Where I'm Calling From

now. I think I know why you’re here. Yes. I know why you’re here, even if you don’t. But you’re a slyboots. You know why you’re here. You’re on a fishing expedition. You’re hunting for material. Am I getting warm? Am I right?
    Tell me about the knife, I say.
    She says, If you want to know, I’m real sorry I didn’t use that knife. I am. I really and truly am. I’ve thought and thought about it, and I’m sorry I didn’t use it. I had the chance. But I hesitated. I hesitated and was lost, as somebody or other said. But I should have used it, the hell with everything and everybody. I should have nicked your arm with it at least. At least that.
    Well, you didn’t, I say. I thought you were going to cut me with it, but you didn’t. I took it away from you.
    She says, You were always lucky. You took it away and then you slapped me. Still, I regret I didn’t use that knife just a little bit. Even a little would have been something to remember me by.
    I remember a lot, I say. I say that, then wish I hadn’t.
    She says, Amen, brother. That’s the bone of contention here, if you hadn’t noticed. That’s the whole problem. But like I said, in my opinion you remember the wrong things. You remember the low, shameful things. That’s why you got interested when I brought up the knife.
    She says, I wonder if you ever have any regret. For whatever that’s worth on the market these days. Not much, I guess. But you ought to be a specialist in it by now.
    Regret, I say. It doesn’t interest me much, to tell the truth. Regret is not a word I use very often. I guess I mainly don’t have it. I admit I hold to the dark view of things.
    Sometimes, anyway. But regret? I don’t think so.
    She says, You’re a real son of a bitch, did you know that? A ruthless, coldhearted son of a bitch. Did anybody ever tell you that?
    You did, I say. Plenty of times.
    She says, I always speak the truth. Even when it hurts. You’ll never catch me in a lie.
    She says, My eyes were opened a long time ago, but by then it was too late. I had my chance but I let it slide through my fingers. I even thought for a while you’d come back. Why’d I think that anyway? I must have been out of my mind. I could cry my eyes out now, but I wouldn’t give you that satisfaction.
    She says, You know what? I think if you were on fire right now, if you suddenly burst into flame this minute, I wouldn’t throw a bucket of water on you.
    She laughs at this. Then her face closes down again.
    She says, Why in hell are you here? You want to hear some more? I could go on for days. I think I know why you turned up, but I want to hear it from you.
    When I don’t answer, when I just keep sitting there, she goes on.
    She says, After that time, when you went away, nothing much mattered after that. Not the kids, not God, not anything. It was like I didn’t know what hit me. It was like I had stopped living. My life had been going along, going along, and then it just stopped. It didn’t just come to a stop, it screeched to a stop. I thought, If I’m not worth anything to him, well, I’m not worth anything to myself or anybody else either.
    That was the worst thing I felt. I thought my heart would break. What am I saying? It did break. Of course it broke. It broke, just like that. It’s still broke, if you want to know. And so there you have it in a nutshell. My eggs in one basket, she says. A tisket, a tasket. All my rotten eggs in one basket.
    She says, You found somebody else for yourself, didn’t you? It didn’t take long. And you’re happy now.
    That’s what they say about you anyway: “He’s happy now.” Hey, I read everything you send! You think I don’t? Listen, I know your heart, mister. I always did. I knew it back then, and I know it now. I know your heart inside and out, and don’t you ever forget it. Your heart is a jungle, a dark forest, it’s a garbage pail, if you want to know. Let them talk to me if they want to ask somebody something. I know how you operate. Just let them come around here, and I’ll give them an earful. I was there. I served, buddy boy. Then you held me up for display and ridicule in your socalled work. For any Tom or Harry to pity or pass judgment on. Ask me if I cared. Ask me if it embarrassed me. Go ahead, ask.
    No, I say, I won’t ask that. I don’t want to get into that, I say.
    Damn straight you don’t! she says. And you know why, too!
    She says, Honey, no offense, but sometimes I think I could