Where I'm Calling From: New and Selected Stories

  “Is that funny, sir?” Morgan said. “Do you find that amusing?”

  Myers nodded. He kept laughing. He wiped his eyes on his shirt sleeve. “I’m really sorry,” he said. “I can’t help it. That line ‘Fate sent her to die on the couch in our living room in Germany.’ I’m sorry. Then what happened?” he managed to say. “I’d like to know what happened then.”

  “Mr. Myers, we didn’t know what to do,” Mrs Morgan said. “The shock was terrible. Edgar felt for her pulse, but there was no sign of life. And she had begun to change color. Her face and hands were turning gray. Edgar went to the phone to call someone. Then he said, ‘Open her purse, see if you can find where she’s staying.’ All the time averting my eyes from the poor thing there on the couch, I took up her purse.

  Imagine my complete surprise and bewilderment, my utter bewilderment, when the first thing I saw inside was my hundred twenty dollars, still fastened with the paper clip. I was never so astonished.”

  “And disappointed,” Morgan said. “Don’t forget that. It was a keen disappointment.”

  Myers giggled.

  “If you were a real writer, as you say you are, Mr. Myers, you would not laugh,” Morgan said as he got to his feet. “You would not dare laugh! You would try to understand. You would plumb the depths of that poor soul’s heart and try to understand. But you are no writer, sir!”

  Myers kept on giggling.

  Morgan slammed his fist on the coffee table and the cups rattled in the coasters. “The real story lies right here, in this house, this very living room, and it’s time it was told! The real story is here, Mr. Myers,”

  Morgan said. He walked up and down over the brilliant wrapping paper that had unrolled and now lay spread across the carpet. He stopped to glare at Myers, who was holding his forehead and shaking with laughter.

  “Consider this for a possibility, Mr. Myers!” Morgan screamed. Consider! A friend—let’s call him Mr. X—is friends with… with Mr. and Mrs Y, as well as Mr. and Mrs Z. Mr. and Mrs Y and Mr. and Mrs Z. do not know each other, unfortunately. I say unfortunately because if they had known each other this story would not exist because it would never have taken place. Now, Mr. X learns that Mr. and Mrs Y are going to Germany for a year and need someone to occupy their house during the time they are gone.

  Mr. and Mrs Z are looking for suitable accommodations, and Mr. X tells them he knows of just the place. But before Mr. X can put Mr. and Mrs Z in touch with Mr. and Mrs Y, the Ys have to leave sooner than expected. Mr. X, being a friend, is left to rent the house at his discretion to anyone, including Mr. and Mrs Y—I mean Z. Now, Mr. and Mrs…. Z move into the house and bring a cat with them that Mr. and Mrs Y hear about later in a letter from Mr. X. Mr. and Mrs Z bring a cat into the house even though the terms of the lease have expressly forbidden cats or other animals in the house because of Mrs Y’s asthma. The real story, Mr. Myers, lies in the situation I’ve just described. Mr. and Mrs Z—I mean Mr. and Mrs Y’s moving into the Zs’ house, invading the Zs’ house, if the truth is to be told. Sleeping in the Zs’ bed is one thing, but unlocking the Zs’ private closet and using their linen, vandalizing the things found there, that was against the spirit and letter of the lease. And this same couple, the Zs, opened boxes of kitchen utensils marked ‘Don’t Open.’ And broke dishes when it was spelled out, spelled out in that same lease, that they were not to use the owners’, the Zs’ personal, I emphasize personal, possessions.”

  Morgan’s lips were white. He continued to walk up and down on the paper, stopping every now and then to look at Myers and emit little puffing noises from his lips.

  “And the bathroom things, dear—don’t forget the bathroom things,” Mrs Morgan said. “It’s bad enough using the Zs’ blankets and sheets, but when they also get into their bathroom things and go through the little private things stored in the attic, a line has to be drawn.”

  “That’s the real story, Mr. Myers,” Morgan said. He tried to fill his pipe. His hands trembled and tobacco spilled onto the carpet. “That’s the real story that is waiting to be written.”

  “And it doesn’t need Tolstoy to tell it,” Mrs Morgan said.

  “It doesn’t need Tolstoy,” Morgan said.

  Myers laughed. He and Paula got up from the couch at the same time and moved toward the door. “Good night,” Myers said merrily.

  Morgan was behind him. “If you were a real writer, sir, you would put that story into words and not pussyfoot around with it, either.”

  Myers just laughed. He touched the doorknob.

  “One other thing,” Morgan said. “I didn’t intend to bring this up, but in light of your behavior here tonight, I want to tell you that I’m missing my two-volume set of ‘Jazz at the Philharmonic.’ Those records are of great sentimental value. I bought them in 1955. And now I insist you tell me what happened to them!”

  “In all fairness, Edgar,” Mrs Morgan said as she helped Paula on with her coat, “after you took inventory of the records, you admitted you couldn’t recall the last time you had seen those records.”

  “But I am sure of it now,” Morgan said. “I am positive I saw those records just before we left, and now, now I’d like this writer to tell me exactly what he knows of their whereabouts. Mr. Myers?”

  But Myers was already outdoors, and, taking his wife by the hand, he hurried her down the walk to the car. They surprised Buzzy. The dog yelped in what seemed fear and then jumped to the side.

  “I insist on knowing!” Morgan called. “I am waiting, sir!”

  Myers got Paula into the car and started the engine. He looked again at the couple on the porch. Mrs Morgan waved, and then she and Edgar Morgan went back inside and shut the door.

  Myers pulled away from the curb.

  “Those people are crazy,” Paula said.

  Myers patted her hand.

  “They were scary,” she said.

  He did not answer. Her voice seemed to come to him from a great distance. He kept driving. Snow rushed at the windshield. He was silent and watched the road. He was at the very end of a story.

  Collectors

  I was out of work. But any day I expected to hear from up north. I lay on the sofa and listened to the rain. Now and then I’d lift up and look through the curtain for the mailman.

  There was no one on the street, nothing.

  I hadn’t been down again five minutes when I heard someone walk onto the porch, wait, and then knock.

  I lay still. I knew it wasn’t the mailman. I knew his steps. You can’t be too careful if you’re out of work and you get notices in the mail or else pushed under your door. They come around wanting to talk, too, especially if you don’t have a telephone.

  The knock sounded again, louder, a bad sign. I eased up and tried to see onto the porch. But whoever was there was standing against the door, another bad sign. I knew the floor creaked, so there was no chance of slipping into the other room and looking out that window.

  Another knock, and I said, Who’s there?

  This is Aubrey Bell, a man said. Are you Mr. Slater?

  What is it you want? I called from the sofa.

  I have something for Mrs Slater. She’s won something. Is Mrs Slater home?

  Mrs Slater doesn’t live here, I said.

  Well, then, are you Mr. Slater? the man said. Mr. Slater… and the man sneezed.

  I got off the sofa. I unlocked the door and opened it a little. He was an old guy, fat and bulky under his raincoat. Water ran off the coat and dripped onto the big suitcase contraption thing he carried.

  He grinned and set down the big case. He put out his hand.

  Aubrey Bell, he said.

  I don’t know you, I said.

  Mrs Slater, he began. Mrs Slater filled out a card. He took cards from an inside pocket and shuffled them a minute. Mrs Slater, he read. Two-fifty-five South Sixth East? Mrs Slater is a winner.

  He took off his hat and nodded solemnly, slapped the hat against his coat as if that were it, everything had
been settled, the drive finished, the railhead reached.

  He waited.

  Mrs Slater doesn’t live here, I said. What’d she win?

  I have to show you, he said. May I come in?

  I don’t know. If it won’t take long, I said. I’m pretty busy.

  Fine, he said. I’ll just slide out of this coat first. And the galoshes. Wouldn’t want to track up your carpet.

  I see you do have a carpet, Mr….

  His eyes had lighted and then dimmed at the sight of the carpet. He shuddered. Then he took off his coat.

  He shook it out and hung it by the collar over the doorknob. That’s a good place for it, he said. Damn weather, anyway. He bent over and unfastened his galoshes. He set his case inside the room. He stepped out of the galoshes and into the room in a pair of slippers.

  I closed the door. He saw me staring at the slippers and said, W. H. Auden wore slippers all through China on his first visit there. Never took them off. Corns.

  I shrugged. I took one more look down the street for the mailman and shut the door again.

  Aubrey Bell stared at the carpet. He pulled his lips. Then he laughed. He laughed and shook his head.

  What’s so funny? I said.

  Nothing. Lord, he said. He laughed again. I think I’m losing my mind. I think I have a fever. He reached a hand to his forehead. His hair was matted and there was a ring around his scalp where the hat had been.

  Do I feel hot to you? he said. I don’t know, I think I might have a fever. He was still staring at the carpet.

  You have any aspirin?

  What’s the matter with you? I said. I hope you’re not getting sick on me. I got things I have to do.

  He shook his head. He sat down on the sofa. He stirred at the carpet with his slippered foot.

  I went to the kitchen, rinsed a cup, shook two aspirin out of a bottle.

  Here, I said. Then I think you ought to leave.

  Are you speaking for Mrs Slater? he hissed. No, no, forget I said that, forget I said that. He wiped his face. He swallowed the aspirin. His eyes skipped around the bare room.

  Then he leaned forward with some effort and unsnapped the buckles on his case. The case flopped open, revealing compartments filled with an array of hoses, brushes, shiny pipes, and some kind of heavylooking blue thing mounted on little wheels. He stared at these things as if surprised. Quietly, in a churchly voice, he said, Do you know what this is?

  I moved closer. I’d say it was a vacuum cleaner. I’m not in the market, I said. No way am I in the market for a vacuum cleaner.

  I want to show you something, he said. He took a card out of his jacket pocket. Look at this, he said. He handed me the card. Nobody said you were in the market. But look at the signature. Is that Mrs Slater’s signature or not?

  I looked at the card. I held it up to the light. I turned it over, but the other side was blank. So what? I said.

  Mrs Slater’s card was pulled at random out of a basket of cards. Hundreds of cards just like this little card. She has won a free vacuuming and carpet shampoo. Mrs Slater is a winner. No strings. I am here even to do your mattress, Mr…. You’ll be surprised to see what can collect in a mattress over the months, over the years. Every day, every night of our lives, we’re leaving little bits of ourselves, flakes of this and that, behind. Where do they go, these bits and pieces of ourselves? Right through the sheets and into the mattress, that’s where! Pillows, too. It’s all the same.

  He had been removing lengths of the shiny pipe and joining the parts together. Now he inserted the fitted pipes into the hose. He was on his knees, grunting. He attached some sort of scoop to the hose and lifted out the blue thing with wheels.

  He let me examine the filter he intended to use.

  Do you have a car? he asked.

  No car, I said. I don’t have a car. If I had a car I would drive you someplace.

  Too bad, he said. This little vacuum comes equipped with a sixty-foot extension cord. If you had a car, you could wheel this little vacuum right up to your car door and vacuum the plush carpeting and the luxurious reclining seats as well. You would be surprised how much of us gets lost, how much of us gathers, in those fine seats over the years.

  Mr. Bell, I said, I think you better pack up your things and go. I say this without any malice whatsoever.

  But he was looking around the room for a plug-in. He found one at the end of the sofa. The machine rattled as if there were a marble inside, anyway something loose inside, then settled to a hum.

  Rilke lived in one castle after another, all of his adult life. Benefactors, he said loudly over the hum of the vacuum. He seldom rode in motorcars; he preferred trains. Then look at Voltaire at Cirey with Madame Chatelet. His death mask. Such serenity. He raised his right hand as if I were about to disagree.

  No, no, it isn’t right, is it? Don’t say it. But who knows? With that he turned and began to pull the vacuum into the other room.

  There was a bed, a window. The covers were heaped on the floor. One pillow, one sheet over the mattress. He slipped the case from the pillow and then quickly stripped the sheet from the mattress. He stared at the mattress and gave me a look out of the corner of his eye. I went to the kitchen and got the chair. I sat down in the doorway and watched. First he tested the suction by putting the scoop against the palm of his hand. He bent and turned a dial on the vacuum. You have to turn it up full strength for a job like this one, he said. He checked the suction again, then extended the hose to the head of the bed and began to move the scoop down the mattress. The scoop tugged at the mattress. The vacuum whirred louder. He made three passes over the mattress, then switched off the machine. He pressed a lever and the lid popped open. He took out the filter. This filter is just for demonstration purposes. In normal use, all of this, this material, would go into your bag, here, he said. He pinched some of the dusty stuff between his fingers. There must have been a cup of it.

  He had this look to his face.

  It’s not my mattress, I said. I leaned forward in the chair and tried to show an interest.

  Now the pillow, he said. He put the used filter on the sill and looked out the window for a minute. He turned. I want you to hold onto this end of the pillow, he said.

  I got up and took hold of two corners of the pillow. I felt I was holding something by the ears.

  Like this? I said.

  He nodded. He went into the other room and came back with another filter.

  How much do those things cost? I said.

  Next to nothing, he said. They’re only made out of paper and a little bit of plastic. Couldn’t cost much.

  He kicked on the vacuum and I held tight as the scoop sank into the pillow and moved down its length-once, twice, three times. He switched off the vacuum, removed the filter, and held it up without a word.

  He put it on the sill beside the other filter. Then he opened the closet door. He looked inside, but there was only a box of Mouse-Be-Gone.

  I heard steps on the porch, the mail slot opened and clinked shut. We looked at each other.

  He pulled on the vacuum and I followed him into the other room. We looked at the letter lying face down on the carpet near the front door.

  I started toward the letter, turned and said, What else? It’s getting late. This carpet’s not worth fooling with. It’s only a twelve-by-fifteen cotton carpet with no-skid backing from Rug City. It’s not worth fooling with.

  Do you have a full ashtray? he said. Or a potted plant or something like that? A handful of dirt would be fine.

  I found the ashtray. He took it, dumped the contents onto the carpet, ground the ashes and cigarettes under his slipper. He got down on his knees again and inserted a new filter. He took off his jacket and threw it onto the sofa. He was sweating under the arms. Fat hung over his belt. He twisted off the scoop and attached another device to the hose. He adjusted his dial. He kicked on the machine and began to move back and forth, back and forth over the worn carpet. Twice I started for the letter. B
ut he seemed to anticipate me, cut me off, so to speak, with his hose and his pipes and his sweeping and his sweeping….

  I took the chair back to the kitchen and sat there and watched him work. After a time he shut off the machine, opened the lid, and silently brought me the filter, alive with dust, hair, small grainy things. I looked at the filter, and then I got up and put it in the garbage.

  He worked steadily now. No more explanations. He came out to the kitchen with a bottle that held a few ounces of green liquid. He put the bottle under the tap and filled it.

  You know I can’t pay anything, I said. I couldn’t pay you a dollar if my life depended on it. You’re going to have to write me off as a dead loss, that’s all. You’re wasting your time on me, I said.

  I wanted it out in the open, no misunderstanding.

  He went about his business. He put another attachment on the hose, in some complicated way hooked his bottle to the new attachment. He moved slowly over the carpet, now and then releasing little streams of emerald, moving the brush back and forth over the carpet, working up patches of foam.

  I had said all that was on my mind. I sat on the chair in the kitchen, relaxed now, and watched him work.

  Once in a while I looked out the window at the rain. It had begun to get dark. He switched off the vacuum. He was in a corner near the front door.

  You want coffee? I said.

  He was breathing hard. He wiped his face.

  I put on water and by the time it had boiled and I’d fixed up two cups he had everything dismantled and back in the case. Then he picked up the letter. He read the name on the letter and looked closely at the return address. He folded the letter in half and put it in his hip pocket. I kept watching him. That’s all I did. The coffee began to cool.

  It’s for a Mr. Slater, he said. I’ll see to it. He said, Maybe I will skip the coffee. I better not walk across this carpet. I just shampooed it.

  That’s true, I said. Then I said, You’re sure that’s who the letter’s for?

  He reached to the sofa for his jacket, put it on, and opened the front door. It was still raining. He stepped into his galoshes, fastened them, and then pulled on the raincoat and looked back inside.