Where I'm Calling From: New and Selected Stories

As I said, this is my second time at Frank Martin’s. When I was trying to sign a check to pay in advance for a week’s stay, Frank Martin said, “The holidays are always bad. Maybe you should think of sticking around a little longer this time? Think in terms of a couple of weeks. Can you do a couple of weeks?

  Think about it, anyway. You don’t have to decide anything right now,” he said. He held his thumb on the check and I signed my name. Then I walked my girlfriend to the front door and said goodbye.

  “Goodbye,” she said, and she lurched into the doorjamb and then onto the porch. It’s late afternoon. It’s raining. I go from the door to the window. I move the curtain and watch her drive away. She’s in my car.

  She’s drunk. But I’m drunk, too, and there’s nothing I can do. I make it to a big chair that’s close to the radiator, and I sit down. Some guys look up from their TV. Then they shift back to what they were watching. I just sit there. Now and then I look up at something that’s happening on the screen.

  Later that afternoon the front door banged open and J.P. was brought in between these two big guys—his father-in-law and brother-in-law, I find out afterward. They steered J.P. across the room. The old guy signed him in and gave Frank Martin a check. Then these two guys helped J.P. upstairs. I guess they put him to bed. Pretty soon the old guy and the other guy came downstairs and headed for the front door.

  They couldn’t seem to get out of this place fast enough. It was like they couldn’t wait to wash their hands of all this. I didn’t blame them. Hell, no. I don’t know how I’d act if I was in their shoes.

  A day and a half later J.P. and I meet up on the front porch. We shake hands and comment on the weather. J.P. has a case of the shakes. We sit down and prop our feet up on the railing. We lean back in our chairs like we’re just out there taking our ease, like we might be getting ready to talk about our bird dogs. That’s when J.P. gets going with his story.

  It’s cold out, but not too cold. It’s a little overcast. Frank Martin comes outside to finish his cigar. He has on a sweater buttoned all the way up. Frank Martin is short and heavy. He has curly gray hair and a small head. His head is too small for the rest of his body. Frank Martin puts the cigar in his mouth and stands with his arms crossed over his chest. He works that cigar in his mouth and looks across the valley. He stands there like a prizefighter, like somebody who knows the score.

  J.P. gets quiet again. I mean, he’s hardly breathing. I toss my cigarette into the coal bucket and look hard at J.P., who scoots farther down in his chair. J.P. pulls up his collar. What the hell’s going on? I wonder.

  Frank Martin uncrosses his arms and takes a puff on the cigar. He lets the smoke carry out of his mouth.

  Then he raises his chin toward the hills and says, “Jack London used to have a big place on the other side of this valley. Right over there behind that green hill you’re looking at. But alcohol killed him. Let that be a lesson to you. He was a better man than any of us. But he couldn’t handle the stuff, either.”

  Frank Martin looks at what’s left of his cigar. It’s gone out. He tosses it into the bucket. “You guys want to read something while you’re here, read that book of his, The Call of the Wild. You know the one I’m talking about? We have it inside if you want to read something. It’s about this animal that’s half dog and half wolf. End of sermon,” he says, and then hitches his pants up and tugs his sweater down. “I’m going inside,” he says. “See you at lunch.”

  “I feel like a bug when he’s around,” J.P. says. “He makes me feel like a bug.” J.P. shakes his head. Then he says, “Jack London. What a name! I wish I had me a name like that. Instead of the name I got.”

  My wife brought me up here the first time. That’s when we were still together, trying to make things work out. She brought me here and she stayed around for an hour or two, talking to Frank Martin in private. Then she left. The next morning Frank Martin got me aside and said, “We can help you. If you want help and want to listen to what we say.” But I didn’t know if they could help me or not. Part of me wanted help. But there was another part.

  This time around, it was my girlfriend who drove me here. She was driving my car. She drove us through a rainstorm. We drank champagne all the way. We were both drunk when she pulled up in the drive. She intended to drop me off, turn around, and drive home again. She had things to do. One thing she had to do was to go to work the next day. She was a secretary. She had an okay job with this electronic-parts firm. She also had this mouthy teenaged son. I wanted her to get a room in town, spend the night, and then drive home. I don’t know if she got the room or not. I haven’t heard from her since she led me up the front steps the other day and walked me into Frank Martin’s office and said, “Guess who’s here.”

  But I wasn’t mad at her. In the first place, she didn’t have any idea what she was letting herself in for when she said I could stay with her after my wife asked me to leave. I felt sorry for her. The reason I felt sorry for her was that on the day before Christmas her Pap smear came back, and the news was not cheery. She’d have to go back to the doctor, and real soon. That kind of news was reason enough for both of us to start drinking. So what we did was get ourselves good and drunk. And on Christmas Day we were still drunk. We had to go out to a restaurant to eat, because she didn’t feel like cooking. The two of us and her mouthy teenaged son opened some presents, and then we went to this steakhouse near her apartment. I wasn’t hungry. I had some soup and a hot roll. I drank a bottle of wine with the soup. She drank some wine, too. Then we started in on Bloody Marys. For the next couple of days, I didn’t eat anything except salted nuts. But I drank a lot of bourbon. Then I said to her, “Sugar, I think I’d better pack up. I better go back to Frank Martin’s.”

  She tried to explain to her son that she was going to be gone for a while and he’d have to get his own food. But right as we were going out the door, this mouthy kid screamed at us. He screamed, “The hell with you! I hope you never come back. I hope you kill yourselves!” Imagine this kid!

  Before we left town, I had her stop at the package store, where I bought us the champagne. We stopped someplace else for plastic glasses. Then we picked up a bucket of fried chicken. We set out for Frank Martin’s in this rainstorm, drinking and listening to music. She drove. I looked after the radio and poured. We tried to make a little party of it. But we were sad, too. There was that fried chicken, but we didn’t eat any.

  I guess she got home okay. I think I would have heard something if she didn’t. But she hasn’t called me, and I haven’t called her. Maybe she’s had some news about herself by now. Then again, maybe she hasn’t heard anything. Maybe it was all a mistake. Maybe it was somebody else’s smear. But she has my car, and I have things at her house. I know we’ll be seeing each other again.

  They clang an old farm bell here to call you for mealtime. J.P. and I get out of our chairs and we go inside. It’s starting to get too cold on the porch, anyway. We can see our breath drifting out from us as we talk.

  New Year’s Eve morning I try to call my wife. There’s no answer. It’s okay. But even if it wasn’t okay, what am I supposed to do? The last time we talked on the phone, a couple of weeks ago, we screamed at each other. I hung a few names on her. “Wet brain!” she said, and put the phone back where it belonged.

  But I wanted to talk to her now. Something had to be done about my stuff. I still had things at her house, too.

  One of the guys here is a guy who travels. He goes to Europe and places. That’s what he says, anyway.

  Business, he says. He also says he has his drinking under control and he doesn’t have any idea why he’s here at Frank Martin’s. But he doesn’t remember getting here. He laughs about it, about his not remembering. “Anyone can have a blackout,” he says. “That doesn’t prove a thing.” He’s not a drunk—he tells us this and we listen. “That’s a serious charge to make,” he says. “That kind of talk can ruin a good man’s prospects.” He says that if he’d only stick to whiskey and wa
ter, no ice, he’d never have these blackouts. It’s the ice they put into your drink that does it. “Who do you know in Egypt?” he asks me. “I can use a few names over there.”

  For New Year’s Eve dinner Frank Martin serves steak and baked potato. My appetite’s coming back. I clean up everything on my plate and I could eat more. I look over at Tiny’s plate. Hell, he’s hardly touched a thing. His steak is just sitting there. Tiny is not the same old Tiny. The poor bastard had planned to be at home tonight. He’d planned to be in his robe and slippers in front of the TV, holding hands with his wife. Now he’s afraid to leave. I can understand. One seizure means you’re ready for another. Tiny hasn’t told any more nutty stories on himself since it happened. He’s stayed quiet and kept to himself. I ask him if I can have his steak, and he pushes his plate over to me.

  Some of us are still up, sitting around the TV, watching Times Square, when Frank Martin comes in to show us his cake. He brings it around and shows it to each of us. I know he didn’t make it. It’s just a bakery cake. But it’s still a cake. It’s a big white cake. Across the top there’s writing in pink letters. The writing says, HAPPY NEW YEAR—ONE DAY AT A TIME.

  “I don’t want any fucking cake,” says the guy who goes to Europe and places. “Where’s the champagne?” he says, and laughs.

  We all go into the dining room. Frank Martin cuts the cake. I sit next to J.P. He eats two pieces and drinks a Coke. I eat a piece and wrap another piece in a napkin, thinking of later.

  J.P. lights a cigarette—his hands are steady now—and he tells me his wife is coming in the morning, the first day of the new year.

  “That’s great,” I say. I nod. I lick the frosting off my finger. “That’s good news, J.P.”

  “I’ll introduce you,” he says.

  “I look forward to it,” I say.

  We say goodnight. We say Happy New Year. I use a napkin on my fingers. We shake hands.

  I go to the phone, put in a dime, and call my wife collect. But nobody answers this time, either. I think about calling my girlfriend, and I’m dialing her number when I realize I really don’t want to talk to her.

  She’s probably at home watching the same thing on TV that I’ve been watching. Anyway, I don’t want to talk to her. I hope she’s okay. But if she has something wrong with her, I don’t want to know about it.

  After breakfast, J.P. and I take coffee out to the porch. The sky is clear, but it’s cold enough for sweaters and jackets.

  “She asked me if she should bring the kids,” J.P. says. “I told her she should keep the kids at home. Can you imagine? My God, I don’t want my kids up here.”

  We use the coal bucket for an ashtray. We look across the valley to where Jack London used to live.

  We’re drinking more coffee when this car turns off the road and comes down the drive.

  “That’s her!” J.P. says. He puts his cup next to his chair. He gets up and goes down the steps.

  I see this woman stop the car and set the brake. I see J.P. open the door. I watch her get out, and I see them hug each other. I look away.

  Then I look back. J.P. takes her by the arm and they come up the stairs. This woman broke a man’s nose once. She has had two kids, and much trouble, but she loves this man who has her by the arm. I get up from the chair.

  “This is my friend,” J.P. says to his wife. “Hey, this is Roxy.”

  Roxy takes my hand. She’s a tall, good-looking woman in a knit cap. She has on a coat, a heavy sweater, and slacks. I recall what J.P. told me about the boyfriend and the wire-cutters. I don’t see any wedding ring. That’s in pieces somewhere, I guess. Her hands are broad and the fingers have these big knuckles.

  This is a woman who can make fists if she has to.

  “I’ve heard about you,” I say. “J.P. told me how you got acquainted. Something about a chimney, J.P. said.”

  “Yes, a chimney,” she says. “There’s probably a lot else he didn’t tell you,” she says. “I bet he didn’t tell you everything,” she says, and laughs. Then—she can’t wait any longer—she slips her arm around J.P. and kisses him on the cheek. They start to move to the door. “Nice meeting you,” she says. “Hey, did he tell you he’s the best sweep in the business?”

  “Come on now, Roxy,” J.P. says. He has his hand on the doorknob.

  “He told me he learned everything he knew from you,” I say.

  “Well, that much is sure true,” she says. She laughs again. But it’s like she’s thinking about something else. J.P. turns the doorknob. Roxy lays her hand over his. “Joe, can’t we go into town for lunch? Can’t I take you someplace?”

  J.P. clears his throat. He says, “It hasn’t been a week yet.” He takes his hand off the doorknob and brings his fingers to his chin. “I think they’d like it if I didn’t leave the place for a little while yet. We can have some coffee here,” he says.

  “That’s fine,” she says. Her eyes work over to me again. “I’m glad Joe’s made a friend. Nice to meet you,” she says.

  They start to go inside. I know it’s a dumb thing to do, but I do it anyway. “Roxy,” I say. And they stop in the doorway and look at me. “I need some luck,” I say. “No kidding. I could do with a kiss myself.”

  J.P. looks down. He’s still holding the knob, even though the door is open. He turns the knob back and forth. But I keep looking at her. Roxy grins. “I’m not a sweep anymore,” she says. “Not for years. Didn’t Joe tell you that? But, sure, I’ll kiss you, sure.”

  She moves over. She takes me by the shoulders—I’m a big man—and she plants this kiss on my lips.

  “How’s that?” she says.

  “That’s fine,” I say.

  “Nothing to it,” she says. She’s still holding me by the shoulders. She’s looking me right in the eyes.

  “Good luck,” she says, and then she lets go of me.

  “See you later, pal,” J.P. says. He opens the door all the way, and they go in.

  I sit down on the front steps and light a cigarette. I watch what my hand does, then I blow out the match.

  I’ve got the shakes. I started out with them this morning. This morning I wanted something to drink. It’s depressing, but I didn’t say anything about it to J.P. I try to put my mind on something else.

  I’m thinking about chimney sweeps—all that stuff I heard from J.P.— when for some reason I start to think about a house my wife and I once lived in. That house didn’t have a chimney, so I don’t know what makes me remember it now. But I remember the house and how we’d only been in there a few weeks when I heard a noise outside one morning. It was Sunday morning and it was still dark in the bedroom.

  But there was this pale light coming in from the bedroom window. I listened. I could hear something scrape against the side of the house. I jumped out of bed and went to look.

  “My God!” my wife says, sitting up in bed and shaking the hair away from her face. Then she starts to laugh. “It’s Mr. Venturini,” she says. “I forgot to tell you. He said he was coming to paint the house today. Early. Before it gets too hot. I forgot all about it,” she says, and laughs. “Come on back to bed, honey. It’s just him.”

  “In a minute,” I say. I push the curtain away from the window. Outside, this old guy in white coveralls is standing next to his ladder. The sun is just starting to break above the mountains. The old guy and I look each other over. It’s the landlord, all right—this old guy in coveralls. But his coveralls are too big for him. He needs a shave, too. And he’s wearing this baseball cap to cover his bald head. Goddamn it, I think, if he isn’t a weird old fellow. And a wave of happiness comes over me that I’m not him—that I’m me and that I’m inside this bedroom with my wife.

  He jerks his thumb toward the sun. He pretends to wipe his forehead. He’s letting me know he doesn’t have all that much time. He breaks into a grin. It’s then I realize I’m naked. I look down at myself. I look at him again and shrug. What did he expect?

  My wife laughs. “Come on,” she sa
ys. “Get back in this bed. Right now. This minute. Come on back to bed.”

  I let go of the curtain. But I keep standing there at the window. I can see the old fellow nod to himself like he’s saying, “Go on, sonny, go back to bed. I understand.” He tugs on the bill of his cap. Then he sets about his business. He picks up his bucket. He starts climbing the ladder.

  I lean back into the step behind me now and cross one leg over the other. Maybe later this afternoon I’ll try calling my wife again. And then I’ll call to see what’s happening with my girlfriend. But I don’t want to get her mouthy kid on the line. If I do call, I hope he’ll be out somewhere doing whatever he does when he’s not around the house. I try to remember if I ever read any Jack London books. I can’t remember. But there was a story of his I read in high school. “To Build a Fire,” it was called. This guy in the Yukon is freezing. Imagine it—he’s actually going to freeze to death if he can’t get a fire going. With a fire, he can dry his socks and things and warm himself.

  He gets his fire going, but then something happens to it. A branchful of snow drops on it. It goes out.

  Meanwhile, it’s getting colder. Night is coming on.

  I bring some change out of my pocket. I’ll try my wife first. If she answers, I’ll wish her a Happy New Year. But that’s it. I won’t bring up business. I won’t raise my voice. Not even if she starts something.

  She’ll ask me where I’m calling from, and I’ll have to tell her. I won’t say anything about New Year’s resolutions. There’s no way to make a joke out of this. After I talk to her, I’ll call my girlfriend. Maybe I’ll call her first. I’ll just have to hope I don’t get her kid on the line. “Hello, sugar,” I’ll say when she answers. “It’s me.”

  Chefs House

  That summer Wes rented a furnished house north of Eureka from a recovered alcoholic named Chef.

  Then he called to ask me to forget what I had going and to move up there and live with him. He said he was on the wagon. I knew about that wagon. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He called again and said, Edna, you can see the ocean from the front window. You can smell salt in the air. I listened to him talk. He didn’t slur his words. I said, I’ll think about it. And I did. A week later he called again and said, Are you coming? I said I was still thinking. He said, We’ll start over. I said, If I come up there, I want you to do something for me. Name it, Wes said. I said, I want you to try and be the Wes I used to know.