Where I'm Calling From: New and Selected Stories

  That’s just the way they looked, just like in the movies. Little eye-holes and nose-holes and mouth-holes.

  And she had to have her legs slung up on top of it. Well, the husband was very depressed for the longest while. Even after he found out that his wife was going to pull through, he was still very depressed.

  Not about the accident, though. I mean, the accident was one thing, but it wasn’t everything. I’d get up to his mouth-hole, you know, and he’d say no, it wasn’t the accident exactly but it was because he couldn’t see her through his eye-holes. He said that was what was making him feel so bad. Can you imagine? I’m telling you, the man’s heart was breaking because he couldn’t turn his goddamn head and see his goddamn wife.”

  Mel looked around the table and shook his head at what he was going to say.

  “I mean, it was killing the old fart just because he couldn’t look at the fucking woman.”

  We all looked at Mel.

  “Do you see what I’m saying?” he said.

  Maybe we were a little drunk by then. I know it was hard keeping things in focus. The light was draining out of the room, going back through the window where it had come from. Yet nobody made a move to get up from the table to turn on the overhead light.

  “Listen,” Mel said. “Let’s finish this fucking gin. There’s about enough left here for one shooter all around. Then let’s go eat. Let’s go to the new place.”

  “He’s depressed,” Terri said. “Mel, why don’t you take a pill?”

  Mel shook his head. “I’ve taken everything there is.”

  “We all need a pill now and then,” I said.

  “Some people are born needing them,” Terri said.

  She was using her finger to rub at something on the table. Then she stopped rubbing.

  “I think I want to call my kids,” Mel said. “Is that all right with everybody? I’ll call my kids,” he said.

  Terri said, “What if Marjorie answers the phone? You guys, you’ve heard us on the subject of Marjorie?

  Honey, you know you don’t want to talk to Marjorie. It’ll make you feel even worse.”

  “I don’t want to talk to Marjorie,” Mel said. “But I want to talk to my kids.”

  “There isn’t a day goes by that Mel doesn’t say he wishes she’d get married again. Or else die,” Terri said. “For one thing,” Terri said, “she’s bankrupting us. Mel says it’s just to spite him that she won’t get married again. She has a boyfriend who lives with her and the kids, so Mel is supporting the boyfriend too.”

  “She’s allergic to bees,” Mel said. “If I’m not praying she’ll get married again, I’m praying she’ll get herself stung to death by a swarm of fucking bees.”

  “Shame on you,” Laura said.

  “Bzzzzzzz,” Mel said, turning his fingers into bees and buzzing them at Terri’s throat. Then he let his hands drop all the way to his sides.

  “She’s vicious,” Mel said. “Sometimes I think I’ll go up there dressed like a beekeeper. You know, that hat that’s like a helmet with the plate that comes-down over your face, the big gloves, and the padded coat? I’ll knock on the door and let loose a hive of bees in the house. But first I’d make sure the kids were out, of course.”

  He crossed one leg over the other. It seemed to take him a lot of time to do it. Then he put both feet on the floor and leaned forward, elbows on the table, his chin cupped in his hands.

  “Maybe I won’t call the kids, after all. Maybe it isn’t such a hot idea. Maybe we’ll just go eat. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds fine to me,” I said. “Eat or not eat. Or keep drinking. I could head right on out into the sunset.”

  “What does that mean, honey?” Laura said.

  “It just means what I said,” I said. “It means I could just keep going. That’s all it means.”

  “I could eat something myself,” Laura said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so hungry in my life. Is there something to nibble on?”

  “I’ll put out some cheese and crackers,” Terri said.

  But Terri just sat there. She did not get up to get anything.

  Mel turned his glass over. He spilled it out on the table.

  “Gin’s gone,” Mel said.

  Terri said, “Now what?”

  I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone’s heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark.

  Distance

  ‘She’s in Milan for Christmas and wants to know what it was like when she was a kid. Always that on the rare occasions when he sees her.

  Tell me, she says. Tell me what it was like then. She sips Strega, waits, eyes him closely.

  She is a cool, slim, attractive girl, a survivor from top to bottom.

  That was a long time ago. That was twenty years ago, he says. They’re in his apartment on the Via Fabroni near the Cascina Gardens.

  You can remember, she says. Go on, tell me.

  What do you want to hear? he asks. What can I tell you? I could tell you about something that happened when you were a baby. It involves you, he says. But only in a minor way.

  Tell me, she says. But first get us another drink, so you won’t have to interrupt half way through.

  He comes back from the kitchen with drinks, settles into his chair, begins.

  They were kids themselves, but they were crazy in love, this eighteen-year-old boy and his seventeen-year-old girl friend when they married.

  Not all that long afterward they had a daughter.

  The baby came along in late November during a severe cold spell that just happened to coincide with the peak of the waterfowl season in that part of the country. The boy loved to hunt, you see, that’s part of it.

  The boy and girl, husband and wife now, father and mother, lived in a three-room apartment under a dentist’s office. Each night they cleaned the upstairs office in exchange for their rent and utilities. In the summer they were expected to maintain the lawn and the flowers, and in winter the boy shoveled snow from the walks and spread rock salt on the pavement. The two kids, I’m telling you, were very much in love. On top of this they had great ambitions and they were wild dreamers. They were always talking about the things they were going to do and the places they were going to go.

  He gets up from his chair and looks out the window for a minute over the slate rooftops at the snow that falls steadily through the late afternoon light.

  Tell the story, she says.

  The boy and girl slept in the bedroom, and the baby slept in a crib in the living room. You see, the baby was about three weeks old at this time and had only just begun to sleep through the night.

  One Saturday night, after finishing his work upstairs, the boy went into the dentist’s private office, put his feet up on the desk, and called Carl Sutherland, an old hunting and fishing friend of his father’s.

  Carl, he said when the man picked up the receiver. I’m a father. We had a baby girl.

  Congratulations, boy, Carl said. How is the wife?

  She’s fine, Carl. The baby’s fine, too, the boy said. Everybody’s fine.

  That’s good, Carl said. I’m glad to hear it. Well, you give my regards to the wife. If you called about going hunting, I’ll tell you something. The geese are flying down there to beat the band. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many of them and I’ve been going for years. I shot five today. Two this morning and three this afternoon. I’m going back in the morning and you come along if you want to.

  I want to, the boy said. That’s why I called.

  You be here at five-thirty sharp then and we’ll go, Carl said. Bring lots of shells. We’ll get some shooting in all right. I’ll see you in the morning.

  The boy liked Carl Sutherland. He’d been a friend of the boy’s father, who was dead now. After the father’s death, maybe trying to replace a loss they both felt, the boy and Sutherland had started hunting together. Sutherland was a lean, balding man who lived alone and
was not given to casual talk. Once in a while, when they were together, the boy felt uncomfortable, wondered if he had said or done something wrong because he was not used to being around people who kept still for long periods of time. But when he did talk the older man was often opinionated, and frequently the boy didn’t agree with the opinions. Yet the man had a toughness and woods-savvy about him that the boy liked and admired.

  The boy hung up the telephone and went downstairs to tell the girl. She watched while he laid out his things. Hunting coat, shell bag, boots, socks, hunting cap, woolen underwear, pump gun.

  What time will you be back? the girl asked.

  Probably around noon, he said. But maybe not until after five or six o’clock. Is that too late?

  It’s fine, she said. We’ll get along just fine. You go and have some fun. You deserve it. Maybe tomorrow evening we’ll dress Catherine up and go visit Sally.

  Sure, that sounds like a good idea, he said. Let’s plan on that.

  Sally was the girl’s sister. She was ten years older. The boy was a little in love with her, just as he was a little in love with Betsy, who was another sister the girl had. He’d said to the girl, if we weren’t married I could go for Sally.

  What about Betsy? the girl had said. I hate to admit it but I truly feel she’s better looking than Sally or me. What about her?

  Betsy too, the boy said and laughed. But not in the same way I could go for Sally. There’s something about Sally you could fall for. No, I believe I’d prefer Sally over Betsy, if I had to make a choice.

  But who do you really love? the girl asked. Who do you love most in all the world? Who’s your wife?

  You’re my wife, the boy said.

  And will we always love each other? the girl asked, enormously enjoying this conversation he could tell.

  Always, the boy said. And we’ll always be together. We’re like the Canada geese, he said, taking the first comparison that came to mind, for they were often on his mind in those days. They only mate once.

  They choose a mate early in life, and they stay together always. If one of them dies or something, the other one will live by itself, or even continue to live with the flock, but it will stay single and alone amongst all the other geese.

  That’s sad, the girl said. It’s sadder for it to live that way, I think, alone but with all the others, than just to live off by itself somewhere.

  It is sad, the boy said. But it’s Nature.

  Have you ever killed one of those? she asked. You know what I mean.

  He nodded. He said, Two or three times I’ve shot a goose, then a minute or two later I’d see another goose turn back from the rest and begin to circle and call over the goose that lay on the ground.

  Did you shoot it too? she asked with concern.

  If I could, he answered. Sometimes I missed.

  And it didn’t bother you? she said.

  Never, he said. You can’t think about it when you’re doing it. You see, I love everything there is about geese. I love to just watch them even when I’m not hunting them. But there are all kinds of contradictions in life. You can’t think about the contradictions.

  After dinner he turned up the furnace and helped her bathe the baby. He marveled again at the infant who had half his features, the eyes and mouth, and half the girl’s, the chin and the nose. He powdered the tiny body and then powdered in between the fingers and toes. He watched the girl put the baby into its diaper and pajamas.

  He emptied the bath into the shower basin and then he went upstairs. It was cold and overcast outside.

  His breath streamed in the air. The grass, what there was of it, looked like canvas, stiff and gray under the street light. Snow lay in piles beside the walk. A car went by and he heard sand grinding under the tires. He let himself imagine what it might be like tomorrow, geese milling in the air over his head, the gun plunging against his shoulder.

  Then he locked the door and went downstairs.

  In bed they tried to read but both of them fell asleep, she first, letting the magazine sink to the quilt. His eyes closed, but he roused himself, checked the alarm, and turned off the lamp.

  He woke to the baby’s cries. The light was on out in the living room. He could see the girl standing beside the crib rocking the baby in her arms. In a minute she put the baby down, turned out the light and came back to bed. It was two o’clock in the morning and the boy fell asleep once more.

  The baby’s cries woke him again. This time the girl continued to sleep. The baby cried fitfully for a few minutes and stopped. The boy listened, then began to doze.

  He opened his eyes. The living room light was burning. He sat up and turned on the lamp.

  I don’t know what’s wrong, the girl said, walking back and forth with the baby. I’ve changed her and given her something more to e to eat. But she keeps crying. She won’t stop crying. I’m so tired I’m afraid I might drop her.

  You come back to bed, the boy said. I’ll hold her for a while.

  He got up and took the baby while the girl went to lie down.

  Just rock her for a few minutes, the girl said from the bedroom. Maybe she’ll go back to sleep.

  The boy sat on the sofa and held the baby. He jiggled it in his lap until its eyes closed. His own eyes were near closing. He rose carefully and put the baby back in the crib.

  It was fifteen minutes to four and he still had forty-five minutes that he could sleep. He crawled into bed.

  But a few minutes later the baby began to cry once more. This time they both got up, and the boy swore.

  For God’s sake what’s the matter with you? the girl said to him. Maybe she’s sick or something. Maybe we shouldn’t have given her the bath.

  The boy picked up the baby. The baby kicked its feet and was quiet. Look, the boy said, I really don’t think there’s anything wrong with her.

  How do you know that? the girl said. Here, let me have her. I know that I ought to give her something, but I don’t know what I should give her.

  After a few minutes had passed and the baby had not cried, the girl put the baby down again. The boy and the girl looked at the baby, and then they looked at each other as the baby opened its eyes and began to cry.

  The girl took the baby. Baby, baby, she said with tears in her eyes.

  Probably it’s something on her stomach, the boy said.

  The girl didn’t answer. She went on rocking the baby in her arms, paying no attention now to the boy.

  The boy waited a minute longer then went to the kitchen and put on water for coffee. He drew on his woolen underwear and buttoned up. Then he got into his clothes.

  What are you doing? the girl said to him.

  Going hunting, he said.

  I don’t think you should, she said. Maybe you could go later on in the day if the baby is all right then.

  But I don’t think you should go hunting this morning. I don’t want to be left alone with the baby crying like this.

  Carl’s planning on me going, the boy said. We’ve planned it.

  I don’t give a damn about what you and Carl have planned, she said. And I don’t give a damn about Carl, either. I don’t even know the man. I don’t want you to go is all. I don’t think you should even consider wanting to go under the circumstances.

  You’ve met Carl before, you know him, the boy said. What do you mean you don’t know him?

  That’s not the point and you know it, the girl said. The point is I don’t intend to be left alone with a sick baby.

  Wait a minute, the boy said. You don’t understand.

  No, you don’t understand, she said. I’m your wife. This is your baby. She’s sick or something. Look at her. Why is she crying? You can’t leave us to go hunting.

  Don’t get hysterical, he said.

  I’m saying you can go hunting any time, she said. Something’s wrong with this baby and you want to leave us to go hunting.

  She began to cry. She put the baby back in the crib, but the baby started up again. The girl
dried her eyes hastily on the sleeve of her nightgown and picked the baby up once more.

  The boy laced his boots slowly, put on his shirt, sweater, and his coat. The kettle whistled on the stove in the kitchen.

  You’re going to have to choose, the girl said. Carl or us. I mean it, you’ve got to choose.

  What do you mean? the boy said.

  You heard what I said, the girl answered. If you want a family you’re going to have to choose.

  They stared at each other. Then the boy took his hunting gear and went upstairs. He started the car, went around to the windows, and, making a job of it, scraped away the ice.

  The temperature had dropped during the night, but the weather had cleared so that stars had come out.

  The stars gleamed in the sky over his head. Driving, the boy looked out at the stars and was moved when he considered their distance.

  Carl’s porchlight was on, his station wagon parked in the drive with the motor idling. Carl came outside as the boy pulled to the curb. The boy had decided.

  You might want to park off the street, Carl said as the boy came up the walk. I’m ready, just let me hit the lights. I feel like hell, I really do, he went on. I thought maybe you had overslept so I just this minute called your place. Your wife said you had left. I feel like hell.

  It’s okay, the boy said, trying to pick his words. He leaned his weight on one leg and turned up his collar.

  He put his hands in his coat pockets. She was already up, Carl. We’ve both been up for a while. I guess there’s something wrong with the baby. I don’t know. The baby keeps crying, I mean. The thing is, I guess I can’t go this time, Carl.

  You should have just stepped to the phone and called me, boy, Carl said. It’s okay. You know you didn’t have to come over here to tell me. What the hell, this hunting business you can take it or leave it. It’s not important. You want a cup of coffee?

  I’d better get back, the boy said.

  Well, I expect I’ll go ahead then, Carl said. He looked at the boy.

  The boy kept standing on the porch, not saying anything.