Where I'm Calling From: New and Selected Stories

  I don’t say anything right away. What am I supposed to say? They haven’t written the book on this one yet. I need a minute to think. I know it won’t cost me anything to tell her I’ll do whatever she wants. It’s just words, right? Words are easy. But there’s more to it than this; she wants an honest response from me. And I don’t know what I feel about it yet. I shouldn’t be hasty. I can’t say something without thinking about what I’m saying, about consequences, about what she’s going to feel when I say it-whatever it is I say.

  I’m still thinking about it when she says, “What about you?”

  “What about me what?”

  “Do you want to be unplugged if it comes to that? God forbid it ever does, of course,” she says. “But I should have some kind of idea, you know—some word from you now—about what you want me to do if worst comes to worst.” She’s looking at me closely, waiting for me to say. She wants something she can file away to use later, if and when she ever has to. Sure. Okay. Easy enough for me to say, Unplug me, honey, if you think it’s for the best. But I need to consider this a little more. I haven’t even said yet what I will or won’t do for her. Now I have to think about me and my situation. I don’t feel I should jump into this. This is nuts. We’re nuts. But I realize that whatever I say now might come back to me sometime. It’s important. This is a life-and-death thing we’re talking about here.

  She hasn’t moved. She’s still waiting for her answer. And I can see we’re not going anywhere this morning until she has an answer. I think about it some more, and then I say what I mean. “No. Don’t unplug me. I don’t want to be unplugged. Leave me hooked up just as long as possible. Who’s going to object? Are you going to object? Will I be offending anybody? As long as people can stand the sight of me, just so long as they don’t start howling, don’t unplug anything. Let me keep going, okay? Right to the bitter end. Invite my friends in to say good-bye. Don’t do anything rash.”

  “Be serious,” she says. “This is a very serious matter we’re discussing.”

  “I am serious. Don’t unplug me. It’s as simple as that.”

  She nods. “Okay, then. I promise you I won’t.” She hugs me. She holds me tight for a minute. Then she lets me go. She looks at the clock radio and says, “Jesus, we better get moving.”

  So we get out of bed and start getting dressed. In some ways it’s just like any other morning, except we do things faster. We drink coffee and juice and we eat English muffins. We remark on the weather, which is overcast and blustery. We don’t talk anymore about plugs, or about sickness and hospitals and stuff like that. I kiss her and leave her on the front porch with her umbrella open, waiting for her ride to work. Then I hurry to my car and get in. In a minute, after I’ve run the motor, I wave and drive off.

  But during the day, at work, I think about some of those things we talked about this morning. I can’t help it. For one thing, I’m bone-tired from lack of sleep. I feel vulnerable and prey to any random, gruesome thought. Once, when nobody is around, I put my head on my desk and think I might catch a few minutes’ sleep. But when I close my eyes I find myself thinking about it again. In my mind I can see a hospital bed. That’s all—just a hospital bed. The bed’s in a room, I guess. Then I see an oxygen tent over the bed, and beside the bed some of those screens and some big monitors—the kind they have in movies. I open my eyes and sit up in my chair and light a cigarette. I drink some coffee while I smoke the cigarette. Then I look at the time and get back to work.

  At five o’clock, I’m so tired it’s all I can do to drive home. It’s raining, and I have to be careful driving.

  Very careful. There’s been an accident, too. Someone has rear-ended someone else at a traffic light, but I don’t think anyone has been hurt. The cars are still out in the road, and people are standing around in the rain, talking. Still, traffic moves slowly; the police have set out flares.

  When I see my wife, I say, “God, what a day. I’m whipped. How are you doing?” We kiss each other. I take off my coat and hang it up. I take the drink Iris gives me. Then, because it’s been on my mind, and because I want to clear the deck, so to speak, I say, “All right, if it’s what you want to hear, I’ll pull the plug for you. If that’s what you want me to do, I’ll do it. If it will make you happy, here and now, to hear me say so, I’ll say it. I’ll do it for you. I’ll pull the plug, or have it pulled, if I ever think it’s necessary. But what I said about my plug still stands. Now I don’t want to have to think about this stuff ever again. I don’t even want to have to talk about it again. I think we’ve said all there is to say on the subject. We’ve exhausted every angle. I’m exhausted.”

  Iris grins. “Okay,” she says. “At least I know now, anyway. I didn’t before. Maybe I’m crazy, but I feel better somehow, if you want to know. I don’t want to think about it anymore, either. But I’m glad we talked it over. I’ll never bring it up again, either, and that’s a promise.”

  She takes my drink and puts it on the table, next to the phone. She puts her arms around me and holds me and lets her head rest on my shoulder. But here’s the thing. What I’ve just said to her, what I’ve been thinking about off and on all day, well, I feel as if I’ve crossed some kind of invisible line. I feel as if I’ve come to a place I never thought I’d have to come to. And I don’t know how I got here. It’s a strange place. It’s a place where a little harmless dreaming and then some sleepy, early-morning talk has led me into considerations of death and annihilation.

  The phone rings. We let go of each other, and I reach to answer it. “Hello,” I say.

  “Hello, there,” the woman says back.

  It’s the same woman who called this morning, but she isn’t drunk now. At least, I don’t think she is; she doesn’t sound drunk. She is speaking quietly, reasonably, and she is asking me if I can put her in touch with Bud Roberts. She apologizes. She hates to trouble me, she says, but this is an urgent matter. She’s sorry for any trouble she might be giving.

  While she talks, I fumble with my cigarettes. I put one in my mouth and use the lighter. Then it’s my turn to talk. This is what I say to her: “Bud Roberts doesn’t live here. He is not at this number, and I don’t expect he ever will be. I will never, never lay eyes on this man you’re talking about. Please don’t ever call here again. Just don’t, okay? Do you hear me? If you’re not careful, I’ll wring your neck for you.”

  “The gall of that woman,” Iris says.

  My hands are shaking. I think my voice is doing things. But while I’m trying to tell all this to the woman, while I’m trying to make myself understood, my wife moves quickly and bends over, and that’s it. The line goes dead, and I can’t hear anything.

  Intimacy

  I have some business out west anyway, so I stop off in this little town where my former wife lives. We haven’t seen each other in four years. But from time to time, when something of mine appeared, or was written about me in the magazines or papers—a profile or an interview—I sent her these things. I don’t know what I had in mind except I thought she might be interested. In any case, she never responded.

  It is nine in the morning, I haven’t called, and it’s true I don’t know what I am going to find.

  But she lets me in. She doesn’t seem surprised. We don’t shake hands, much less kiss each other. She takes me into the living room. As soon as I sit down she brings me some coffee. Then she comes out with what’s on her mind. She says I’ve caused her anguish, made her feel exposed and humiliated.

  Make no mistake, I feel I’m home. She says.

  But then you were into betrayal early. You always felt comfortable with betrayal. No, she says, that’s not true. Not in the beginning, at any rate. You were different then. But I guess I was different too. Everything was different, she says. No, it was after you turned thirty-five, or thirty-six, whenever it was, around in there anyway, your mid-thirties somewhere, then you started in. You really started in. You turned on me. You did it up pretty then. You must be proud of yoursel
f.

  She says, Sometimes I could scream.

  She says she wishes I’d forget about the hard times, the bad times, when I talk about back then. Spend some time on the good times, she says. Weren’t there some good times? She wishes I’d get off that other subject. She’s bored with it. Sick of hearing about it. Your private hobby horse, she says. What’s done is done and water under the bridge, she says. A tragedy, yes. God knows it was a tragedy and then some. But why keep it going? Don’t you ever get tired of dredging up that old business?

  She says, Let go of the past, for Christ’s sake. Those old hurts. You must have some other arrows in your quiver, she says.

  She says, You know something? I think you’re sick. I think you’re crazy as a bedbug. Hey, you don’t believe the things they’re saying about you, do you? Don’t believe them for a minute, she says. Listen, I could tell them a thing or two. Let them talk to me about it, if they want to hear a story.

  She says, Are you listening to me?

  I’m listening, I say. I’m all ears, I say.

  She says, I’ve really had a bellyful of it, buster! Who asked you here today anyway? I sure as hell didn’t.

  You just show up and walk in. What the hell do you want from me? Blood? You want more blood? I thought you had your fill by now.

  She says, Think of me as dead. I want to be left in peace now. That’s all I want anymore is to be left in peace and forgotten about. Hey, I’m forty-five years old, she says. Forty-five going on fifty-five, or sixtyfive. Lay off, will you.

  She says, Why don’t you wipe the blackboard clean and see what you have left after that? Why don’t you start with a clean slate? See how far that gets you, she says.

  She has to laugh at this. I laugh too, but it’s nerves.

  She says, You know something? I had my chance once, but I let it go. I just let it go. I don’t guess I ever told you. But now look at me. Look! Take a good look while you’re at it. You threw me away, you son of a bitch.

  She says, I was younger then and a better person. Maybe you were too, she says. A better person, I mean. You had to be. You were better then or I wouldn’t have had anything to do with you.

  She says, I loved you so much once. I loved you to the point of distraction. I did. More than anything in the whole wide world. Imagine that. What a laugh that is now. Can you imagine it? We were so intimate once upon a time I can’t believe it now. I think that’s the strangest thing of all now. The memory of being that intimate with somebody. We were so intimate I could puke. I can’t imagine ever being that intimate with somebody else. I haven’t been.

  She says, Frankly, and I mean this, I want to be kept out of it from here on out. Who do you think you are anyway? You think you’re God or somebody? You’re not fit to lick God’s boots, or anybody else’s for that matter. Mister, you’ve been hanging out with the wrong people. But what do I know? I don’t even know what I know any longer. I know I don’t like what you’ve been dishing out. I know that much. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? Am I right?

  Right, I say. Right as rain.

  She says, You’ll agree to anything, won’t you? You give in too easy. You always did. You don’t have any principles, not one. Anything to avoid a fuss. But that’s neither here nor there.

  She says, You remember that time I pulled the knife on you?

  She says this as if in passing, as if it’s not important.

  Vaguely, I say. I must have deserved it, but I don’t remember much about it. Go ahead, why don’t you, and tell me about it.

  She says, I’m beginning to understand something now. I think I know why you’re here. Yes. I know why you’re here, even if you don’t. But you’re a slyboots. You know why you’re here. You’re on a fishing expedition. You’re hunting for material. Am I getting warm? Am I right?

  Tell me about the knife, I say.

  She says, If you want to know, I’m real sorry I didn’t use that knife. I am. I really and truly am. I’ve thought and thought about it, and I’m sorry I didn’t use it. I had the chance. But I hesitated. I hesitated and was lost, as somebody or other said. But I should have used it, the hell with everything and everybody. I should have nicked your arm with it at least. At least that.

  Well, you didn’t, I say. I thought you were going to cut me with it, but you didn’t. I took it away from you.

  She says, You were always lucky. You took it away and then you slapped me. Still, I regret I didn’t use that knife just a little bit. Even a little would have been something to remember me by.

  I remember a lot, I say. I say that, then wish I hadn’t.

  She says, Amen, brother. That’s the bone of contention here, if you hadn’t noticed. That’s the whole problem. But like I said, in my opinion you remember the wrong things. You remember the low, shameful things. That’s why you got interested when I brought up the knife.

  She says, I wonder if you ever have any regret. For whatever that’s worth on the market these days. Not much, I guess. But you ought to be a specialist in it by now.

  Regret, I say. It doesn’t interest me much, to tell the truth. Regret is not a word I use very often. I guess I mainly don’t have it. I admit I hold to the dark view of things.

  Sometimes, anyway. But regret? I don’t think so.

  She says, You’re a real son of a bitch, did you know that? A ruthless, coldhearted son of a bitch. Did anybody ever tell you that?

  You did, I say. Plenty of times.

  She says, I always speak the truth. Even when it hurts. You’ll never catch me in a lie.

  She says, My eyes were opened a long time ago, but by then it was too late. I had my chance but I let it slide through my fingers. I even thought for a while you’d come back. Why’d I think that anyway? I must have been out of my mind. I could cry my eyes out now, but I wouldn’t give you that satisfaction.

  She says, You know what? I think if you were on fire right now, if you suddenly burst into flame this minute, I wouldn’t throw a bucket of water on you.

  She laughs at this. Then her face closes down again.

  She says, Why in hell are you here? You want to hear some more? I could go on for days. I think I know why you turned up, but I want to hear it from you.

  When I don’t answer, when I just keep sitting there, she goes on.

  She says, After that time, when you went away, nothing much mattered after that. Not the kids, not God, not anything. It was like I didn’t know what hit me. It was like I had stopped living. My life had been going along, going along, and then it just stopped. It didn’t just come to a stop, it screeched to a stop. I thought, If I’m not worth anything to him, well, I’m not worth anything to myself or anybody else either.

  That was the worst thing I felt. I thought my heart would break. What am I saying? It did break. Of course it broke. It broke, just like that. It’s still broke, if you want to know. And so there you have it in a nutshell. My eggs in one basket, she says. A tisket, a tasket. All my rotten eggs in one basket.

  She says, You found somebody else for yourself, didn’t you? It didn’t take long. And you’re happy now.

  That’s what they say about you anyway: “He’s happy now.” Hey, I read everything you send! You think I don’t? Listen, I know your heart, mister. I always did. I knew it back then, and I know it now. I know your heart inside and out, and don’t you ever forget it. Your heart is a jungle, a dark forest, it’s a garbage pail, if you want to know. Let them talk to me if they want to ask somebody something. I know how you operate. Just let them come around here, and I’ll give them an earful. I was there. I served, buddy boy. Then you held me up for display and ridicule in your socalled work. For any Tom or Harry to pity or pass judgment on. Ask me if I cared. Ask me if it embarrassed me. Go ahead, ask.

  No, I say, I won’t ask that. I don’t want to get into that, I say.

  Damn straight you don’t! she says. And you know why, too!

  She says, Honey, no offense, but sometimes I think I could shoot you and wa
tch you kick.

  She says, You can’t look me in the eyes, can you?

  She says, and this is exactly what she says, You can’t even look me in the eyes when I’m talking to you.

  So, okay, I look her in the eyes.

  She says, Right. Okay, she says. Now we’re getting someplace, maybe. That’s better. You can tell a lot about the person you’re talking to from his eyes. Everybody knows that. But you know something else?

  There’s nobody in this whole world who would tell you this, but I can tell you. I have the right. I earned that right, sonny. You have yourself confused with somebody else. And that’s the pure truth of it. But what do I know? they’ll say in a hundred years. They’ll say, Who was she anyway?

  She says, In any case, you sure as hell have me confused with somebody else. Hey, I don’t even have the same name anymore! Not the name I was born with, not the name I lived with you with, not even the name I had two years ago. What is this? What is this in hell all about anyway? Let me say something. I want to be left alone now. Please. That’s not a crime.

  She says, Don’t you have someplace else you should be? Some plane to catch? Shouldn’t you be somewhere far from here at this very minute?

  No, I say. I say it again: No. No place, I say. I don’t have anyplace I have to be.

  And then I do something. I reach over and take the sleeve of her blouse between my thumb and forefinger. That’s all. I just touch it that way, and then I just bring my hand back. She doesn’t draw away.

  She doesn’t move.

  Then here’s the thing I do next. I get down on my knees, a big guy like me, and I take the hem of her dress. What am I doing on the floor? I wish I could say. But I know it’s where I ought to be, and I’m there on my knees holding on to the hem of her dress.

  She is still for a minute. But in a minute she says, Hey, it’s all right, stupid. You’re so dumb, sometimes.