Where I'm Calling From

moves over. She takes me by the shoulders—I’m a big man—and she plants this kiss on my lips.
    “How’s that?” she says.
    “That’s fine,” I say.
    “Nothing to it,” she says. She’s still holding me by the shoulders. She’s looking me right in the eyes.
    “Good luck,” she says, and then she lets go of me.
    “See you later, pal,” J.P. says. He opens the door all the way, and they go in.
    I sit down on the front steps and light a cigarette. I watch what my hand does, then I blow out the match.
    I’ve got the shakes. I started out with them this morning. This morning I wanted something to drink. It’s depressing, but I didn’t say anything about it to J.P. I try to put my mind on something else.
    I’m thinking about chimney sweeps—all that stuff I heard from J.P.— when for some reason I start to think about a house my wife and I once lived in. That house didn’t have a chimney, so I don’t know what makes me remember it now. But I remember the house and how we’d only been in there a few weeks when I heard a noise outside one morning. It was Sunday morning and it was still dark in the bedroom.
    But there was this pale light coming in from the bedroom window. I listened. I could hear something scrape against the side of the house. I jumped out of bed and went to look.
    “My God!” my wife says, sitting up in bed and shaking the hair away from her face. Then she starts to laugh. “It’s Mr. Venturini,” she says. “I forgot to tell you. He said he was coming to paint the house today. Early. Before it gets too hot. I forgot all about it,” she says, and laughs. “Come on back to bed, honey. It’s just him.”
    “In a minute,” I say. I push the curtain away from the window. Outside, this old guy in white coveralls is standing next to his ladder. The sun is just starting to break above the mountains. The old guy and I look each other over. It’s the landlord, all right—this old guy in coveralls. But his coveralls are too big for him. He needs a shave, too. And he’s wearing this baseball cap to cover his bald head. Goddamn it, I think, if he isn’t a weird old fellow. And a wave of happiness comes over me that I’m not him—that I’m me and that I’m inside this bedroom with my wife.
    He jerks his thumb toward the sun. He pretends to wipe his forehead. He’s letting me know he doesn’t have all that much time. He breaks into a grin. It’s then I realize I’m naked. I look down at myself. I look at him again and shrug. What did he expect?
    My wife laughs. “Come on,” she says. “Get back in this bed. Right now. This minute. Come on back to bed.”
    I let go of the curtain. But I keep standing there at the window. I can see the old fellow nod to himself like he’s saying, “Go on, sonny, go back to bed. I understand.” He tugs on the bill of his cap. Then he sets about his business. He picks up his bucket. He starts climbing the ladder.
    I lean back into the step behind me now and cross one leg over the other. Maybe later this afternoon I’ll try calling my wife again. And then I’ll call to see what’s happening with my girlfriend. But I don’t want to get her mouthy kid on the line. If I do call, I hope he’ll be out somewhere doing whatever he does when he’s not around the house. I try to remember if I ever read any Jack London books. I can’t remember. But there was a story of his I read in high school. “To Build a Fire,” it was called. This guy in the Yukon is freezing. Imagine it—he’s actually going to freeze to death if he can’t get a fire going. With a fire, he can dry his socks and things and warm himself.
    He gets his fire going, but then something happens to it. A branchful of snow drops on it. It goes out.
    Meanwhile, it’s getting colder. Night is coming on.
    I bring some change out of my pocket. I’ll try my wife first. If she answers, I’ll wish her a Happy New Year. But that’s it. I won’t bring up business. I won’t raise my voice. Not even if she starts something.
    She’ll ask me where I’m calling from, and I’ll have to tell her. I won’t say anything about New Year’s resolutions. There’s no way to make a joke out of this. After I talk to her, I’ll call my girlfriend. Maybe I’ll call her first. I’ll just have to hope I don’t get her kid on the line. “Hello, sugar,” I’ll say when she answers. “It’s me.”

Chefs House

    That summer Wes rented a furnished house north of Eureka from a