Where I'm Calling From (9 page)
Read Where I'm Calling From Online
Authors: Raymond Carver
Tags: #Literary, #Short stories, #American, #Short Stories (single author), #Fiction
“I’m afraid I don’t have any sympathy for her,” Mrs Morgan said. “I can imagine the sort she is. We all know what she’s like, that kind preys on older men. I don’t have any sympathy for him, either—the man, the chaser, no, I don’t. I’m afraid my sympathies in this case are entirely with the wife and son.”
“It would take a Tolstoy to tell it and tell it right,” Morgan said. “No less than a Tolstoy. Mr. Myers, the water is still hot.”
“Time to go,” Myers said.
He stood up and threw his cigarette into the fire.
“Stay,” Mrs Morgan said. “We haven’t gotten acquainted yet. You don’t know how we have… speculated about you. Now that we’re together at last, stay a little while. It’s such a pleasant surprise.”
“We appreciated the card and your note,” Paula said.
“The card?” Mrs Morgan said.
Myers sat down.
“We decided not to mail any cards this year,” Paula said. “I didn’t get around to it when I should have, and it seemed futile to do it at the last minute.”
“You’ll have another one, Mrs Myers?” Morgan said, standing in front of her now with his hand on her cup. “You’ll set an example for your husband.”
“It was good,” Paula said. “It warms you.”
“Right,” Morgan said. “It warms you. That’s right. Dear, did you hear Mrs Myers? It warms you. That’s very good. Mr. Myers?” Morgan said and waited. “You’ll join us?”
“All right,” Myers said and let Morgan take the cup.
The dog began to whine and scratch at the door.
“That dog. I don’t know what’s gotten into that dog,” Morgan said. He went to the kitchen and this time Myers distinctly heard Morgan curse as he slammed the kettle onto a burner.
Mrs Morgan began to hum. She picked up a half-wrapped package, cut a piece of tape, and began sealing the paper.
Myers lighted a cigarette. He dropped the match in his coaster. He looked at his watch.
Mrs Morgan raised her head. “I believe I hear singing,” she said. She listened. She rose from her chair and went to the front window. “It is singing. Edgar!” she called.
Myers and Paula went to the window.
“I haven’t seen carolers in years,” Mrs Morgan said.
“What is it?” Morgan said. He had the tray and cups. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, dear. It’s carolers. There they are over there, across the street,” Mrs Morgan said.
“Mrs Myers,” Morgan said, extending the tray. “Mr. Myers. Dear.”
“Thank you,” Paula said.
“Muchas gracias,” Myers said.
Morgan put the tray down and came back to the window with his cup. Young people were gathered on the walk in front of the house across the street, boys and girls with an older, taller boy who wore a muffler and a topcoat. Myers could see the faces at the window across the way—the Ardreys—and when the carolers had finished, Jack Ardrey came to the door and gave something to the older boy. The group moved on down the walk, flashlights bobbing, and stopped in front of another house.
“They won’t come here,” Mrs Morgan said after a time.
“What? Why won’t they come here?” Morgan said and turned to his wife. “What a goddamned silly thing to say! Why won’t they come here?”
“I just know they won’t,” Mrs Morgan said.
“And I say they will,” Morgan said. “Mrs Myers, are those carolers going to come here or not? What do you think? Will they return to bless this house? We’ll leave it up to you.”
Paula pressed closer to the window. But the carolers were far down the street now. She did not answer.
“Well, now that all the excitement is over,” Morgan said and went over to his chair. He sat down, frowned, and began to fill his pipe.
Myers and Paula went back to the couch. Mrs Morgan moved away from the window at last. She sat down. She smiled and gazed into her cup. Then she put the cup down and began to weep.
Morgan gave his handkerchief to his wife. He looked at Myers. Presently Morgan began to drum on the arm of his chair. Myers moved his feet. Paula looked into her purse for a cigarette. “See what you’ve caused?” Morgan said as he stared at something on the carpet near Myers’ shoes.
Myers gathered himself to stand.
“Edgar, get them another drink,” Mrs Morgan said as she dabbed at her eyes. She used the handkerchief on her nose. “I want them to hear about Mrs Attenborough. Mr. Myers writes. I think he might appreciate this. We’ll wait until you come back before we begin the story.” Morgan collected the cups.
He carried them into the kitchen. Myers heard dishes clatter, cupboard doors bang. Mrs Morgan looked at Myers and smiled faintly.
“We have to go,” Myers said. “We have to go. Paula, get your coat.”
“No, no, we insist, Mr. Myers,” Mrs Morgan said. “We want you to hear about Mrs Attenborough, poor Mrs Attenborough. You might appreciate this story, too, Mrs Myers. This is your chance to see how your husband’s mind goes to work on raw material.”
Morgan came back and passed out the hot drinks. He sat down quickly.
“Tell them about Mrs Attenborough, dear,” Mrs Morgan said.
“That dog almost tore my leg off,” Myers said and was at once surprised at his words. He put his cup down.
“Oh, come, it wasn’t that bad,” Morgan said. “I saw it.”
“You know writers,” Mrs Morgan said to Paula. “They like to exaggerate.”
“The power of the pen and all that,” Morgan said.
“That’s it,” Mrs Morgan said. “Bend your pen into a plowshare, Mr. Myers.”
“We’ll let Mrs Morgan tell the story of Mrs Attenborough,” Morgan said, ignoring Myers, who stood up at that moment. “Mrs. Morgan was intimately connected with the affair. I’ve already told you of the fellow who was knocked for a loop by a can of soup.” Morgan chuckled. “We’ll let Mrs Morgan tell this one.”
“You tell it, dear. And Mr. Myers, you listen closely,” Mrs Morgan said.
“We have to go,” Myers said. “Paula, let’s go.”
“Talk about honesty,” Mrs Morgan said.
“Let’s talk about it,” Myers said. Then he said, “Paula, are you coming?”
“I want you to hear this story,” Morgan said, raising his voice. “You will insult Mrs Morgan, you will insult us both, if you don’t listen to this story.” Morgan clenched his pipe.
“Myers, please,” Paula said anxiously. “I want to hear it. Then we’ll go. Myers? Please, honey, sit down for another minute.”
Myers looked at her. She moved her fingers, as if signaling him. He hesitated, and then he sat next to her.
Mrs Morgan began. “One afternoon in Munich, Edgar and I went to the Dortmunder Museum. There was a Bauhaus exhibit that fall, and Edgar said the heck with it, let’s take a day off—he was doing his research, you see—the heck with it, let’s take a day off. We caught a tram and rode across Munich to the museum. We spent several hours viewing the exhibit and revisiting some of the galleries to pay homage to a few of our favorites amongst the old masters. Just as we were to leave, I stepped into the ladies’ room. I left my purse. In the purse was Edgar’s monthly check from home that had come the day before and a hundred and twenty dollars cash that I was going to deposit along with the check. I also had my identification cards in the purse. I did not miss my purse until we arrived home. Edgar immediately telephoned the museum authorities. But while he was talking I saw a taxi out front. A well-dressed woman with white hair got out. She was a stout woman and she was carrying two purses. I called for Edgar and went to the door. The woman introduced herself as Mrs Attenborough, gave me my purse, and explained that she too had visited the museum that afternoon and while in the ladies’ room had noticed a purse in the trash can. She of course had opened the purse in an effort to trace the owner. There were the identification cards and such giving our local address. She immediately left the museum and took a taxi in order to deliver the purse herself. Edgar’s check was there, but the money, the one hundred twenty dollars, was gone. Nevertheless, I was grateful the other things were intact. It was nearly four o’clock and we asked the woman to stay for tea. She sat down, and after a little while she began to tell us about herself. She had been born and reared in Australia, had married young, had had three children, all sons, been widowed, and still lived in Australia with two of her sons. They raised sheep and had more than twenty thousand acres of land for the sheep to run in, and many drovers and shearers and such who worked for them at certain times of the year. When she came to our home in Munich, she was then on her way to Australia from England, where she had been to visit her youngest son, who was a barrister.
She was returning to Australia when we met her,” Mrs Morgan said. “She was seeing some of the world in the process. She had many places yet to visit on her itinerary.”
“Come to the point, dear,” Morgan said.
“Yes. Here is what happened, then. Mr. Myers, I’ll go right to the climax, as you writers say. Suddenly, after we had had a very pleasant conversation for an hour, after this woman had told about herself and her adventurous life Down Under, she stood up to go. As she started to pass me her cup, her mouth flew open, the cup dropped, and she fell across our couch and died. Died. Right in our living room. It was the most shocking moment in our lives.”
Morgan nodded solemnly.
“God,” Paula said.
“Fate sent her to die on the couch in our living room in Germany,” Mrs Morgan said.
Myers began to laugh. “Fate… sent… her… to… die… in… your… living… room?” he said between gasps.
“Is that funny, sir?” Morgan said. “Do you find that amusing?”
Myers nodded. He kept laughing. He wiped his eyes on his shirt sleeve. “I’m really sorry,” he said. “I can’t help it. That line ‘Fate sent her to die on the couch in our living room in Germany.’ I’m sorry. Then what happened?” he managed to say. “I’d like to know what happened then.”
“Mr. Myers, we didn’t know what to do,” Mrs Morgan said. “The shock was terrible. Edgar felt for her pulse, but there was no sign of life. And she had begun to change color. Her face and hands were turning gray. Edgar went to the phone to call someone. Then he said, ‘Open her purse, see if you can find where she’s staying.’ All the time averting my eyes from the poor thing there on the couch, I took up her purse.
Imagine my complete surprise and bewilderment, my utter bewilderment, when the first thing I saw inside was my hundred twenty dollars, still fastened with the paper clip. I was never so astonished.”
“And disappointed,” Morgan said. “Don’t forget that. It was a keen disappointment.”
Myers giggled.
“If you were a real writer, as you say you are, Mr. Myers, you would not laugh,” Morgan said as he got to his feet. “You would not dare laugh! You would try to understand. You would plumb the depths of that poor soul’s heart and try to understand. But you are no writer, sir!”
Myers kept on giggling.
Morgan slammed his fist on the coffee table and the cups rattled in the coasters. “The real story lies right here, in this house, this very living room, and it’s time it was told! The real story is here, Mr. Myers,”
Morgan said. He walked up and down over the brilliant wrapping paper that had unrolled and now lay spread across the carpet. He stopped to glare at Myers, who was holding his forehead and shaking with laughter.
“Consider this for a possibility, Mr. Myers!” Morgan screamed. Consider! A friend—let’s call him Mr. X—is friends with… with Mr. and Mrs Y, as well as Mr. and Mrs Z. Mr. and Mrs Y and Mr. and Mrs Z. do not know each other, unfortunately. I say unfortunately because if they had known each other this story would not exist because it would never have taken place. Now, Mr. X learns that Mr. and Mrs Y are going to Germany for a year and need someone to occupy their house during the time they are gone.
Mr. and Mrs Z are looking for suitable accommodations, and Mr. X tells them he knows of just the place. But before Mr. X can put Mr. and Mrs Z in touch with Mr. and Mrs Y, the Ys have to leave sooner than expected. Mr. X, being a friend, is left to rent the house at his discretion to anyone, including Mr. and Mrs Y—I mean Z. Now, Mr. and Mrs…. Z move into the house and bring a cat with them that Mr. and Mrs Y hear about later in a letter from Mr. X. Mr. and Mrs Z bring a cat into the house even though the terms of the lease have expressly forbidden cats or other animals in the house because of Mrs Y’s asthma. The real story, Mr. Myers, lies in the situation I’ve just described. Mr. and Mrs Z—I mean Mr. and Mrs Y’s moving into the Zs’ house, invading the Zs’ house, if the truth is to be told. Sleeping in the Zs’ bed is one thing, but unlocking the Zs’ private closet and using their linen, vandalizing the things found there, that was against the spirit and letter of the lease. And this same couple, the Zs, opened boxes of kitchen utensils marked ‘Don’t Open.’ And broke dishes when it was spelled out, spelled out in that same lease, that they were not to use the owners’, the Zs’ personal, I emphasize personal, possessions.”
Morgan’s lips were white. He continued to walk up and down on the paper, stopping every now and then to look at Myers and emit little puffing noises from his lips.
“And the bathroom things, dear—don’t forget the bathroom things,” Mrs Morgan said. “It’s bad enough using the Zs’ blankets and sheets, but when they also get into their bathroom things and go through the little private things stored in the attic, a line has to be drawn.”
“That’s the real story, Mr. Myers,” Morgan said. He tried to fill his pipe. His hands trembled and tobacco spilled onto the carpet. “That’s the real story that is waiting to be written.”
“And it doesn’t need Tolstoy to tell it,” Mrs Morgan said.
“It doesn’t need Tolstoy,” Morgan said.
Myers laughed. He and Paula got up from the couch at the same time and moved toward the door. “Good night,” Myers said merrily.
Morgan was behind him. “If you were a real writer, sir, you would put that story into words and not pussyfoot around with it, either.”
Myers just laughed. He touched the doorknob.
“One other thing,” Morgan said. “I didn’t intend to bring this up, but in light of your behavior here tonight, I want to tell you that I’m missing my two-volume set of ‘Jazz at the Philharmonic.’ Those records are of great sentimental value. I bought them in 1955. And now I insist you tell me what happened to them!”