The Cell Phone

           a short story by Mary M. Isaacs

     It was early in the afternoon. He had taken a break from walking and was sitting on an old bench in the park of the little town. It seemed like a nice place to live; he was glad that he’d had a chance to see it before leaving the state. While he rested his feet, he took a water bottle from his backpack and had a drink before putting it away. He would look for a cafe or a grocery store deli while heading to the bus station. There was a long road ahead of him, and he would need food and more water for the journey.

     The phone in his jacket pocket rang. He took it out, looked at the display for a moment, and then decided it was okay to answer right now. He held the phone up to his ear as he leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Hello.”

     Her voice sounded like it always did now: controlled, tentative, intentionally neutral. “Hi, Jack. How are you?”

      “I’m all right.”

     A pause. Then, “Where are you these days?” The question was said in a light tone, but that didn’t fool him.

     “I’m on the move. Passing through Colorado right now.”

     “Where are you heading?” The end of the question was bitten off, as if she had realized she was going too far and  would like to unsay it. Too late.

     “Not sure right now. Somewhere.” It was the usual answer. And a truthful one.

     There was more silence. “Do you need anything? I could send something General Delivery if you told me what town you were heading towards. Or where you’ll be sometime soon.” She qualified the explanation, to give him space.

     He thought about it, and then replied in the negative. “But thank you.” He knew she was just trying to be helpful. Like when she gave him this phone, which she was paying for. He seldom used it, except for answering her calls. Sometimes. And he had disabled the GPS tracking as soon as he received it. He didn’t want to be dependent on anyone or anything; he didn’t want to be found, especially by her. But he kept the phone just to give her some peace of mind. He figured he owed it to her, after what had happened.

     “Jack…” her voice trailed off uncertainly. He knew what that meant.

     “I know.” He passed his hand over his eyes and considered whether he should say anything else, and then decided it was the least he could do for her. “I love you, too.”

     There was another long silence. He could feel the intensity in it, and he waited, knowing she had something to say. But when she finally did speak, her abrupt abandonment of generalities caught him off guard.

     “I’m not angry with you any more, Jack—don’t you know that? It wasn’t all your fault, your decision. I agreed, remember? I know it was wrong, but we did what we thought was best at the time. I forgive you. I’ve forgiven myself.”

     He jerked upright. “But I can’t,” he responded harshly. “And I can’t forget what I did. Not ever.” He stopped speaking as suddenly as she had, earlier. “I have to go now.”

     There was no response from the other end, but he knew it wasn’t silent where she was. He knew she was trying to keep her crying as quiet as possible. Their calls always ended like that, but there was nothing he could do about it. He waited for her to speak again, trying to keep his own pain under control.

     “Please take care, Jack. Be careful wherever you go. I’ll call again.”

     “You do that.” He heard hesitancy, as if she was going to say something else, and then she hung up.

     He turned off the phone and pocketed it. Then he leaned back on the park bench and closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind. Her calls always had that effect, scrambling his thinking; this one would haunt him for quite a while. What would everything be like if it hadn’t happened? Was he going to be on the road like this forever? Would he ever be able to see her again? At that, he opened his eyes and sat forward, dragging his thoughts away from a past that could not be changed.

     He took a deep breath, picked up his backpack, and got to his feet. He thought he’d seen a cafe sign down the road a bit. It was time to go.


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Mary M. Isaacs

copyright 2019

"The Cell Phone" is included in the collection, Holy Innocence, found on the right sidebar

"We are Christ's handiwork..." [from Ephesians 2:10]

 

Quote: St. Thomas More [1478-1535]

 

"No Longer Mourn For Me" [by Ensemble Galilei]...for those who have gone before

De Profundis

         [“Sanctuary” fulfilled]

      These days he always dreamed about terrible things, things that mirrored the fearful realities in his waking hours; it was as if all those fears were being dragged into his restless nights.

     Chris was no longer discernibly devout at this point in his life. He had been brought up in a distant country by an old woman and an even older man after being abandoned by his mother. Well, perhaps “abandoned” was not the right word. The old man had told him that she had left her baby—Chris himself—with them for safekeeping, as she was being pursued because of a death sentence on her head. On both their heads, or so she said, and she wanted her boy to be saved. But the old people had always been vague about what danger could have threatened an innocent baby. Instead, they showed him, daily, the reality of their faith and devotion to God, even in the harsh religious climate in which they lived. Over the years, Chris learned about their Christian faith; he learned where it came from and what it meant. He participated in their daily worship services, which were held quietly and unobtrusively, because of the ongoing religious intolerance.

     There were times they insisted he hide, explaining it as only an exciting game. Only much later did he learn the truth about that...

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Mary M Isaacs

copyright 2026 (story continued in a forthcoming book)

Sanctuary

                A short story by Mary M. Isaacs

 

   The old wooden door opened noiselessly; a young woman hesitated on the threshold, looking in from the darkness outside. The brick walls of the room were in shadow, lit only by two oil lamps on either end of a plain wooden table and the glow of a hanging lamp: a candle in a red glass holder.

   “Sanctuary,” she breathed, closing her eyes in thankfulness.

   She entered the room and quietly shut the door behind her. In her arms she carried something wrapped in blankets; over her shoulder was slung a large knapsack, which looked more bulky than heavy. Her clothing was wrinkled and stained, as if she had been wearing it for many days–which she had been.

   There were a few benches along the walls. She crossed to one and sat down gratefully. While still carefully holding what was in her arms, she unslung the knapsack and set it on the floor beside her. She then leaned against the wall and sighed deeply. This was her penultimate destination; the difficult journey was almost over. Although she no longer had a watch—she had no metal objects of any kind on her, for that matter—she had a good sense of time. She knew she wouldn’t have to wait very long for the final service of the day. She rested quietly, eyes on the hanging lamp.

   After a short while, a bell started to ring...

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Mary M. Isaacs 

copyright, 2020

"Sanctuary" is contained in the collection  The White Bird, on the right sidebar