Where I'm Calling From

he’d say and felt on the edge of discovery himself. “Suggestion is what it’s all about,” he said, holding lightly to Sue Colvin’s fingers as he guided her brush. “You’ve got to work with your mistakes until they look intended. Understand?”
    As he moved down the lunch line in the faculty dining room, he saw Carol a few places ahead of him.
    She paid for her food. He waited impatiently while his own bill was being rung up. Carol was halfway across the room by the time he caught up with her. He slipped his hand under her elbow and guided her to an empty table near the window.
    “God, Carlyle,” she said after they’d seated themselves. She picked up her glass of iced tea. Her face was flushed. “Did you see the look Mrs. Storr gave us? What’s wrong with you? Everybody will know.” She sipped from her iced tea and put the glass down.
    “The hell with Mrs. Storr,” Carlyle said. “Hey, let me tell you something. Honey, I feel light-years better than I did this time yesterday. Jesus,” he said.
    “What’s happened?” Carol said. “Carlyle, tell me.” She moved her fruit cup to one side of her tray and shook cheese over her spaghetti. But she didn’t eat anything. She waited for him to go on. “Tell me what it is.”
    He told her about Mrs. Webster. He even told her about Mr. Webster. How the man’d had to hot-wire the truck in order to start it. Carlyle ate his tapioca while he talked. Then he ate the garlic bread. He drank Carol’s iced tea down before he realized he was doing it.
    “You’re nuts, Carlyle,” she said, nodding at the spaghetti in his plate that he hadn’t touched.
    He shook his head. “My God, Carol. God, I feel good, you know? I feel better than I have all summer.”
    He lowered his voice. “Come over tonight, will you?”
    He reached under the table and put his hand on her knee. She turned red again. She raised her eyes and looked around the dining room. But no one was paying any attention to them. She nodded quickly. Then she reached under the table and touched his hand.
    That afternoon he arrived home to find his house neat and orderly and his children in clean clothes. In the kitchen, Keith and Sarah stood on chairs, helping Mrs. Webster with gingerbread cookies. Sarah’s hair was out of her face and held back with a barrette.
    “Daddy!” his children cried, happy, when they saw him.
    “Keith, Sarah,” he said. “Mrs. Webster, I—” But she didn’t let him finish.
    “We’ve had a fine day, Mr. Carlyle,” Mrs. Webster said quickly. She wiped her fingers on the apron she was wearing. It was an old apron with blue windmills on it and it had belonged to Eileen. “Such beautiful children. They’re a treasure. Just a treasure.”
    “I don’t know what to say.” Carlyle stood by the drainboard and watched Sarah press out some dough.
    He could smell the spice. He took off his coat and sat down at the kitchen table. He loosened his tie.
    “Today was a get-acquainted day,” Mrs. Webster said. “Tomorrow we have some other plans. I thought we’d walk to the park. We ought to take advantage of this good weather.”
    “That’s a fine idea,” Carlyle said. “That’s just fine. Good. Good for you, Mrs. Webster.”
    “I’ll finish putting these cookies in the oven, and by that time Mr. Webster should be here. You said four o’clock? I told him to come at four.”
    Carlyle nodded, his heart full.
    “You had a call today,” she said as she went over to the sink with the mixing bowl. “Mrs. Carlyle called.”
    “Mrs. Carlyle,” he said. He waited for whatever it was Mrs. Webster might say next.
    “Yes. I identified myself, but she didn’t seem surprised to find me here. She said a few words to each of the children.”
    Carlyle glanced at Keith and Sarah, but they weren’t paying any attention. They were lining up cookies on another baking sheet.
    Mrs. Webster continued. “She left a message. Let me see, I wrote it down, but I think I can remember it.
    She said, ‘Tell him’—that is, tell you—’what goes around, comes around.’ I think that’s right. She said you’d understand.”
    Carlyle stared at her. He heard Mr. Webster’s truck outside.
    “That’s Mr. Webster,” she said and took off the apron.
    Carlyle nodded.
    “Seven o’clock in the morning?” she asked.
    “That will be fine,” he said. “And thank you again.”
    That evening he bathed each of the children, got them into their pajamas, and then read to them. He