mum's more into fate and mindfulness. She doesn't approve of abortions."

"So, where is she exactly?"

This is a trick question.

The answer does not involve any Eleanor but the name of another woman, girl or whatever Margaret has become nowadays.

I saw it a couple of days ago. On Tuesday morning, mum was wearing her silk brown dressing grown, which serves the purpose of early morning camouflage since only the hallway lamp is usually on till morning.

It wasn't her unaware feet that bumped into two chairs, creaked throughout the stairs landing that woke me up.

The hallway clock was spreading its hand at 6:03 and alongside my sleepy gaze, saw Julia in bare feet, tip toeing across the dewed front yard to the post box and back.

The Chicago postage was not helping her to hide as the leftover stamps were knocked down to the floor by the whistling wind.

I know, if I go through her drawers, flinging out the papers of the third to last drawer of the desk where the letter size A4 papers sleep, I will see her name, Margaret stitched in black, on white.

Mum could just even lie.

There could not be even an Eleanor, whom she knew.

"That's a mystery, entirely."

"Ooh." The receiver pouts with a chapped smirk. "I do love mysteries!"

"I do too. But I don't now. Especially, this kind."

Ms. Eden still has the taste of juvenile in her mouth. For the last hour or so, I have been testing imaginary conversations in my head of different people and what their reactions would be when I tell them about my worry.

The school councilor would firstly, make the face of understanding and his hand would awkwardly try to provide humane warmth by sitting on my shoulder. Then, he would make the subtle smug face of being superior.

Confiding in Dad will involve a medical angle to the problem. I would ask for the physical aspects that can induce rapid mood swings. In response, he will blurt out the textbook knowledge with ease.

This requires no actual connection of two minds.

"Apart from all the jokes, is she safe? Your mother?"

"No, yeah. . she's safe. She's at her friend's house. With Eleanor. Or that's what she wants me to think."

The brief pause on both ends advices me to check on my surroundings which haven't changed a hair. Except for Mrs. Bonneville who is fighting to keep a straight posture as the adverts on the telly go wild.

"Eleanor? That's a peculiar name for a man."

"It's not a man. Eleanor's no man." I breath out a chuckle.

I know what she implies.

"It's not what you think. My parents are very deeply in love. They watch black and white French films that make your eyes bleed after 20 minutes. They can't speak French . . . they only read the subtitles."

I hear another draft of rapid gulps and delighted simpers.

"Well, I'm sure she's fine, Frey."

"Oh, she's fine. She's alright! I'm not."

I think of the promise I made to myself when, for the first time, I was thinking of Ms. Eden and enlisting her as a potential mentor, guide, counselor. I thought to myself that I wouldn't scare her away by relaying any latent aspects of myself.

The promise is now shattering, like the brain of an undead when it meets the sheer blunt force of a sledgehammer.

The T.V increases the excitement with the help of over used rock guitar solo.

I wait for the rejecting beep of a cut off call.

"I thought you were incapable of saying anything out loud."

"Me too. This have been a night of many discoveries." I deliver this line too fast, out of embarrassment.  

Posture and body language can often act as the subconscious status of someone's mind.

I am standing straight, upright.

This is a poor trial to establish confidence in oneself.

"Anything stands out in particular?"

"Well, a few things—"

The density of the moment catches me off guard when the sound of a wooden door's screech dances around the kitchen.

I don't flinch to peak around to scan the hall because Mrs. Bonneville has no attentive family members.

"Hey, Eden. Eddie?"

Momentarily, I think of the telecommunication services. I try to recall all the phone adverts that I have seen on TV to understand if the ancient landlines are capable of performing a three way call.

The man on the other end of the line decides to become more brusque, but with a handicapped affection as the receiver fizzes with the entrance of his voice.

Mr. Eden fades from my imagination as her inaudible voice flutters across.

"Why don't you come down for a bit? There are more kids outside, Eddie."

"Dad, just leave 'em. Don't answer the door or . . something. They'll eventually get tired and go away."

"But Pumpkin, it's Halloween!"

I occupy myself by depicting the character of Ms. Eden's father if he still calls her Pumpkin.

"I'm sorry to be rude but it's annoying at best."

"You can at least come down for a bit, right? Ed, it's almost 11. You said to leave you alone till 10:30 or 45."

"I know. I'll be down in a minute, Dad."

I imagine Ms. Eden's father, providing a gesture of affection or a frown that expresses his love and concern in one facial disposition.

"Is that Levin on the phone?"

"No. It's . ." 

I wait for her to address me as something which will draw a line of caution.

"Because I don't like that kid. He just doesn't feel right to me."

"I know, Dad. You have said it for the millionth time now."

"Right." His cough sounds like responsibility, honest opinion and fatherly devotion.

"You have thirty more seconds, Ed."

I let the sound of stepping down wooden stairs as the conclusive play of Ms. Eden's father.

"Do you have to go away now?"

Re-entry often sounds too helpless than intended.

"Yeah, not really. He's going to donate candy to the needy, evil trick or treaters. Then he'll notice the mess on the front porch. So, I'm safe for the next 10 minutes."

For the first time, in the night, I perform an honest laughter that is unprecedented.

"Who's Levin, again?" I stall to buy myself some time. So that, a better plan of keeping the conversation alive can convolute in my head.

"An idiot who finds it impossible to keep in touch."

"What have you been up to?" I ask before she can finish. This will give her as an incentive to elongate this strange conversation with no direction.

"Oh, not much but a lot."

"Sounds tiring." 

It is a scientifically proven belief that most people (not only narcissists), find it flattering when the subject of a chat or a talk is centered around their lives and interest.

This provides the Spotlight effect, social importance and making an effort to value oneself.

"Tell me about it. My fingertips are comatose."

"I heard being a pianist can be difficult." Banter is a form of my appreciation.

"The typewriter's still too new. Not yet adjusted."

"Heavy sets or the reasonable values?"

"Reasonable. North America's pride. Beggars can't be choosers, eh?"

"Does it have loose levers that slide from time to time?"

"Wha . . . how do you know that?!"

My 14th Christmas was 2 days away and mum's friends had taken over the dining table with the 'Next Best Idea' hanging over everyone's head like sharpened guillotine. I can recall Dad's face with no difficulty, bulging with patience and self-restrain as a man called Harrison abused his typewriter.

"North Am is the second thing that my mother grieves over in her life. The first is Fashion magazine."

"I can relate. Both are equally irritating."

"Home Invasion?" I'm being intrusive, on purpose. 

"Sorry, privileged information. These lips are sealed." The fifth smile of the night vibrates through the small openings of the receiver.

I realize that I am counting the number of her smiles which are involved.

I am not ashamed by my shallowness.

"Oh." My cheeks fluff out in upset.

"Keep a secret? It's something entirely different."

This must be the primary stage of our bonding.

"Like what?"

"Nice try, Freudian. But no so fast!"

The loud cackle buzzes in through the metal holes. For a split second, I tighten my grip on the receiver, my fingers latch around it as if I hold it strongly enough, the call wouldn't be cut off.

The thick buzz swoons down to a small sound of teeth and something mushy as her voice warps.

"God, I hate coconuts!"

"It's too dusty. I know." Similar interests are the strong footholds of good friendship.

"Nah, not that. It's just not the candy type, I guess. I mean, you know me, Frey. I'm not that segregated type when it comes to desserts but coconuts are just in the wrong league, man." The receiver coughs, spits and then gulps a mixture of liquid and laughter.

"Butterscotch is my kryptonite. They are just so focused. Too sticky. Clingy." I express.

"Speaking of clingy . . . what's with the sudden call?"

Despite of knowing that, a question of this magnitude would surface in a conversation, I have not prepared to navigate with a believable answer.

Down the hall, a zombie gargles something unintelligibly.

"I don't know."

"That's underwhelming." She huffs with a sigh as the microphone fizzles like a Geiger Counter.

"Sorry." I mouth the word into the metal.

My posture is defeated, deranged, discouraging success.

I can see the underside of Mrs. Bonneville's kitchen counter where the marriage of dust, mice poop and runaway garbage have mushed into cat litter texture.

I am sitting on Mrs. Bonneville's kitchen floor where the tiles are cleaner than any place in her house.

"Given its Halloween and your 'Living your life to the fullest' persona, I'd imagine you'd be all over Seinefield."

She pauses to crack a smirk. 

"Vandalizing some poor guy's house so that he can wake up to a messy surprise."

"It was a display window. Of a diner. Scott did all the work. Unintentionally. He has really bad aim."

I etch a roman six on my uniform's lap with my free index finger as she tries to hassle another chocolate in her mouth, alongside a laughter.

"So, everything's fine, then?"

"It's not. I'm just calculating if I should ruin the current fun mood with myself."

"So, what's the result, Frey?"

"I'm not sure. It's too complicated to solve so quickly."

The fact that for the next few seconds, I can hear the inaudible screams and directed orders of the protagonist in the telly to run away from the undead, explains the ordeal of the setting.

"I thought you were disappointed with me in last class, Ms. Eden. Because I wrote a mediocre draft about my grandfather."

"You mean, show and not tell? Not really, no. Everyone is improving. Maybe not rapidly. But inch by inch."

I can see 'Spontaneous Frey Newell' in the reflection of the glass of the cupboard.

I'm too weak to stop him.

"I'm glad you got your car back. The Red van. It looks sturdy."

"Oh . . . yeah. Haha! I returned the Sedan. To my friend."

"I thought driving it in the marsh lands were better for everyone."

"Me too. But he's selling it. He's a miser. Needs the money."

The 'Spontaneous Frey Newell' tilts his head, in an angle that can only showcase the expression of stress and the barrel of avoided problems.

Regret is not far away.

"I'm . . .I'm sorry. I didn't mean to . . . disturb or anything. I shouldn't have called. I just have two numbers memorized in my head and Issac wasn't picking up. So--uh . . . sorry."

I wait for the reply that is riddled with socially acceptable support.

"So, I'm number two on the list? Huh, pity. I thought I had more aspiring effect on my students lives."

Average decency is a motion that Ms. Eden is refusing to follow.

"Well, now you're on the top. Issac's on a business trip."

"Good! And I expect I wouldn't be substituted when he gets back from . . . wherever."

"Definitely not."

The silence butts in over the sound of make believe zombie's howls, the little snicker of Mrs. Bonneville's laughter and the leftover buzz of a brusque voice that can only belong to Ms. Eden's dad on the other side.

"Thank you . . . for this. It doesn't--it doesn't feel like a lot of help but it's enough. For me. . . To say the least."

"Well, I had nothing better to do, anyway. And I could use a break. An intervention, a time out, a hiatus."

The reoccurrence of her emotional thesaurus assures me that I have done no harm, at least on the surface level.

"So, it's alright . . . if I . . .  call again?"

She hums as a pause for answer, like a singer in rehearsal before the answer drops in.

"It'd be great if you don't--um--call from like 7 to 10. I'm usually busy at those times . . . so and I can't get . . you know distracted. Or paused."

"No, of course. Sure. Yeah, whenever you say. I mean, I don't want to be . . a burden or anything. Maybe, I won't call anymore. I'm just asking if I could . . . and--"

"No, yeah. I understand. And call if you have to. I would like that because then I could think of myself as Plato. Like a leader."

"Right."

"Is this your home line?"

"It isn't. It's my neighbors. Mr. Bonneville's. Who's currently watching Halloween Special."

"Halloween Special is on?! What time it is?"

"It's 15 minutes in. You just missed introduction."

"Oh, shit!" Her voice releases comical fear. A key signature of a fan of 'Halloween Special'.

"Adverts are on." I assure her.

"I think it's best to run at this point. Don't want to miss the Werewolf. Fake body hair, a cheap wolf mask and recorded howls are what I live for."

I inspect the sound of her clutching something as a heavy, imageless object hits the floor with a thump.

"Thanks, again." I acknowledge for the last time before the phone line twangs.

"Yeah, bye!"

***

It's easy to understand that my father has never seen a Halloween Special before when the Werewolf wakes up on the side of the forest. Stripped to his bare skin, except for a large underwear that haven't been ripped apart by his inhuman transformation.

Dad whizzed his nose, a body language that is familiar to his doctor friends who will be able to read his emotion with the mere squinch of his nostrils.

I know, he's thinking if the show is appropriate for viewing.

But somewhere in Seinefield, a certain Ms. Eden is becoming happier by the second as the werewolf stomps under the spotlight which illuminates the add on body hair, the strapped wolf mask and the out of sync howl.