Where I'm Calling From

power” and “going with the flow”— stuff of that sort. Our destiny had been “revised.” And if I’d been hesitating before, well, I left her then as fast as I could—this woman I’d known all my life, the one who’d been my best friend for years, my intimate, my confidante. I bailed out on her. For one thing, I was scared. Scared.
    This girl I’d started out with in life, this sweet thing, this gentle soul, she wound up going to fortunetellers, palm readers, crystal ball gazers, looking for answers, trying to figure out what she should do with her life. She quit her job, drew out her teacher’s retirement money, and thereafter never made a decision without consulting the I Ching. She began wearing strange clothes—clothes with permanent wrinkles and a lot of burgundy and orange. She even got involved with a group that sat around, I’m not kidding, trying to levitate.
    When Molly and I were growing up together, she was a part of me and, sure, I was a part of her, too. We loved each other. It was our destiny. I believed in it then myself. But now I don’t know what to believe in. I’m not complaining, simply stating a fact. I’m down to nothing. And I have to go on like this. No destiny. Just the next thing meaning whatever you think it does. Compulsion and error, just like everybody else.
    Amanda? I’d like to believe in her, bless her heart. But she was looking for somebody when she met me.
    That’s the way with people when they get restless: they start up something, knowing that’s going to change things for good.
    I’d like to go out in the front yard and shout something. “None of this is worth it!” That’s what I’d like people to hear.
    “Destiny,” Molly said. For all I know she’s still talking about it.
    All the lights are off over there now, except for that light in the kitchen. I could try calling Amanda on the phone. I could do that and see how far it gets me! What if Vicky heard me dialing or talking on the phone and came downstairs? What if she lifted the receiver upstairs and listened? Besides, there’s always the chance Beth might pick up the phone. I don’t want to talk to any kids this morning. I don’t want to talk to anybody. Actually, I’d talk to Molly, if I could, but I can’t any longer—she’s somebody else now. She isn’t Molly anymore. But—what can I say?—I’m somebody else, too.
    I wish I could be like everybody else in this neighborhood—your basic, normal, unaccomplished person-and go up to my bedroom, and lie down, and sleep. It’s going to be a big day today, and I’d like to be ready for it. I wish I could sleep and wake up and find everything in my life different. Not necessarily just the big things, like this thing with Amanda or the past with Molly. But things clearly within my power.
    Take the situation with my mother: I used to send money every month. But then I started sending her the same amount in twice-yearly sums. I gave her money on her birthday, and I gave her money at Christmas. I thought: I won’t have to worry about forgetting her birthday, and I won’t have to worry about sending her a Christmas present. I won’t have to worry, period. It went like clockwork for a long time.
    Then last year she asked me—it was in between money times, it was in March, or maybe April—for a radio. A radio, she said, would make a difference to her.
    What she wanted was a little clock radio. She could put it in her kitchen and have it out there to listen to while she was fixing something to eat in the evening. And she’d have the clock to look at too, so she’d know when something was supposed to come out of the oven, or how long it was until one of her programs started.
    A little clock radio.
    She hinted around at first. She said, “I’d sure like to have a radio. But I can’t afford one. I guess I’ll have to wait for my birthday. That little radio I had, it fell and broke. I miss a radio.” I miss a radio. That’s what she said when we talked on the phone, or else she’d bring it up when she’d write.
    Finally—what’d I say? I said to her over the phone that I couldn’t afford any radios. I said it in a letter too, so she’d be sure and understand. I can’t afford any radios, is what I wrote. I can’t do anymore, I said, than I’m doing. Those were my very words.
    But it wasn’t true! I could have done more. I just said I couldn’t. I could have afforded to buy a radio for her. What would it have cost me?