Where I'm Calling From

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    “Ah!” said Fran.
    “What is it?” Olla said quickly.
    “Nothing,” Fran said. “I thought I saw something at the window. I thought I saw a bat.”
    “We don’t have any bats around here,” Olla said.
    “Maybe it was a moth,” Fran said. “It was something. Well,” she said, “isn’t that some baby.”
    Bud was looking at the baby. Then he looked over at Fran. He tipped his chair onto its back legs and nodded. He nodded again, and said, “That’s all right, don’t worry any. We know he wouldn’t win no beauty contests right now. He’s no Clark Gable. But give him time. With any luck, you know, he’ll grow up to look like his old man.”
    The baby stood in Olla’s lap, looking around the table at us. Olla had moved her hands down to its middle so that the baby could rock back and forth on its fat legs. Bar none, it was the ugliest baby I’d ever seen. It was so ugly I couldn’t say anything. No words would come out of my mouth. I don’t mean it was diseased or disfigured. Nothing like that. It was just ugly. It had a big red face, pop eyes, a broad forehead, and these big fat lips. It had no neck to speak of, and it had three or four fat chins. Its chins rolled right up under its ears, and its ears stuck out from its bald head. Fat hung over its wrists. Its arms and fingers were fat. Even calling it ugly does it credit.
    The ugly baby made its noise and jumped up and down on its mother’s lap. Then it stopped jumping. It leaned forward and tried to reach its fat hand into Olla’s plate.
    I’ve seen babies. When I was growing up, my two sisters had a total of six babies. I was around babies a lot when I was a kid. I’ve seen babies in stores and so on. But this baby beat anything. Fran stared at it, too. I guess she didn’t know what to say either.
    “He’s a big fellow, isn’t he?” I said.
    Bud said, “He’ll by God be turning out for football before long. He sure as hell won’t go without meals around this house.”
    As if to make sure of this, Olla plunged her fork into some sweet potatoes and brought the fork up to the baby’s mouth. “He’s my baby, isn’t he?” she said to the fat thing, ignoring us.
    The baby leaned forward and opened up for the sweet potatoes. It reached for Olla’s fork as she guided the sweet potatoes into its mouth, then clamped down. The baby chewed the stuff and rocked some more on Olla’s lap. It was so pop-eyed, it was like it was plugged into something.
    Fran said, “He’s some baby, Olla.”
    The baby’s face screwed up. It began to fuss all over again.
    “Let Joey in,” Olla said to Bud.
    Bud let the legs of his chair come down on the floor. “I think we should at least ask these people if they mind,” Bud said.
    Olla looked at Fran and then she looked at me. Her face had gone red again. The baby kept prancing in her lap, squirming to get down.
    “We’re friends here,” I said. “Do whatever you want.”
    Bud said, “Maybe they don’t want a big old bird like Joey in the house. Did you ever think of that, Olla?”
    “Do you folks mind?” Olla said to us. “If Joey comes inside? Things got headed in the wrong direction with that bird tonight. The baby, too, I think. He’s used to having Joey come in and fool around with him a little before his bedtime. Neither of them can settle down tonight.”
    “Don’t ask us,” Fran said. “I don’t mind if he comes in. I’ve never been up close to one before. But I don’t mind.” She looked at me. I suppose I could tell she wanted me to say something.
    “Hell, no,” I said. “Let him in.” I picked up my glass and finished the milk.
    Bud got up from his chair. He went to the front door and opened it. He flicked on the yard lights.
    “What’s your baby’s name?” Fran wanted to know.
    “Harold,” Olla said. She gave Harold some more sweet potatoes from her plate. “He’s real smart. Sharp as a tack. Always knows what you’re saying to him. Don’t you, Harold? You wait until you get your own baby, Fran. You’ll see.”
    Fran just looked at her. I heard the front door open and then close.
    “He’s smart, all right,” Bud said as he came back into the kitchen. “He takes after Olla’s dad. Now there was one smart old boy for you.”
    I looked around behind Bud and could see that peacock hanging back in the living room, turning its head this way and that, like you’d turn a hand mirror. It shook itself, and the sound was like a deck of cards being