Where I'm Calling From

now.’” Olla looked over at Bud. Bud winked at her. She grinned and lowered her eyes.
    Fran drank from her glass. I took some of my ale. I didn’t know what to say to this. Neither did Fran. But I knew Fran would have plenty to say about it later.
    I said, “Olla, I called here once. You answered the phone. But I hung up. I don’t know why I hung up.” I said that and then sipped my ale. I didn’t know why I’d brought it up now.
    “I don’t remember,” Olla said. “When was that?”
    “A while back.”
    “I don’t remember,” she said and shook her head. She fingered the plaster teeth in her lap. She looked at the race and went back to rocking.
    Fran turned her eyes to me. She drew her lip under. But she didn’t say anything.
    Bud said, “Well, what else is new?”
    “Have some more nuts,” Olla said. “Supper’ll be ready in a little while.”
    There was a cry from a room in the back of the house.
    “Not him,” Olla said to Bud, and made a face.
    “Old Junior boy,” Bud said. He leaned back in his chair, and we watched the rest of the race, three or four laps, no sound.
    Once or twice we heard the baby again, little fretful cries coming from the room in the back of the house.
    “I don’t know,” Olla said. She got up from her chair. “Everything’s about ready for us to sit down. I just have to take up the gravy. But I’d better look in on him first. Why don’t you folks go out and sit down at the table? I’ll just be a minute.”
    “I’d like to see the baby,” Fran said.
    Olla was still holding the teeth. She went over and put them back on top of the TV. “It might upset him just now,” she said. “He’s not used to strangers. Wait and see if I can get him back to sleep. Then you can peek in. While he’s asleep.” She said this and then she went down the hall to a room, where she opened a door. She eased in and shut the door behind her. The baby stopped crying.
    Bud had killed the picture and we went in to sit at the table. Bud and I talked about things at work. Fran listened. Now and then she even asked a question. But I could tell she was bored, and maybe feeling put out with Olla for not letting her see the baby. She looked around Olla’s kitchen. She wrapped a strand of hair around her fingers and checked out Olla’s things.
    Olla came back into the kitchen and said, “I changed him and gave him his rubber duck. Maybe he’ll let us eat now. But don’t bet on it.” She raised a lid and took a pan off the stove. She poured red gravy into a bowl and put the bowl on the table. She took lids off some other pots and looked to see that everything was ready. On the table were baked ham, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, lima beans, corn on the cob, salad greens. Fran’s loaf of bread was in a prominent place next to the ham.
    “I forgot the napkins,” Olla said. “You all get started. Who wants what to drink? Bud drinks milk with all of his meals.”
    “Milk’s fine,” I said.
    “Water for me,” Fran said. “But I can get it. I don’t want you waiting on me. You have enough to do.”
    She made as if to get up from her chair.
    Olla said, “Please. You’re company. Sit still. Let me get it.” She was blushing again.
    We sat with our hands in our laps and waited. I thought about those plaster teeth. Olla came back with napkins, big glasses of milk for Bud and me, and a glass of ice water for Fran. Fran said, “Thanks.”
    “You’re welcome,” Olla said. Then she seated herself. Bud cleared his throat. He bowed his head and said a few words of grace. He talked in a voice so low I could hardly make out the words. But I got the drift of things—he was thanking the Higher Power for the food we were about to put away.
    “Amen,” Olla said when he’d finished.
    Bud passed me the platter of ham and helped himself to some mashed potatoes. We got down to it then.
    We didn’t say much except now and then Bud or I would say, “This is real good ham.” Or, “This sweet corn is the best sweet corn I ever ate.”
    “This bread is what’s special,” Olla said.
    “I’ll have some more salad, please, Olla,” Fran said, softening up maybe a little.
    “Have more of this,” Bud would say as he passed me the platter of ham, or else the bowl of red gravy.
    From time to time, we heard the baby make its noise. Olla would turn her head to listen, then, satisfied it was just fussing, she would give her attention back to her food.
    “The baby’s out of sorts