Where I'm Calling From

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