Where I'm Calling From

She’ll put him down after that, and then we’ll eat. Our place isn’t hard to find. But here’s a map. “He gave me a sheet of paper with all kinds of lines indicating major and minor roads, lanes and such, with arrows pointing to the four poles of the compass. A large X marked the location of his house.
    I said, “We’re looking forward to it.” But Fran wasn’t too thrilled.
    That evening, watching TV, I asked her if we should take anything to Bud’s.
    “Like what?” Fran said. “Did he say to bring something? How should I know? I don’t have any idea.”
    She shrugged and gave me this look. She’d heard me before on the subject of Bud. But she didn’t know him and she wasn’t interested in knowing him. “We could take a bottle of wine,” she said. “But I don’t care. Why don’t you take some wine?” She shook her head. Her long hair swung back and forth over her shoulders. Why do we need other people? she seemed to be saying. We have each other. “Come here,” I said. She moved a little closer so I could hug her. Fran’s a big tall drink of water. She has this blond hair that hangs down her back. I picked up some of her hair and sniffed it. I wound my hand in her hair. She let me hug her. I put my face right up in her hair and hugged her some more.
    Sometimes when her hair gets in her way she has to pick it up and push it over her shoulder. She gets mad at it. “This hair,” she says. “Nothing but trouble.” Fran works in a creamery and has to wear her hair up when she goes to work. She has to wash it every night and take a brush to it when we’re sitting in front of the TV. Now and then she threatens to cut it off. But I don’t think she’d do that. She knows I like it too much. She knows I’m crazy about it. I tell her I fell in love with her because of her hair. I tell her I might stop loving her if she cut it. Sometimes I call her “Swede.” She could pass for a Swede. Those times together in the evening she’d brush her hair and we’d wish out loud for things we didn’t have. We wished for a new car, that’s one of the things we wished for. And we wished we could spend a couple of weeks in Canada. But one thing we didn’t wish for was kids. The reason we didn’t have kids was that we didn’t want kids. Maybe sometime, we said to each other. But right then, we were waiting. We thought we might keep on waiting. Some nights we went to a movie. Other nights we just stayed in and watched TV. Sometimes Fran baked things for me and we’d eat whatever it was all in a sitting.
    “Maybe they don’t drink wine,” I said.
    “Take some wine anyway,” Fran said. “If they don’t drink it, we’ll drink it.”
    “White or red?” I said.
    “We’ll take something sweet,” she said, not paying me any attention. “But I don’t care if we take anything. This is your show. Let’s not make a production out of it, or else I don’t want to go. I can make a raspberry coffee ring. Or else some cupcakes.”
    “They’ll have dessert,” I said. “You don’t invite people to supper without fixing a dessert.”
    “They might have rice pudding. Or Jell-O! Something we don’t like,” she said. “I don’t know anything about the woman. How do we know what she’ll have? What if she gives us Jell-O?” Fran shook her head. I shrugged. But she was right. “Those old cigars he gave you,” she said. “Take them. Then you and him can go off to the parlor after supper and smoke cigars and drink port wine, or whatever those people in movies drink.”
    “Okay, we’ll just take ourselves,” I said.
    Fran said, “We’ll take a loaf of my bread.”
    Bud and Olla lived twenty miles or so from town. We’d lived in that town for three years, but, damn it, Fran and I hadn’t so much as taken a spin in the country. It felt good driving those winding little roads. It was early evening, nice and warm, and we saw pastures, rail fences, milk cows moving slowly toward old barns. We saw red-winged blackbirds on the fences, and pigeons circling around haylofts. There were gardens and such, wildflowers in bloom, and little houses set back from the road. I said, “I wish we had us a place out here.” It was just an idle thought, another wish that wouldn’t amount to anything. Fran didn’t answer. She was busy looking at Bud’s map. We came to the four-way stop he’d marked. We turned right like the map said and drove exactly three and three-tenths miles. On the left side of the