Sons of Fortune

“You’re a rat.”

“True, but a rat with a telephone number.”

“You have her telephone number?” said Nat in disbelief.

“You catch on quickly.”

“What is it?”

“Have you completed that essay on the Great Depression?”

“Not quite, but I’ll have it finished by the weekend, so hold on while I get a pencil.” Nat wrote the number down on the back of Diane’s photograph. “Do you think she’ll be surprised if I give her a call?”

“I think she’ll be surprised if you don’t.”

“Hi, I’m Nat Cartwright. I don’t suppose you remember me.”

“No, I don’t. Who are you?”

“I’m the one you met after the Hotchkiss game and thought looked like James Dean.”

Nat glanced in the mirror. He’d never thought about his looks before. Did he really look like James Dean?

It took another couple of days, and several more rehearsals, before Nat had the courage to dial her number. Once he’d completed his essay on the Great Depression he prepared a list of questions, which varied according to who picked up the phone. If it was her father, he would say, “Good morning, sir, my name is Nat Cartwright. May I please speak to your daughter,” if it was her mother he would say, “Good morning, Mrs. Coulter, my name is Nat Cartwright. May I please speak to your daughter.” If Diane answered the phone, he had prepared ten questions, in a logical order. He placed three sheets of paper on the table in front of him, took a deep breath, and carefully dialed the digits. He was greeted by a busy signal. Perhaps she was talking to another boy. Had she already held his hand, even kissed him? Was he her regular date? Fifteen minutes later he phoned again. Still busy. Had another suitor called in between? This time he only waited ten minutes before he tried again. The moment he heard the ringing tone he felt his heart thumping in his chest, and wanted to put the phone right back down. He stared at his list of questions. The ringing stopped. Someone picked up the phone.

“Hello,” said a deep voice. He didn’t need to be told it was Dan Coulter.

Nat dropped the phone on the floor. Surely gods don’t answer phones, and in any case, he hadn’t prepared any questions for Diane’s brother. Hastily he picked the receiver up off the floor and placed it back on the phone.

Nat read through his essay before he dialed a fourth time. At last a girl’s voice answered.

“Diane?”

“No, it’s her sister Tricia,” said a voice that sounded older, “Diane’s out at the moment, but I’m expecting her back in about an hour. Who shall I say called?”

“Nat,” he replied, “would you tell her I’ll phone again in about an hour?”

“Sure,” said the older voice.

“Thank you,” said Nat and put the receiver down. He hadn’t any questions or answers prepared for an older sister.

Nat must have looked at his watch sixty times during the next hour, but he still added another fifteen minutes before he redialed the number. He’d read in Teen magazine that if you like a girl, don’t appear too keen, it puts them off. The phone was eventually picked up.

“Hello,” said a younger voice. Nat glanced down at his script. “Hello, can I speak to Diane?”

“Hi, Nat, it’s Diane. Tricia told me you’d called, how are you?”

How are you wasn’t in the script. “I’m fine,” he eventual

ly managed, “how are you?”

“I’m fine too,” she replied, which was followed by another long silence while Nat searched for an appropriate question.

“I’m coming over to Simsbury next week to spend a few days with Tom,” he read out in a monotone.

“That’s great,” replied Diane, “then let’s hope we bump into each other.” There certainly wasn’t anything in the script about bumping into each other. He tried to read all ten questions at once. “Are you still there, Nat?” asked Diane.

“Yes. Any hope of seeing you while I’m in Simsbury?” Question number nine.