Where I'm Calling From

last of the leaves into my bag and tie off the top. Then, I can’t help it, I just stay there, kneeling on the grass with the rake in my hand. When I look up, I see the Baxters come down the porch steps together and move slowly toward me through the wet, sweet-smelling grass. They stop a few feet away and look at me closely.
    “There now,” I hear mrs Baxter say. She’s still in her robe and slippers. It’s nippy out; she holds her robe at the throat. “You did a real fine job for us, yes, you did.”
    I don’t say anything. I don’t even say, “You’re welcome.”
    They stand in front of me a while longer, and none of us says anything more. It’s as if we’ve come to an agreement on something. In a minute, they turn around and go back to their house. High over my head, in the branches of the old maple—the place where these leaves come from— birds call out to each other.
    At least I think they’re calling to each other.
    Suddenly a car door slams. Mr. Baxter is in his car in the drive with the window rolled down. mrs Baxter says something to him from the front porch which causes Mr. Baxter to nod slowly and turn his head in my direction. He sees me kneeling there with the rake, and a look crosses his face. He frowns. In his better moments, Mr. Baxter is a decent, ordinary guy—a guy you wouldn’t mistake for anyone special.
    But he is special. In my book, he is. For one thing he has a full night’s sleep behind him, and he’s just embraced his wife before leaving for work. But even before he goes, he’s already expected home a set number of hours later. True, in the grander scheme of things, his return will be an event of small moment—but an event nonetheless.
    Baxter starts his car and races the engine. Then he backs effortlessly out of the drive, brakes, and changes gears. As he passes on the street, he slows and looks briefly in my direction. He lifts his hand off the steering wheel. It could be a salute or a sign of dismissal. It’s a sign, in any case. And then he looks away toward the city. I get up and raise my hand, too—not a wave, exactly, but close to it. Some other cars drive past. One of the drivers must think he knows me because he gives his horn a friendly little tap. I look both ways and then cross the street.

Elephant

    I knew it was a mistake to let my brother have the money. I didn’t need anybody else owing me. But when he called and said he couldn’t make the payment on his house, what could I do? I’d never been inside his house—he lived a thousand miles away, in California; I’d never even seen his house—but I didn’t want him to lose it. He cried over the phone and said he was losing everything he’d worked for. He said he’d pay me back. February, he said. Maybe sooner. No later, anyway, than March. He said his income-tax refund was on the way. Plus, he said, he had a little investment that would mature in February. He acted secretive about the investment thing, so I didn’t press for details.
    “Trust me on this,” he said. “I won’t let you down.”
    He’d lost his job last July, when the company he worked for, a fiberglass-insulation plant, decided to lay off two hundred employees. He’d been living on his unemployment since then, but now the unemployment was gone, and his savings were gone, too. And he didn’t have health insurance any longer. When his job went, the insurance went. His wife, who was ten years older, was diabetic and needed treatment. He’d had to sell the other car—her car, an old station wagon—and a week ago he’d pawned his TV. He told me he’d hurt his back carrying the TV up and down the street where the pawnshops did business. He went from place to place, he said, trying to get the best offer. Somebody finally gave him a hundred dollars for it, this big Sorry TV. He told me about the TV, and then about throwing his back out, as if this ought to cinch it with me, unless I had a stone in place of a heart.
    “I’ve gone belly up,” he said. “But you can help me pull out of it.”
    “How much?” I said.
    “Five hundred. I could use more, sure, who couldn’t?” he said. “But I want to be realistic. I can pay back five hundred. More than that, I’ll tell you the truth, I’m not so sure.
    Brother, I hate to ask. But you’re my last resort. Irma Jean and I are going to be on the street before long.
    I won’t let you down,” he said. That’s what he said. Those were his exact words.
    We talked a little