“I can’t believe I survived so damn many obscure math classes.” Katie huffed.
“My personal favorite of yours was ‘The Art of Counting’. The name alone made me laugh all semester.”
“Greatest course ever,” Katie giggled. She was still surfing past channels.
“Wait, go back!” I teased.
“For what?”
“It’s The Bachelor, I love that show!”
“Um, no, I refuse to watch it, unless it’s the Bachelorette, then I’ll watch it. One man with lots of women is just so overdone. But one woman with many, many men? That’s something I’d be proud to accomplish one day. There’s just something about one woman and a whole lot of men that just does it for me, you know?”
“No, I don’t,” I told her. Although... it wasn’t a terrible idea..
Katie continued to click the remote, determined to find something sufficiently mindless to season with mocking as we watched. A brief pause floated between us. “…So ...the summer?” I mused, trying to sound no more awkward than asking about the weather. “Still plan to do some camping?”
“I love camping,” she nodded. “Bonus points if I convince you to come with me.”
“Will there be room service?”
“No, of course not. But there will be double bonus points if we finally get you laid again!”
“Fucked in a sleeping bag? Oh, please,” I groaned.
“I prefer to do my duties in a field of blue grass and dandelions,” she shrugged sarcastically. Though I wouldn’t put anything past her.
“You’ve never heard of Lyme disease?” I asked, half serious.
“Isn’t that the cure for scurvy?” she said with a wink, all sarcasm.
“Whatever. Anyway, it hasn’t been that long. Has it?” I knew damn well it had been... well, too damn long!
“Cupcake... If you have to ask...”
“Whatever, as far as gypsy life goes, I might settle for ‘glamping’,” I teased, “but only if there’s wi-fi somewhere on the campground.”
“Just come,” Katie pleaded, somehow without a twinge of whining in her voice. “We can pan for gold, or Panama Red.”
“I might consider it, if you get the comfiest tent money can buy. I’m talking factory air conditioned, of course.”
Katie waved dismissively. “Live it bold, you wimp! Guys find nothing so fuckable as a gal in cut-offs and a red-checked lumber shirt, tied off like a halter top. Especially a tent slut who hasn’t bathed and smells like wood smoke.”
“Spare me the theatrics,” I giggled. “I’m not a ‘roughing it’ kind of girl. I prefer the high life. Insofar as a college student can live anything like the high life.”
“Speaking of a life spent getting high...” Katie nodded toward the kitchen. “Where’s that wine we saved? Don’t tell me you drank it all yourself?”
“You mean the really expensive gas station wine?" I cracked back at her.
“I prefer the term convenience store.”
I was already halfway to the fridge. “White or red?”
“Which is stronger?”
“Would you prefer screw top? Or boxed?”
“Ah, college graduates. What sophisticated tastes we’ve developed,” Katie said in a muffled tone, then called after me, “Hey? Put some ice cubes in that, will you?”
“Already done! Where did you hide the straws?” I returned from our squalid kitchen with the Carlo Rossi Chianti and two glasses.
The next few hours buzzed by in a flurry of alcohol, giggles, and bawdy jokes. One glass turned into several, which turned into some amount where we lost count completely.
“Some fucking math genius,” was my final word on the subject, before we were both sacked out on the couch.
◆◆◆
Coming out of a drunken reverie and wiping drool off my cheek, I grew dimly aware of a weird noise coming from my left. A noise different from Katie’s snoring. (She didn’t snore all the time, but she was a Goddamn buzzsaw when she got going). No, this noise was odd; old-fashioned, like some kind of cheap metal bell. Then it hit me. “Izzat a phone?” I slurred.
I looked over at my cell, still lying on the coffee table, and not ringing.
Hmmm, must be the old land line, I thought. “Wait... We still have a house phone?” But Katie had no vote, being unconscious and all.
Grumbling and groaning, I stumbled into the kitchen. I grabbed the handset from the pink plastic ‘Princess’ model land line attached to the wall. I noticed it has a spiral cord that could stretch out to around three furlongs, which I don’t remember seeing before. Shit, that was some pit I fitched.
“Hel-lo?” I ventured, as I lifted the ancient handset. My voice seemed to wobble as much as I did. An immediate response came down the line. A thick Irish lilt I didn’t recognize. “Is this Keira Morrigan?” This muddy brogue crackled over the line, sounding distant.
“Yeah? Who’s this?” I snipped back, assuming it was some lame sales pitch which merited a little attitude in my opinion.
“My name is Edward Finn, indeed it is.” Then, his tone grew somber. “I’ve called to inform you, with all due condolences, that your grandmother Edna has gone to dance with the angels.”
“Excuse me?!” I choked out.
“There’s a new face in Heaven, I’m afraid. Passed away, she has.”
My stomach began doing somersaults. This was a stupid joke, or a wrong number, it had to be. “What grandmother?” I demanded.
“Why your own, dear thing,” he insisted. “Edna. Edna Morrigan?”
“This isn’t funny asshole. I have no family. I lost my parents when I was a kid. This better be a wrong number.” I said.
“I understand this must be very difficult to process.” The man sounded like he was trying to exude sympathy, but failing miserably, as it was clear he had more to say.
“So? What’s your pitch, Clancy?” I was furious now, and had every intention of humiliating this prankster as best I could from the safety of my side of the landline.
“Finn. Edward—”
“Sure, sure. What’re you selling? Burial plots?”
“Surely not. We have sorted all of that,” the man responded back, not catching the frustration in my voice.
“Good. But whoever the old bag was, I don’t have a grandmother,” I said.
“Ach, well you do, I mean did. You,
