Where I'm Calling From

many covers. And it’s too warm in the house. Maybe you’ll turn down the furnace.” Then he felt himself drift back into sleep.
    In a little while, he heard the children talking to Mrs. Webster in the living room. Were they coming inside or going out? Carlyle wondered. Could it be the next day already?
    He went back to sleep. But then he was aware of his door opening. Mrs. Webster appeared beside his bed. She put her hand on his forehead.
    “You’re burning up,” she said. “You have a fever.”
    “I’ll be all right,” Carlyle said. “I just need to sleep a little longer. And maybe you could turn the furnace down. Please, I’d appreciate it if you could get me some aspirin. I have an awful headache.”
    Mrs. Webster left the room. But his door stood open. Carlyle could hear the TV going out there. “Keep it down, Jim,” he heard her say, and the volume was lowered at once. Carlyle fell asleep again.
    But he couldn’t have slept more than a minute, because Mrs. Webster was suddenly back in his room with a tray. She sat down on the side of his bed. He roused himself and tried to sit up. She put a pillow behind his back.
    “Take these,” she said and gave him some tablets. “Drink this.” She held a glass of juice for him. “I also brought you some Cream of Wheat. I want you to eat it. It’ll be good for you.”
    He took the aspirin and drank the juice. He nodded. But he shut his eyes once more. He was going back to sleep.
    “Mr. Carlyle,” she said.
    He opened his eyes. “I’m awake,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He sat up a little. “I’m too warm, that’s all. What time is it? Is it eight-thirty yet?”
    “It’s a little after nine-thirty,” she said.
    “Nine-thirty,” he said.
    “Now I’m going to feed this cereal to you. And you’re going to open up and eat it. Six bites, that’s all.
    Here, here’s the first bite. Open,” she said. “You’re going to feel better after you eat this. Then I’ll let you go back to sleep. You eat this, and then you can sleep all you want.”
    He ate the cereal she spooned to him and asked for more juice. He drank the juice, and then he pulled down in the bed again. Just as he was going off to sleep, he felt her covering him with another blanket.
    The next time he awoke, it was afternoon. He could tell it was afternoon by the pale light that came through his window. He reached up and pulled the curtain back. He could see that it was overcast outside; the wintry sun was behind the clouds. He got out of bed slowly, found his slippers, and put on his robe. He went into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. Then he washed his face and took some more aspirin. He used the towel and then went out to the living room.
    On the dining-room table, Mrs. Webster had spread some newspaper, and she and the children were pinching clay figures together. They had already made some things that had long necks and bulging eyes, things that resembled giraffes, or else dinosaurs. Mrs. Webster looked up as he walked by the table.
    “How are you feeling?” Mrs. Webster asked him as he settled onto the sofa. He could see into the diningroom area, where Mrs. Webster and the children sat at the table.
    “Better, thanks. A little better,” he said. “I still have a headache, and I feel a little warm.” He brought the back of his hand up to his forehead. “But I’m better. Yes, I’m better. Thanks for your help this morning.”
    “Can I get you anything now?” Mrs. Webster said. “Some more juice or some tea? I don’t think coffee would hurt, but I think tea would be better. Some juice would be best of all.”
    “No, no thanks,” he said. “I’ll just sit here for a while. It’s good to be out of bed. I feel a little weak is all.
    Mrs. Webster?”
    She looked at him and waited.
    “Did I hear Mr. Webster in the house this morning? It’s fine, of course. I’m just sorry I didn’t get a chance to meet him and say hello.”
    “It was him,” she said. “He wanted to meet you, too. I asked him to come in. He just picked the wrong morning, what with you being sick and all. I’d wanted to tell you something about our plans, Mr.
    Webster’s and mine, but this morning wasn’t a good time for it.”
    “Tell me what?” he said, alert, fear plucking at his heart.
    She shook her head. “It’s all right,” she said. “It can wait.”
    “Tell him what?” Sarah said. “Tell him what?”
    “What, what?” Keith picked it up. The children