Where I'm Calling From

children out of his sight. He’d certainly not been interested in seeing other women, and for a time he didn’t think he ever would be. He felt as if he were in mourning. His days and nights were passed in the company of his children. He cooked for them—he had no appetite himself—washed and ironed their clothes, drove them into the country, where they picked flowers and ate sandwiches wrapped up in waxed paper. He took them to the supermarket and let them pick out what they liked. And every few days they went to the park, or else to the library, or the zoo. They took old bread to the zoo so they could feed the ducks. At night, before tucking them in, Carlyle read to them—Aesop, Hans Christian Andersen, the Brothers Grimm.
    “When is Mama coming back?” one of them might ask him in the middle of a fairy tale.
    “Soon,” he’d say. “One of these days. Now listen to this.” Then he’d read the tale to its conclusion, kiss them, and turn off the light.
    And while they’d slept, he had wandered the rooms of his house with a glass in his hand, telling himself that, yes, sooner or later, Eileen would come back. In the next breath, he would say, “I never want to see your face again. I’ll never forgive you for this, you crazy bitch.” Then, a minute later, “Come back, sweetheart, please. I love you and need you. The kids need you, too.” Some nights that summer he fell asleep in front of the TV and woke up with the set still going and the screen filled with snow. This was the period when he didn’t think he would be seeing any women for a long time, if ever. At night, sitting in front of the TV with an unopened book or magazine next to him on the sofa, he often thought of Eileen. When he did, he might remember her sweet laugh, or else her hand rubbing his neck if he complained of a soreness there. It was at these times that he thought he could weep. He thought, You hear about stuff like this happening to other people.
    Just before the incident with Debbie, when some of the shock and grief had worn off, he’d phoned an employment service to tell them something of his predicament and his requirements. Someone took down the information and said they would get back to him. Not many people wanted to do housework and baby-sit, they said, but they’d find somebody. A few days before he had to be at the high school for meetings and registration, he called again and was told there’d be somebody at his house first thing the next morning.
    That person was a thirty-five-year-old woman with hairy arms and run-over shoes. She shook hands with him and listened to him talk without asking a single question about the children—not even their names. When he took her into the back of the house where the children were playing, she simply stared at them for a minute without saying anything. When she finally smiled, Carlyle noticed for the first time that she had a tooth missing. Sarah left her crayons and got up to come over and stand next to him. She took Carlyle’s hand and stared at the woman. Keith stared at her, too. Then he went back to his coloring.
    Carlyle thanked the woman for her time and said he would be in touch.
    That afternoon he took down a number from an index card tacked to the bulletin board at the supermarket. Someone was offering babysitting services. References furnished on request. Carlyle called the number and got Debbie, the fat girl.
    Over the summer, Eileen had sent a few cards, letters, and photographs of herself to the children, and some pen-and-ink drawings of her own that she’d done since she’d gone away. She also sent Carlyle long, rambling letters in which she asked for his
    understanding in this matter—this matter—but told him that she was happy. Happy. As if, Carlyle thought, happiness was all there was to life. She told him that if he really loved her, as he said he did, and as she really believed—she loved him, too, don’t forget—then he would understand and accept things as they were. She wrote, “That which is truly bonded can never become unbonded.” Carlyle didn’t know if she was talking about their own relationship or her way of life out in California. He hated the word bonded. What did it have to do with the two of them? Did she think they were a corporation? He thought Eileen must be losing her mind to talk like that. He read that part again and then crumpled the letter.
    But a few hours later he retrieved the letter from the trash can where he’d