Where I'm Calling From (39 page)

So she walks me to the front door, which has been standing open all this while. The door that was letting in light and fresh air this morning, and sounds off the street, all of which we had ignored. I look outside and, Jesus, there’s this white moon hanging in the morning sky. I can’t think when I’ve ever seen anything so remarkable. But I’m afraid to comment on it. I am. I don’t know what might happen. I might break into tears even. I might not understand a word I’d say.

She says, Maybe you’ll be back sometime, and maybe you won’t. This’ll wear off, you know. Pretty soon you’ll start feeling bad again. Maybe it’ll make a good story, she says. But I don’t want to know about it if it does.

I say good-bye. She doesn’t say anything more. She looks at her hands, and then she puts them into the pockets of her dress. She shakes her head. She goes back inside, and this time she closes the door.

I move off down the sidewalk. Some kids are tossing a football at the end of the street. But they aren’t my kids, and they aren’t her kids either. There are these leaves everywhere, even in the gutters. Piles of leaves wherever I look. They’re falling off the limbs as I walk. I can’t take a step without putting my shoe into leaves. Somebody ought to make an effort here. Somebody ought to get a rake and take care of this.

I can’t sleep, but when I’m sure my wife Vicky is asleep, I get up and look through our bedroom window, across the street, at Oliver and Amanda’s house. Oliver has been gone for three days, but his wife Amanda is awake. She can’t sleep either. It’s four in the morning, and there’s not a sound outside-no wind, no cars, no moon even—just Oliver and Amanda’s place with the lights on, leaves heaped up under the front windows.

A couple of days ago, when I couldn’t sit still, I raked our yard— Vicky’s and mine. I gathered all the leaves into bags, tied off the tops, and put the bags alongside the curb. I had an urge then to cross the street and rake over there, but I didn’t follow through. It’s my fault things are the way they are across the street.

I’ve only slept a few hours since Oliver left. Vicky saw me moping around the house, looking anxious, and decided to put two and two together. She’s on her side of the bed now, scrunched on to about ten inches of mattress. She got into bed and tried to position herself so she wouldn’t accidentally roll into me while she slept. She hasn’t moved since she lay down, sobbed, and then dropped into sleep. She’s exhausted. I’m exhausted too.

I’ve taken nearly all of Vicky’s pills, but I still can’t sleep. I’m keyed up. But maybe if I keep looking I’ll catch a glimpse of Amanda moving around inside her house, or else find her peering from behind a curtain, trying to see what she can see over here.

What if I do see her? So what? What then?

Vicky says I’m crazy. She said worse things too last night. But who could blame her? I told her—I had to—but I didn’t tell her it was Amanda. When Amanda’s name came up, I insisted it wasn’t her. Vicky suspects, but I wouldn’t name names. I wouldn’t say who, even though she kept pressing and then hit me a few times in the head.

“What’s it matter who?” I said. “You’ve never met the woman,” I lied. “You don’t know her.” That’s when she started hitting me.

I feel wired. That’s what my painter friend Alfredo used to call it when he talked about friends of his coming down off something. Wired. I’m wired.

This thing is nuts. I know it is, but I can’t stop thinking about Amanda. Things are so bad just now I even find myself thinking about my first wife, Molly. I loved Molly, I thought, more than my own life.

I keep picturing Amanda in her pink nightgown, the one I like on her so much, along with her pink slippers. And I feel certain she’s in the big leather chair right now, under the brass reading lamp. She’s smoking cigarettes, one after the other. There are two ashtrays close at hand, and they’re both full. To the left of her chair, next to the lamp, there’s an end table stacked with magazines—the usual magazines that nice people read. We’re nice people, all of us, to a point. Right this minute, Amanda is, I imagine, paging through a magazine, stopping every so often to look at an illustration or a cartoon.

Two days ago, in the afternoon, Amanda said to me, “I can’t read books any more. Who has the time?” It was the day after Oliver had left, and we were in this little cafe in the industrial part of the city. “Who can concentrate anymore?” she said, stirring her coffee. “Who reads? Do you read?” (I shook my head.)

“Somebody must read, I guess. You see all these books around in store windows, and there are those clubs. Somebody’s reading,” she said. “Who? I don’t know anybody who reads.”

That’s what she said, apropos of nothing—that is, we weren’t talking about books, we were talking about our lives. Books had nothing to do with it.

“What did Oliver say when you told him?”

Then it struck me that what we were saying—the tense, watchful expressions we wore—belonged to the people on afternoon TV programs that I’d never done more than switch on and then off.

Amanda looked down and shook her head, as if she couldn’t bear to remember.

“You didn’t admit who it was you were involved with, did you?”

She shook her head again.

“You’re sure of that?” I waited until she looked up from her coffee. “I didn’t mention any names, if that’s what you mean.”

“Did he say where he was going, or how long he’d be away?” I said, wishing I didn’t have to hear myself. This was my neighbor I was talking about. Oliver Porter. A man I’d helped drive out of his home.

“He didn’t say where. A hotel. He said I should make my arrangements and be gone—be gone, he said. It was like biblical the way he said it—out of his house, out of his life, in a week’s time. I guess he’s coming back then. So we have to decide something real important, real soon, honey. You and I have to make up our minds pretty damn quick.”

It was her turn to look at me now, and I know she was looking for a sign of life-long commitment. “A week,” I said. I looked at my coffee, which had gotten cold. A lot had happened in a little while, and we were trying to take it in. I don’t know what long-term things, if any, we’d thought about those months as we moved from flirtation to love, and then afternoon assignations. In any case, we were in a serious fix now. Very serious. We’d never expected—not in a hundred years—to be hiding out in a cafe, in the middle of the afternoon, trying to decide matters like this.

I raised my eyes, and Amanda began stirring her coffee. She kept stirring it. I touched her hand, and the spoon dropped out of her fingers. She picked it up and began stirring again. We could have been anybody drinking coffee at a table under fluorescent lights in a run-down cafe. Anybody, just about. I took Amanda’s hand and held it, and it seemed to make a difference.

Vicky’s still sleeping on her side when I go downstairs. I plan to heat some milk and drink that. I used to drink whiskey when I couldn’t sleep, but I gave it up. Now it’s strictly hot milk. In the whiskey days I’d wake up with this tremendous thirst in the middle of the night. But, back then, I was always looking ahead: I kept a bottle of water in the fridge, for instance. I’d be dehydrated, sweating from head to toe when I woke, but I’d wander out to the kitchen and could count on finding that bottle of cold water in the fridge. I’d drink it, all of it, down the hatch, an entire quart of water. Once in a while I’d use a glass, but not often. Suddenly I’d be drunk all over again and weaving around the kitchen. I can’t begin to account for it—sober one minute, drunk the next.

The drinking was part of my destiny—according to Molly, anyway. She put a lot of stock in destiny.

I feel wild from lack of sleep. I’d give anything, just about, to be able to go to sleep, and sleep the sleep of an honest man. Why do we have to sleep anyway? And why do we tend to sleep less during some crises and more during others? For instance, that time my dad had his stroke. He woke up after a coma-seven days and nights in a hospital bed—and calmly said “Hello” to the people in his room. Then his eyes picked me out. “Hello, son,” he said. Five minutes later, he died. Just like that—he died. But, during that whole crisis, I never took my clothes off and didn’t go to bed. I may have catnapped in a waiting-room chair from time to time, but I never went to bed and slept.

And then a year or so ago I found out Vicky was seeing somebody else. Instead of confronting her, I went to bed when I heard about it, and stayed there. I didn’t get up for days, a week maybe—I don’t know. I mean, I got up to go to the bathroom, or else to the kitchen to make a sandwich. I even went out to the living room in my pajamas, in the afternoon, and tried to read the papers. But I’d fall asleep sitting up. Then I’d stir, open my eyes and go back to bed and sleep some more. I couldn’t get enough sleep.

It passed. We weathered it. Vicky quit her boyfriend, or he quit her, I never found out. I just know she went away from me for a while, and then she came back. But I have the feeling we’re not going to weather this business. This thing is different. Oliver has given Amanda that ultimatum.

Still, isn’t it possible that Oliver himself is awake at this moment and writing a letter to Amanda, urging reconciliation? Even now he might be scribbling away, trying to persuade her that what she’s doing to him and their daughter Beth is foolish, disastrous, and finally a tragic thing for the three of them.

No, that’s insane. I know Oliver. He’s relentless, unforgiving. He could slam a croquet ball into the next block—and has. He isn’t going to write any such letter. He gave her an ultimatum, right?—and that’s that.

A week. Four days now. Or is it three? Oliver may be awake, but if he is, he’s sitting in a chair in his hotel room with a glass of iced vodka in his hand, his feet on the bed, TV turned on low. He’s dressed, except for his shoes. He’s not wearing shoes—that’s the only concession he makes. That and the fact he’s loosened his tie.

Oliver is relentless.

I heat the milk, spoon the skin from the surface and pour it up. Then I turn off the kitchen light and take the cup into the living room and sit on the sofa, where I can look across the street at the lighted windows. But I can hardly sit still. I keep fidgeting, crossing one leg and then the other. I feel like I could throw off sparks, or break a window-maybe rearrange all the furniture.

The things that go through your mind when you can’t sleep! Earlier, thinking about Molly, for a moment I couldn’t even remember what she looked like, for Christ’s sake, yet we were together for years, more or less continuously, since we were kids. Molly, who said she’d love me forever. The only thing left was the memory of her sitting and weeping at the kitchen table, her shoulders bent forward, and her hands covering her face. Forever, she said. But it hadn’t worked out that way. Finally, she said, it didn’t matter, it was of no real concern to her, if she and I lived together the rest of our lives or not. Our love existed on a “higher plane.” That’s what she said to Vicky over the phone that time, after Vicky and I had set up housekeeping together. Molly called, got hold of Vicky, and said, “You have your relationship with him, but I’ll always have mine. His destiny and mine are linked.”

My first wife, Molly, she talked like that. “Our destinies are linked.” She didn’t talk like that in the beginning. It was only later, after so much had happened, that she started using words like “cosmic” and “empowerment” and so forth. But our destinies are not linked—not now, anyway, if they ever were. I don’t even know where she is now, not for certain.

I think I could put my finger on the exact time, the real turning point, when it came undone for Molly. It was after I started seeing Vicky, and Molly found out. They called me up one day from the high school where Molly taught and said, “Please. Your wife is doing handsprings in front of the school. You’d better get down here.” It was after I took her home that I began hearing about “higher power” and “going with the flow”— stuff of that sort. Our destiny had been “revised.” And if I’d been hesitating before, well, I left her then as fast as I could—this woman I’d known all my life, the one who’d been my best friend for years, my intimate, my confidante. I bailed out on her. For one thing, I was scared. Scared.

This girl I’d started out with in life, this sweet thing, this gentle soul, she wound up going to fortunetellers, palm readers, crystal ball gazers, looking for answers, trying to figure out what she should do with her life. She quit her job, drew out her teacher’s retirement money, and thereafter never made a decision without consulting the I Ching. She began wearing strange clothes—clothes with permanent wrinkles and a lot of burgundy and orange. She even got involved with a group that sat around, I’m not kidding, trying to levitate.

When Molly and I were growing up together, she was a part of me and, sure, I was a part of her, too. We loved each other. It was our destiny. I believed in it then myself. But now I don’t know what to believe in. I’m not complaining, simply stating a fact. I’m down to nothing. And I have to go on like this. No destiny. Just the next thing meaning whatever you think it does. Compulsion and error, just like everybody else.

Amanda? I’d like to believe in her, bless her heart. But she was looking for somebody when she met me.

That’s the way with people when they get restless: they start up something, knowing that’s going to change things for good.

I’d like to go out in the front yard and shout something. “None of this is worth it!” That’s what I’d like people to hear.

“Destiny,” Molly said. For all I know she’s still talking about it.

All the lights are off over there now, except for that light in the kitchen. I could try calling Amanda on the phone. I could do that and see how far it gets me! What if Vicky heard me dialing or talking on the phone and came downstairs? What if she lifted the receiver upstairs and listened? Besides, there’s always the chance Beth might pick up the phone. I don’t want to talk to any kids this morning. I don’t want to talk to anybody. Actually, I’d talk to Molly, if I could, but I can’t any longer—she’s somebody else now. She isn’t Molly anymore. But—what can I say?—I’m somebody else, too.

I wish I could be like everybody else in this neighborhood—your basic, normal, unaccomplished person-and go up to my bedroom, and lie down, and sleep. It’s going to be a big day today, and I’d like to be ready for it. I wish I could sleep and wake up and find everything in my life different. Not necessarily just the big things, like this thing with Amanda or the past with Molly. But things clearly within my power.

Take the situation with my mother: I used to send money every month. But then I started sending her the same amount in twice-yearly sums. I gave her money on her birthday, and I gave her money at Christmas. I thought: I won’t have to worry about forgetting her birthday, and I won’t have to worry about sending her a Christmas present. I won’t have to worry, period. It went like clockwork for a long time.

Then last year she asked me—it was in between money times, it was in March, or maybe April—for a radio. A radio, she said, would make a difference to her.

What she wanted was a little clock radio. She could put it in her kitchen and have it out there to listen to while she was fixing something to eat in the evening. And she’d have the clock to look at too, so she’d know when something was supposed to come out of the oven, or how long it was until one of her programs started.