By Janice Daugharty

 

 

My niece in North Florida just called. First thing, she said she couldn’t talk long, so I figured her cell phone was going dead—what other kind of phone is there for a popular college student who works on the side?

            Well, I’ll tell you about that other kind of phone:

            Shanna couldn’t talk long, she explained, because she was borrowing the cordless her dad had lately laid claim to and it was weighted with a garden spade attached by a shoe lace.

            Put out with his two children misplacing the cordless phones to the twin-set, he had rigged one to discourage comfortable use. And, no doubt, to make a point too.

Mike is a private investigator for the Florida District Attorney’s office and often receives urgent calls during the night. He’s long been complaining that he has to hunt down one of the phones to make or take calls.

            “I’m having to hold the spade on my lap to talk,” Shanna further explained.

            “Where are you?”

            “In the kitchen,” she said.

            “How in the world did he come up with a shoe string and a garden spade?” I asked. “I mean, in a desperate rage, why not cut a piece of cord from the window drapes? Why not tie the phone to his bedstead with a necktie?”

            “All I know is,” Shanna said, “Mama said he came in from running the other day and was taking off his shoes when the phone started ringing and he couldn’t find it. So, I guess the shoe string was just handy. Literally handy,” she added in a shoulder-shrugging tone.

            “Do you know about the spade?” I asked, really curious now. “How did he come up with the idea of using a spade?”

            “I was in class. But Mama said the phone quit ringing. Then it started ringing again while he was stripping the lace from his shoe. He jumped up and began trying to trace the sound, and it led out to the back yard. He found the phone in the shed, Mama said.”

            “So,” I filled in, “when he came back inside he had tied the phone to the spade.”

            “Right,” Shanna said. Then, “Hold on a minute, Aunt Janice.” A long fumbling pause was followed by an intermittent cluncking sound, like a prisoner bound by ball-and-chain. “Okay, I’m back. I mean I’m in the bathroom.”

            “Is the spade in your lap again?”

            “Yes.”

            “Why don’t you untie the shoe string and put the spade down?”

            She laughed. “Noooo, not me.” She would let her younger brother do it, let him take the blame. She was in enough trouble already for wrecking her car again because she refused to use the blinkers and kept getting rear-ended. Her reason for not using the turn signals—it was none of anybody’s business where she was going.

            “I’ve been calling from a pay phone at a convenience store up the street, but it’s raining cats and dogs this morning. Why I’m sitting here with this spade on my lap.”

            “I see.” I didn’t see, but I could hear her breathing, ripping tissue from the roll, catching the spade just short of slamming and cracking the ceramic tiles.

            “Mama said last night Daddy got a call...around midnight,” Shanna, on the toilet, continued. “When he jumped out of bed to answer the phone on his nightstand, he’d forgotten about the little shovel tied to it and almost snapped a vertebra in his neck when it hit the floor.”

            “Shanna,” I said. “Why didn’t you call me from your cell phone?”

            “I can’t find it.”