Where I'm Calling From

night “would show up this morning, as she’d said she would. He decided he’d wait until five minutes after seven o’clock, and then he’d call in, take the day off, and make every effort in the book to locate someone reliable. He brought the cup of coffee to his lips.
    It was then that he heard a rumbling sound out in the street. He left his cup and got up from the table to look out the window. A pickup truck had pulled over to the curb in front of his house. The pickup cab shook as the engine idled. Carlyle went to the front door, opened it, and waved. An old woman waved back and then let herself out of the vehicle. Carlyle saw the driver lean over and disappear under the dash. The truck gasped, shook itself once more, and fell still.
    “Mr. Carlyle?” the old woman said, as she came slowly up his walk carrying a large purse.
    “Mrs. Webster,” he said. “Come on inside. Is that your husband? Ask him in. I just made coffee.”
    “It’s okay,” she said. “He has his thermos.”
    Carlyle shrugged. He held the door for her. She stepped inside and they shook hands. Mrs. Webster smiled. Carlyle nodded. They moved out to the kitchen. “Did you want me today, then?” she asked.
    “Let me get the children up,” he said. “I’d like them to meet you before I leave for school.”
    “That’d be good,” she said. She looked around his kitchen. She put her purse on the drainboard.
    “Why don’t I get the children?” he said. “I’ll just be a minute or two.”
    In a little while, he brought the children out and introduced them. They were still in their pajamas. Sarah was rubbing her eyes. Keith was wide awake. “This is Keith,” Carlyle said. “And this one here, this is my Sarah.” He held on to Sarah’s hand and turned to Mrs. Webster. “They need someone, you see. We need someone we can count on. I guess that’s our problem.”
    Mrs. Webster moved over to the children. She fastened the top button of Keith’s pajamas. She moved the hair away from Sarah’s face. They let her do it. “Don’t you kids worry, now,” she said to them. “Mr. Carlyle, it’ll be all right. We’re going to be fine. Give us a day or two to get to know each other, that’s all.
    But if I’m going to stay, why don’t you give Mr. Webster the all-clear sign? Just wave at him through the window,” she said, and then she gave her attention back to the children.
    Carlyle stepped to the bay window and drew the curtain. An old man was watching the house from the cab of the truck. He was just bringing a thermos cup to his lips. Carlyle waved to him, and with his free hand the man waved back. Carlyle watched him roll down the truck window and throw out what was left in his cup. Then he bent down under the dash again—Carlyle imagined him touching some wires together—and in a minute the truck started and began to shake. The old man put the truck in gear and pulled away from the curb.
    Carlyle turned from the window. “Mrs. Webster,” he said, “I’m glad you’re here.”
    “Likewise, Mr. Carlyle,” she said. “Now you go on about your business before you’re late. Don’t worry about anything. We’re going to be fine. Aren’t we, kids?”
    The children nodded their heads. Keith held on to her dress with one hand. He put the thumb of his other hand into his mouth.
    “Thank you,” Carlyle said. “I feel, I really feel a hundred percent better.” He shook his head and grinned.
    He felt a welling in his chest as he kissed each of his children good-bye. He told Mrs. Webster what time she could expect him home, put on his coat, said good-bye once more, and went out of the house. For the first time in months, it seemed, he felt his burden had lifted a little. Driving to school, he listened to some music on the radio.
    During first-period art-history class, he lingered over slides of Byzantine paintings. He patiently explained the nuances of detail and motif. He pointed out the emotional power and fitness of the work.
    But he took so long trying to place the anonymous artists in their social milieu that some of his students began to scrape their shoes on the floor, or else clear their throats. They covered only a third of the lesson plan that day. He was still talking when the bell rang.
    In his next class, watercolor painting, he felt unusually calm and insightful. “Like this, like this,” he said, guiding their hands. “Delicately. Like a breath of air on the paper. Just a touch. Like so. See?”