Where I'm Calling From

stopped what they were doing.
    “Just a minute, you two,” Mrs. Webster said as she got to her feet.
    “Mrs. Webster, Mrs. Webster!” Keith cried.
    “Now see here, little man,” Mrs. Webster said. “I need to talk to your father. Your father is sick today.
    You just take it easy. You go on and play with your clay. If you don’t watch it, your sister is going to get ahead of you with these creatures.”
    Just as she began to move toward the living room, the phone rang. Carlyle reached over to the end table and picked up the receiver.
    As before, he heard faint singing in the wire and knew that it was Eileen. “Yes,” he said. “What is it?”
    “Carlyle,” his wife said, “I know, don’t ask me how, that things are not going so well right now. You’re sick, aren’t you? Richard’s been sick, too. It’s something going around. He can’t keep anything on his stomach. He’s already missed a week of rehearsal for this play he’s doing. I’ve had to go down myself and help block out scenes with his assistant. But I didn’t call to tell you that. Tell me how things are out there.”
    “Nothing to tell,” Carlyle said. “I’m sick, that’s all. A touch of the flu. But I’m getting better.”
    “Are you still writing in your journal?” she asked. It caught him by surprise. Several years before, he’d told her that he was keeping a journal. Not a diary, he’d said, a journal—as if that explained something.
    But he’d never shown it to her, and he hadn’t written in it for over a year. He’d forgotten about it.
    “Because,” she said, “you ought to write something in the journal during this period. How you feel and what you’re thinking. You know, where your head is at during this period of sickness. Remember, sickness is a message about your health and your well-being. It’s telling you things. Keep a record. You know what I mean? When you’re well, you can look back and see what the message was. You can read it later, after the fact. Colette did that,” Eileen said. “When she had a fever this one time.”
    “Who?” Carlyle said. “What did you say?”
    “Colette,” Eileen answered. “The French writer. You know who I’m talking about. We had a book of hers around the house. (Gigi or something. I didn’t read that book, but I’ve been reading her since I’ve been out here. Richard turned me on to her. She wrote a little book about what it was like, about what she was thinking and feeling the whole time she had this fever. Sometimes her temperature was a hundred and two. Sometimes it was lower. Maybe it went higher than a hundred and two. But a hundred and two was the highest she ever took her temperature and wrote, too, when she had the fever. Anyway, she wrote about it. That’s what I’m saying. Try writing about what it’s like. Something might come of it,”
    Eileen said and, inexplicably, it seemed to Carlyle, she laughed. “At least later on you’d have an hour-byhour account of your sickness. To look back at. At least you’d have that to show for it. Right now you’ve just got this discomfort. You’ve got to translate that into something usable.”
    He pressed his fingertips against his temple and shut his eyes. But she was still on the line, waiting for him to say something. What could he say.’ It was clear to him that she was insane.
    “Jesus,” he said. “Jesus, Eileen. I don’t know what to say to that. I really don’t. I have to go now. Thanks for calling,” he said.
    “It’s all right,” she said. “We have to be able to communicate. Kiss the kids for me. Tell them I love them. And Richard sends his hellos to you. Even though he’s flat on his back.”
    “Good-bye,” Carlyle said and hung up. Then he brought his hands to his face. He remembered, for some reason, seeing the fat girl make the same gesture that time as she moved toward the car. He lowered his hands and looked at Mrs. Webster, who was watching him.
    “Not bad news, I hope,” she said. The old woman had moved a chair near to where he sat on the sofa.
    Carlyle shook his head.
    “Good,” Mrs. Webster said. “That’s good. Now, Mr. Carlyle, this may not be the best time in the world to talk about this.” She glanced out to the dining room. At the table, the children had their heads bent over the clay. “But since it has to be talked about sometime soon, and since it concerns you and the children, and you’re up now, I have something to tell you. Jim and I, we’re