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self-appointed day and hour chez vous; more accurately, since she was to find him seated comfortably in the morning room, having been already ushered in by her blushing Rose— chez moi.
    She had to dial three times and begin again before her finger found the right numbers. The voice that answered wasn’t a boy’s; it was a man’s
    “Yeah?” after a rattle of mucus.
    “I’m—” she murmured. “That is—”
    “Who is this?”—the strong voice bristling with suspicion.
    Who indeed? At the moment the ubiquitous “breather.” Or why not the “obscene caller?”
    “Is Angel there?”
    There were noises: a party, or TV in the background. It was TV: a sports event. She recognized the peculiar rhythm of the announcer’s reporting, a roar from the crowd.
    “He ain’t here. Who is this, anyway?” Are you one of his teachers?”
    Thank God for that!
    “You might say I am,” since he already had. But why leave it there? “Yes.”
    “Was he in school today?” Excited, impetuous. “Then y’saw his black eye, that cut on his head!” Quick, angry now. “He blamed it on me, din’ he! Listen—Miss—what is it now?”
    “Evans.” It came out instantly, thoughtlessly.
    “Evans —right. He tol’ me about you. Yeah. He mentions you a lot. But listen—that kid lies. You gotta know that by now. You his teacher. That Angel ain’t no angel.” Brief laughter, like an exclamation point; then, more slowly, his voice mellowed, slightly intimate: “What happens—he’s in a street fight. Secon’ this month . . .”
    It was time to stop the man, to imply a different reason for her “teacher’s” call, but there seemed no way to do so without knowing and using his name.
    He went on—
    “Them dumb mothers are fightin’ with glass now. They wire a piece on the end of a stick. Beats the shit outta you, don’ it? But hey! He’s back.” Whispering. “I sent him for a six-pack.”
    The man must have put his palm over the phone; then moments later loosened his grip. She heard faintly: “Put down that change. Now get over here and set her straight. You tell her I don’ lay no fuckin’ finger on you—ever. I’m one father loves his goddamn son, loves him, and you know it.”
    The wait seemed minutes long and she pictured the boy half a room away, staring puzzled at the phone in his father’s hand.
    “Who? Who is it?”
    “Your teacher, stupid! Miss Evans.”
    “Miss Evans?”
    Muffled, barely heard: “Yeah! Yeah! What the fuck s’a matter with you? Here! An’ tell her the truth f’a change, like I said.”
    She heard the boy breathing.
    “Hello?”
    “Angel?”—needlessly.
    “Yes?”
    “Listen carefully. Don’t speak for a moment. Your father thinks I’m your teacher, but I’m the . . . the . . .” Where were the words, any at all that would do? “I’m the . . . person” (how awful!) “who put the ad in the newspaper . . . the Voice . . . which you answered . . . with your card. Remember?”
    After a moment: “Oh”—guarded, dead, but then “— Oh!” with faint surprise, perhaps even a hint of pleasure. “Yes.”
    “Good. Very good. Now listen. I’m afraid I’ve created a terribly embarrassing situation.” (Her diction!) “I mean—your father thinks I’m your teacher. Could you—make something up?—explain that I called because. . . well, I’m missing a composition of yours, which you didn’t turn in? I need it in order to grade you?”
    All of which must have sounded extraordinarily silly.
    “Angel—?”
    “Yes?”
    “You could do something like that. I mean—a little suitable lie. After all, you and I . . . this is a private matter. I’m not sure your father would understand.”
    “No.”
    “Then will you call me later? Tomorrow perhaps? I’ll give you the number. Will you remember, or write it down? It’s 555-7274.”
    “Yes.”
    “Mrs. Evans.”
    “Yes.”
    He had a nice voice. “You’ll call?”
    “Yes.”
    Not too unlike Jamie’s; slightly deeper,