Where I'm Calling From

things for Richard’s mother before his aunt and her daughter moved in there. Richard was able to get a number through his mother. He talked to Mrs. Webster today.
    Richard did. Mrs. Webster is going to call you tonight. Or else maybe she’ll call you in the morning. One or the other. Anyway, she’s going to volunteer her services, if you need her. You might, you never can tell. Even if your situation is okay right now, which I hope it is. But some time or another you might need her. You know what I’m saying? If not this minute, some other time. Okay? How are the kids?
    What are they up to?”
    “The children are fine, Eileen. They’re asleep now,” he said. Maybe he should tell her they cried themselves to sleep every night. He wondered if he should tell her the truth—that they hadn’t asked about her even once in the last couple of weeks. He decided not to say anything.
    “I called earlier, but the line was busy. I told Richard you were probably talking to your girlfriend,”
    Eileen said and laughed. “Think positive thoughts. You sound depressed,” she said.
    “I have to go, Eileen.” He started to hang up, and he took the receiver from his ear. But she was still talking.
    “Tell Keith and Sarah I love them. Tell them I’m sending some more pictures. Tell them that. I don’t want them to forget their mother is an artist. Maybe not a great artist yet, that’s not important. But, you know, an artist. It’s important they shouldn’t forget that.”
    Carlyle said, “I’ll tell them.”
    “Richard says hello.”
    Carlyle didn’t say anything. He said the word to himself—hello. What could the man possibly mean by this? Then he said, “Thanks for calling. Thanks for talking to that woman.”
    “Mrs. Webster!”
    “Yes. I’d better get off the phone now. I don’t want to run up your nickel.”
    Eileen laughed. “It’s only money. Money’s not important except as a necessary medium of exchange.
    There are more important things than money. But then you already know that.”
    He held the receiver out in front of him. He looked at the instrument from which her voice was issuing.
    “Carlyle, things are going to get better for you. I know they are. You may think I’m crazy or something,” she said. “But just remember.”
    Remember what? Carlyle wondered in alarm, thinking he must have missed something she’d said. He brought the receiver in close. “Eileen, thanks for calling,” he said.
    “We have to stay in touch,” Eileen said. “We have to keep all lines of communication open. I think the worst is over. For both of us. I’ve suffered, too. But we’re going to get what we’re supposed to get out of this life, both of us, and we’re going to be made stronger for it in the long run.”
    “Good night,” he said. He put the receiver back. Then he looked at the phone. He waited. It didn’t ring again. But an hour later it did ring. He answered it.
    “Mr. Carlyle.” It was an old woman’s voice. “You don’t know me, but my name is Mrs. Jim Webster. I was supposed to get in touch.”
    “Mrs. Webster. Yes,” he said. Eileen’s mention of the woman came back to him. “Mrs. Webster, can you come to my house in the morning? Early. Say seven o’clock?”
    “I can do that easily,” the old woman said. “Seven o’clock. Give me your address.”
    “I’d like to be able to count on you,” Carlyle said.
    “You can count on me,” she said.
    “I can’t tell you how important it is,” Carlyle said.
    “Don’t you worry,” the old woman said.
    The next morning, when the alarm went off, he wanted to keep his eyes closed and keep on with the dream he was having. Something about a farmhouse. And there was a waterfall in there, too. Someone, he didn’t know who, was walking along the road carrying something. Maybe it was a picnic hamper. He was not made uneasy by the dream. In the dream, there seemed to exist a sense of well-being.
    Finally, he rolled over and pushed something to stop the buzzing. He lay in bed awhile longer. Then he got up, put his feet into his slippers, and went out to the kitchen to start the coffee.
    He shaved and dressed for the day. Then he sat down at the kitchen table with coffee and a cigarette.
    The children were still in bed. But in five minutes or so he planned to put boxes of cereal on the table and lay out bowls and spoons, then go in to wake them for breakfast. He really couldn’t believe that the old woman who’d phoned him last