There was a row of ten pay phones on the corner of Newbury Street and tonight there were several free, possibly because a good half of the crowd of well-dressed shoppers and diners strolling the street were talking into cell phones. He supposed his life would be easier if he got one of those contraptions, but if he did, he’d have to stop resenting all the people who had one, and that seemed like too high a price to pay for mere convenience.

When Russell picked up the phone after three rings, Desmond’s shoulders dropped with relief. Several nights in the past two weeks, Russell hadn’t been home when he’d called, and Desmond had stood at the phone booth listening to the traffic crawling past, feeling as if he’d lost control of his life.

“Sweetheart,” Desmond said. “It’s so good to hear your voice. I was afraid I’d get the machine again.”

“I don’t understand the phone company,” Russell said. “What is the problem?”

“It’s ridiculous, really.” Desmond supposed that the delay had something to do with Loretta and the setup of the house, and possibly with the fact that he’d forgotten to arrange things before leaving New York; but it was wonderful to hoist up an easy target like the phone company at which Russell could direct some of the hostility and frustration he was obviously feeling toward Desmond. Desmond played up the staggering ineptitude of the people he’d been dealing with and invented a new series of fruitless calls and faxes. “That’s the third fax in two days,” Desmond said. He gave a detailed description of heading to the English Department office at Deerforth and his conversations with the secretary about similar problems she’d had.

There was a loud silence on the other end of the line, and Desmond realized he’d added too many facts and figures to his scenario; you can usually get away with lying as long as you don’t try to make it sound too believable. “Anyway,” he said, “I’m pretty sure it’s getting hooked up tomorrow. How’s business?”

“Too good. I’ve had to work late almost every night this week. I was there until close to midnight on Monday, sorting through a vanful of furniture we bought, sight unseen, from an estate sale out on the far western end of Staten Island. They were supposed to deliver it at noon and didn’t show up until eight o’clock.”

Desmond leaned against the phone booth, impatiently listening to Russell’s tale of inept movers and broken lamp shades and the struggles of trying to fit three sofas into the basement of the store, wondering if the whole story wasn’t another case of too much itemized minutiae. When he finished, Desmond decided to give him a dose of his own doubting silence.

“So . . . anyway,” Russell finally said, “how are classes?”