It was Ian. She felt her heart leaning against her ribs. He was disoriented. Slurring his words. She had to be strong, though, she thought. She couldn’t let him mash up her peace. She made up her mind to be very sharp if she had to.

“Margaret, I going dead. Phil … Phil … him is there with you? You was making love to him when I called, Margaret? Tell me no. Tell me that white pale dog wasn’t fucking me woman. Margaret, Phil hire a man fe kill me. Call de police. Send them quick. Margaret, you sleeping with a murderer.”

“Why are you calling me?”

“Because I want to love you, Margaret. Lawd. Do. Don’t make him kill me.”

“Where are you?” she heard herself asking. Fuck, she thought, why can’t I be cold? Why can’t I just hang up? “Where are you?” she asked again.

“Hell.”

The word bounced hard in her head like a marble. She fought her instinct to help him. But before she knew it she was asking him how she could help.

“Leave Phil,” he replied. “Kill him before him kill me!”

“Don’t talk like that,” she said.

“You won’t kill him?” he asked.

“No,” she snapped, exasperated not just by this mad request but the whole fucking situation.

“Then I will kill him when I come,” he said. His voice had gathered the conviction of a pledge. “And when I kill him, I coming for you, you fucking whore. Is you send de white boy fe kill me. I going cut off you titty-dem and stuff dem up you big pussy hole.”

She slammed down the receiver and screamed. Phil held her and tried to console her. But her pain ran too deep for him to truly understand.

Ian swallowed a mouthful of rum and passed out. He came to about three hours later, then lapsed in and out of consciousness until he fell off the bed and hit his head, which woke him up.

He didn’t know how much time had passed since speaking to Margaret, and could only remember the gist of the phone call. He knew he’d upset her though. What about, he wasn’t sure. He needed her. That was the most important thing. He felt sick. He leaned over and retched and retched but nothing came up but stinking air.

He called her a few hours later, sober but hungover. As the phone rang, he thought of what he would say, but she picked up before his thoughts had cohered.

“Hello,” he said, searching for a suitable entrée, “aah … aaah …”

“Is this Ian?”

“Yes … aah …”

“Haven’t you hurt me enough? Why don’t you just leave me alone? I hate you, you fucking bastard. I hate you for the way you try to manipulate me. I can’t have you in my life anymore. You’ve gone too far this time. Don’t ever speak to me again. Do you hear me? Ever!”

He tried to remember what he’d said before, but he couldn’t. He needed to know to apologize. Having no alternative, he asked her.