Where I'm Calling From (27 page)

Carlyle glanced at Keith and Sarah, but they weren’t paying any attention. They were lining up cookies on another baking sheet.

Mrs. Webster continued. “She left a message. Let me see, I wrote it down, but I think I can remember it.

She said, ‘Tell him’—that is, tell you—’what goes around, comes around.’ I think that’s right. She said you’d understand.”

Carlyle stared at her. He heard Mr. Webster’s truck outside.

“That’s Mr. Webster,” she said and took off the apron.

Carlyle nodded.

“Seven o’clock in the morning?” she asked.

“That will be fine,” he said. “And thank you again.”

That evening he bathed each of the children, got them into their pajamas, and then read to them. He listened to their prayers, tucked in their covers, and turned out the light. It was nearly nine o’clock. He made himself a drink and watched something on TV until he heard Carol’s car pull into the drive.

Around ten, while they were in bed together, the phone rang. He swore, but he didn’t get up to answer it.

It kept ringing.

“It might be important,” Carol said, sitting up. “It might be my sitter. She has this number.”

“It’s my wife,” Carlyle said. “I know it’s her. She’s losing her mind. She’s going crazy. I’m not going to answer it.”

“I have to go pretty soon anyway,” Carol said. “It was real sweet tonight, honey.” She touched his face. 

It was the middle of the fall term.

Mrs. Webster had been with him for nearly six weeks. During this time, Carlyle’s life had undergone a number of changes. For one thing, he was becoming reconciled to the fact that Eileen was gone and, as far as he could understand it, had no intention of coming back. He had stopped imagining that this might change. It was only late at night, on the nights he was not with Carol, that he wished for an end to the love he still had for Eileen and felt tormented as to why all of this had happened. But for the most part he and the children were happy; they thrived under Mrs. Webster’s attentions. Lately, she’d gotten into the routine of making their dinner and keeping it in the oven, warming, until his arrival home from school.

He’d walk in the door to the smell of something good coming from the kitchen and find Keith and Sarah helping to set the dining-room table. Now and again he asked Mrs. Webster if she would care for overtime work on Saturdays. She agreed, as long as it wouldn’t entail her being at his house before noon.

Saturday mornings, she said, she had things to do for Mr. Webster and herself. On these days, Carol would leave Dodge with Carlyle’s children, all of them under Mrs. Webster’s care, and Carol and he would drive to a restaurant out in the country for dinner. He believed his life was beginning again.

Though he hadn’t heard from Eileen since that call six weeks ago, he found himself able to think about her now without either being angry or else feeling close to tears.

At school, they were just leaving the medieval period and about to enter the Gothic. The Renaissance was still some time off, at least not until after the Christmas recess. It was during this time that Carlyle got sick. Overnight, it seemed, his chest tightened and his head began to hurt. The joints of his body became stiff. He felt dizzy when he moved around. The headache got worse. He woke up with it on a Sunday and thought of calling Mrs. Webster to ask her to come and take the children somewhere. They’d been sweet to him, bringing him glasses of juice and some soda pop. But he couldn’t take care of them.

On the second morning of his illness, he was just able to get to the phone to call in sick. He gave his name, his school, department, and the nature of his illness to the person who answered the number. Then he recommended Mel Fisher as his substitute. Fisher was a man who painted abstract oils three or four days a week, sixteen hours a day, but who didn’t sell or even show his work.

He was a friend of Carlyle’s. “Get Mel Fisher,” Carlyle told the woman on the other end of the line.

“Fisher,” he whispered.

He made it back to his bed, got under the covers, and went to sleep. In his sleep, he heard the pickup engine running outside, and then the backfire it made as the engine was turned off. Sometime later he heard Mrs. Webster’s voice outside the bedroom door.

“Mr. Carlyle?”

“Yes, Mrs. Webster.” His voice sounded strange to him. He kept his eyes shut. “I’m sick today. I called the school. I’m going to stay in bed today.”

“I see. Don’t worry, then,” she said. “I’ll look after things at this end.”

He shut his eyes. Directly, still in a state between sleeping and waking, he thought he heard his front door open and close. He listened. Out in the kitchen, he heard a man say something in a low voice, and a chair being pulled away from the table. Pretty soon he heard the voices of the children. Sometime later-he wasn’t sure how much time had passed—he heard Mrs. Webster outside his door.

“Mr. Carlyle, should I call the doctor?”

“No, that’s all right,” he said. “I think it’s just a bad cold. But I feel hot all over. I think I have too many covers. And it’s too warm in the house. Maybe you’ll turn down the furnace.” Then he felt himself drift back into sleep.

In a little while, he heard the children talking to Mrs. Webster in the living room. Were they coming inside or going out? Carlyle wondered. Could it be the next day already?

He went back to sleep. But then he was aware of his door opening. Mrs. Webster appeared beside his bed. She put her hand on his forehead.

“You’re burning up,” she said. “You have a fever.”

“I’ll be all right,” Carlyle said. “I just need to sleep a little longer. And maybe you could turn the furnace down. Please, I’d appreciate it if you could get me some aspirin. I have an awful headache.”

Mrs. Webster left the room. But his door stood open. Carlyle could hear the TV going out there. “Keep it down, Jim,” he heard her say, and the volume was lowered at once. Carlyle fell asleep again.

But he couldn’t have slept more than a minute, because Mrs. Webster was suddenly back in his room with a tray. She sat down on the side of his bed. He roused himself and tried to sit up. She put a pillow behind his back.

“Take these,” she said and gave him some tablets. “Drink this.” She held a glass of juice for him. “I also brought you some Cream of Wheat. I want you to eat it. It’ll be good for you.”

He took the aspirin and drank the juice. He nodded. But he shut his eyes once more. He was going back to sleep.

“Mr. Carlyle,” she said.

He opened his eyes. “I’m awake,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He sat up a little. “I’m too warm, that’s all. What time is it? Is it eight-thirty yet?”

“It’s a little after nine-thirty,” she said.

“Nine-thirty,” he said.

“Now I’m going to feed this cereal to you. And you’re going to open up and eat it. Six bites, that’s all.

Here, here’s the first bite. Open,” she said. “You’re going to feel better after you eat this. Then I’ll let you go back to sleep. You eat this, and then you can sleep all you want.”

He ate the cereal she spooned to him and asked for more juice. He drank the juice, and then he pulled down in the bed again. Just as he was going off to sleep, he felt her covering him with another blanket.

The next time he awoke, it was afternoon. He could tell it was afternoon by the pale light that came through his window. He reached up and pulled the curtain back. He could see that it was overcast outside; the wintry sun was behind the clouds. He got out of bed slowly, found his slippers, and put on his robe. He went into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. Then he washed his face and took some more aspirin. He used the towel and then went out to the living room.

On the dining-room table, Mrs. Webster had spread some newspaper, and she and the children were pinching clay figures together. They had already made some things that had long necks and bulging eyes, things that resembled giraffes, or else dinosaurs. Mrs. Webster looked up as he walked by the table.

“How are you feeling?” Mrs. Webster asked him as he settled onto the sofa. He could see into the diningroom area, where Mrs. Webster and the children sat at the table.

“Better, thanks. A little better,” he said. “I still have a headache, and I feel a little warm.” He brought the back of his hand up to his forehead. “But I’m better. Yes, I’m better. Thanks for your help this morning.”

“Can I get you anything now?” Mrs. Webster said. “Some more juice or some tea? I don’t think coffee would hurt, but I think tea would be better. Some juice would be best of all.”

“No, no thanks,” he said. “I’ll just sit here for a while. It’s good to be out of bed. I feel a little weak is all.

Mrs. Webster?”

She looked at him and waited.

“Did I hear Mr. Webster in the house this morning? It’s fine, of course. I’m just sorry I didn’t get a chance to meet him and say hello.”

“It was him,” she said. “He wanted to meet you, too. I asked him to come in. He just picked the wrong morning, what with you being sick and all. I’d wanted to tell you something about our plans, Mr.

Webster’s and mine, but this morning wasn’t a good time for it.”

“Tell me what?” he said, alert, fear plucking at his heart.

She shook her head. “It’s all right,” she said. “It can wait.”

“Tell him what?” Sarah said. “Tell him what?”

“What, what?” Keith picked it up. The children stopped what they were doing.

“Just a minute, you two,” Mrs. Webster said as she got to her feet.

“Mrs. Webster, Mrs. Webster!” Keith cried.

“Now see here, little man,” Mrs. Webster said. “I need to talk to your father. Your father is sick today.

You just take it easy. You go on and play with your clay. If you don’t watch it, your sister is going to get ahead of you with these creatures.”

Just as she began to move toward the living room, the phone rang. Carlyle reached over to the end table and picked up the receiver.

As before, he heard faint singing in the wire and knew that it was Eileen. “Yes,” he said. “What is it?”

“Carlyle,” his wife said, “I know, don’t ask me how, that things are not going so well right now. You’re sick, aren’t you? Richard’s been sick, too. It’s something going around. He can’t keep anything on his stomach. He’s already missed a week of rehearsal for this play he’s doing. I’ve had to go down myself and help block out scenes with his assistant. But I didn’t call to tell you that. Tell me how things are out there.”

“Nothing to tell,” Carlyle said. “I’m sick, that’s all. A touch of the flu. But I’m getting better.”

“Are you still writing in your journal?” she asked. It caught him by surprise. Several years before, he’d told her that he was keeping a journal. Not a diary, he’d said, a journal—as if that explained something.

But he’d never shown it to her, and he hadn’t written in it for over a year. He’d forgotten about it.

“Because,” she said, “you ought to write something in the journal during this period. How you feel and what you’re thinking. You know, where your head is at during this period of sickness. Remember, sickness is a message about your health and your well-being. It’s telling you things. Keep a record. You know what I mean? When you’re well, you can look back and see what the message was. You can read it later, after the fact. Colette did that,” Eileen said. “When she had a fever this one time.”

“Who?” Carlyle said. “What did you say?”

“Colette,” Eileen answered. “The French writer. You know who I’m talking about. We had a book of hers around the house. (Gigi or something. I didn’t read that book, but I’ve been reading her since I’ve been out here. Richard turned me on to her. She wrote a little book about what it was like, about what she was thinking and feeling the whole time she had this fever. Sometimes her temperature was a hundred and two. Sometimes it was lower. Maybe it went higher than a hundred and two. But a hundred and two was the highest she ever took her temperature and wrote, too, when she had the fever. Anyway, she wrote about it. That’s what I’m saying. Try writing about what it’s like. Something might come of it,”

Eileen said and, inexplicably, it seemed to Carlyle, she laughed. “At least later on you’d have an hour-byhour account of your sickness. To look back at. At least you’d have that to show for it. Right now you’ve just got this discomfort. You’ve got to translate that into something usable.”

He pressed his fingertips against his temple and shut his eyes. But she was still on the line, waiting for him to say something. What could he say.’ It was clear to him that she was insane.

“Jesus,” he said. “Jesus, Eileen. I don’t know what to say to that. I really don’t. I have to go now. Thanks for calling,” he said.

“It’s all right,” she said. “We have to be able to communicate. Kiss the kids for me. Tell them I love them. And Richard sends his hellos to you. Even though he’s flat on his back.”

“Good-bye,” Carlyle said and hung up. Then he brought his hands to his face. He remembered, for some reason, seeing the fat girl make the same gesture that time as she moved toward the car. He lowered his hands and looked at Mrs. Webster, who was watching him.

“Not bad news, I hope,” she said. The old woman had moved a chair near to where he sat on the sofa.

Carlyle shook his head.

“Good,” Mrs. Webster said. “That’s good. Now, Mr. Carlyle, this may not be the best time in the world to talk about this.” She glanced out to the dining room. At the table, the children had their heads bent over the clay. “But since it has to be talked about sometime soon, and since it concerns you and the children, and you’re up now, I have something to tell you. Jim and I, we’re getting on. The thing is, we need something more than we have at the present. Do you know what I’m saying? This is hard for me.” she said and shook her head. Carlyle nodded slowly. He knew that she was going to tell him she had to leave. He wiped his face on his sleeve.

“Jim’s son by a former marriage, Bob—the man is forty years old—called yesterday to invite us to go out to Oregon and help him with his mink ranch. Jim would be doing whatever they do with minks, and I’d cook, buy the groceries, clean house, and do anything else that needed doing. It’s a chance for both of us.