“Games”

by Noelle Q. De Jesus

When she called him at the office, she would never give her name, even if he wasn't in or couldn't
come to the telephone and she was asked to leave a message. When they asked her, as invariably
they would, she said whatever name came to her mind at the moment-- Tina or Fannie or Malou.
Unless he answered, of course, and then, happily she said, "It's me." And he knew it was she and
spoke in lower tones, in the voice that was reserved for them, for her.

If she were really quick on that particular day, she made up last names and changed her voice a little,
pitching it higher or lower or making it all soft and gooey and breathy. Or she might speak like a
foreigner with an accent or haltingly, like she didn't know English. Be Carla Benitez or Sharon
Stevenson. It was a game she grew adept at. Soon, almost without thinking, she could come up with
names and last names, drawling intonations, even occupations, in case they ever asked. The one
named Kathleen worked at a bank. She'd always loved that name. Chris was still a student at the
university, and Serena Yu didn't work at all. She sang for a band at a bar. As she waited for him to
come to the phone, holding the receiver with moist palms, she pictured the Chiqui or Aleli or Teeny
or Cookie or Sarina or Kay she had dreamed up. The sleek hair, the curving bodies, the linen suits
and high heels, the green eye-shadow and the mauve lipstick, the dimples or freckles or the tiny
beauty mark on the corner of her mouth. All real women.

At a certain point, she knew she could use her own voice, perhaps even her own name, and it would
not matter. No one would ever know it was her because even if they wanted to, who could keep
track of all the women calling him? After all that, she figured, nobody would care. Besides, it was
exciting. To ask for him and in answer to "Who is this please?" say "Diana" or "Joy" or "Gretchen
Castillo" and give whatever performance she was up to, later straining to hear how the person told
him, what they said. The people at the office called him "chicker" now. She enjoyed that.

"Hello?" he always said into the receiver after the hooting and teasing in the background had faded.
When she said hello, he always knew. "Why do you do that?" He asked her, once he was certain, of
course, that she was not Eva or Marla or Teresa that he might have forgotten or not recognized. She
could tell though that he wasn't sore or annoyed. In fact, she could hear the smile on his face, in his
voice, and it made her smile as well.

"Because it's none of their business who calls you," she said laughing.

Once he asked her again. Afterwards, as they lay in each other's arms, as she warmed her cheek on
his neck, he said, "But why do you do that?"

"Hmmm?" she said.

"Why all these names? Who are Candy and Victoria and Felice? Why not just say who you are?"

She raised herself on her elbow, her face flushed and slightly swollen, and looked at him blankly.
"Oh," she said. "I told you. It's fun. They seem to enjoy it. Besides, don't you like having them think
that a lot of women call you?"

It was a joke. A friend, more his than hers (and possibly this was the reason she did not like her
much, though of course, he did not know it) said women called all the time.

"What's the matter? Does it really bother you that the people at your office think you're a ladies'
man? Doesn't it make you feel good?" she asked.

He smiled.

"So I make you feel good?"

He didn't answer. Sensing she was being figured out, yet another thing that grated on her nerves,
she turned away, sliding her arm out from beneath him so quickly that her skin burned on the
sheets. Facing the wall, she buried both her hands under the pillow, beneath her cheek.

"Hey," he turned her back to face him but she resisted. "Hey, it's funny, that's all. You're funny." He
kissed her and she unclenched her fists and relaxed, allowing herself to be pulled close to him. They
did not talk again.

The last time she gave a false name at the office was when she called to make up for a fight they
had, to apologize. She had lost her temper and given in to jealousy, resenting him for getting all
awkward and uneasy just because they happened to sit a few feet away from his old girlfriend at
lunch in a restaurant that day. He introduced them and they all said polite things to each other and
then went on to have lunches at their respective tables. She was not even angry, not really, until
after lunch in the car, he sighed with relief and remarked how glad he was the episode was over in
too concerned a manner-- it seemed to her as though the incident mattered so much...

But even as she made her cutting remarks, even as she stomped out of the car and slammed it shut,
she was already looking forward to the next time they would be together. How he would reassure
her-- kiss everything away. How sweet it would be to be sweet with him again.

"Who should I say is calling, please?" the voice asked.

She paused. Later on, she thought back to this moment again and again and still she could not figure
out what on earth made her say that. Why? Why not Wendy or Arlene? Margot dela Cruz or Angela
Lazaro? She was not thinking. How unfortunate. It was simply the first name that came to her mind
at that particular moment. Nothing more.

And there was no picture in her mind as she breathed anxiously. Waiting for him to come to the
telephone, nothing came to her even when she heard the voice say, not without a teasing note.
"There's a Beth on the line for you." No, she had been thinking about the words she say, how she
was sorry, how she had been silly to feel so badly and how she loved him. She had been thinking that
it was right to call him this way, in the morning. It was right to take just two minutes to make it
better, so they would feel wonderful again and things could go back to the way they were.
"Hey," he said simply. "Hi there. I'm glad you called." She rushed to explain, to recite her speech, all
the lines that were running in her head. Then she stopped astonished.

"Hello? Hello?" he said. "Beth? Hi."

"No," she answered. "Not Beth."

"Oh," he said. "Oh, honey." He laughed.

She was silent.

"Hey, I'm sorry. I thought..." he broke off.

"No, it's alright. I'm sorry. It's my fault," she said. And then she began again.

He told her she didn't need to explain or be sorry. He understood about yesterday.

And she managed to say everything anyhow, in just the way she had planned to say it.

"I love you," he said, lowering his voice so no one else would hear it but her. But even as she said she
loved him too, she wondered at the sound of his voice, and ached, because he never once said her
name.