Where I'm Calling From

said. He seemed to have made up his mind. But, having made up his mind, he was in no hurry. He leaned back on the sofa, folded his hands in his lap, and closed his eyes. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to.
    I said his name to myself. It was an easy name to say, and I’d been used to saying it for a long time. Then I said it once more. This time I said it out loud. Wes, I said.
    He opened his eyes. But he didn’t look at me. He just sat where he was and looked toward the window.
    Fat Linda, he said. But I knew it wasn’t her. She was nothing. Just a name. Wes got up and pulled the drapes and the ocean was gone just like that. I went in to start supper. We still had some fish in the icebox. There wasn’t much else. We’ll clean it up tonight, I thought, and that will be the end of it.

Fever

    Carlyle was in a spot. He’d been in a spot all summer, since early June when his wife had left him. But up until a little while ago, just a few days before he had to start meeting his classes at the high school, Carlyle hadn’t needed a sitter. He’d been the sitter. Every day and every night he’d attended to the children. Their mother, he told them, was away on a long trip.
    Debbie, the first sitter he contacted, was a fat girl, nineteen years old, who told Carlyle she came from a big family. Kids loved her, she said. She offered a couple of names for reference. She penciled them on a piece of notebook paper. Carlyle took the names, folded the piece of paper, and put it in his shirt pocket. He told her he had meetings the next day. He said she could start to work for him the next morning. She said, “Okay.”
    He understood that his life was entering a new period. Eileen had left while Carlyle was still filling out his grade reports. She’d said she was going to Southern California to begin a new life for herself there.
    She’d gone with Richard Hoopes, one of Carlyle’s colleagues at the high school. Hoopes was a drama teacher and glass-blowing instructor who’d apparently turned his grades in on time, taken his things, and left town in a hurry with Eileen. Now, the long and painful summer nearly behind him, and his classes about to resume, Carlyle had finally turned his attention to this matter of finding a baby-sitter. His first efforts had not been successful. In his desperation to find someone—anyone—he’d taken Debbie on.
    In the beginning, he was grateful to have this girl turn up in response to his call. He’d yielded up the house and children to her as if she were a relative. So he had no one to blame but himself, his own carelessness, he was convinced, when he came home early from school one day that first week and pulled into the drive next to a car that had a big pair of flannel dice hanging from the rearview mirror. To his astonishment, he saw his children in the front yard, their clothes filthy, playing with a dog big enough to bite off their hands. His son, Keith, had the hiccups and had been crying. Sarah, his daughter, began to cry when she saw him get out of the car. They were sitting on the grass, and the dog was licking their hands and faces. The dog growled at him and then moved off a little as Carlyle made for his children. He picked up Keith and then he picked up Sarah. One child under each arm, he made for his front door. Inside the house, the phonograph was turned up so high the front windows vibrated.
    In the living room, three teenaged boys jumped to their feet from where they’d been sitting around the coffee table. Beer bottles stood on the table and cigarettes burned in the ashtray. Rod Stewart screamed from the stereo. On the sofa, Debbie, the fat girl, sat with another teenaged boy. She stared at Carlyle with dumb disbelief as he entered the living room. The fat girl’s blouse was unbuttoned. She had her legs drawn under her, and she was smoking a cigarette. The living room was filled with smoke and music.
    The fat girl and her friend got off the sofa in a hurry.
    “Mr. Carlyle, wait a minute,” Debbie said. “I can explain.”
    “Don’t explain,” Carlyle said. “Get the hell out of here. All of you. Before I throw you out.” He tightened his grip on the children.
    “You owe me for four days,” the fat girl said, as she tried to button her blouse. She still had the cigarette between her fingers. Ashes fell from the cigarette as she tried to button up. “Forget today. You don’t owe me for today. Mr. Carlyle, it’s not what it looks like. They