Where I'm Calling From

I’ll go to my room now.”
    She took her hands out of the water and rested them against the counter. I thought she might proffer a word or two of encouragement for the work I was engaged in, but she didn’t. Not a peep. It was as if she were waiting for me to leave the kitchen so she could enjoy her privacy.
    Remember, I was at work in my room at the time the letter was slipped under the door. I read enough to question the handwriting and to wonder how it was that my wife had presumably been busy somewhere in the house and writing me a letter at the same time. Before reading further in the letter, I got up and went over to the door, unlocked it, and checked the corridor.
    It was dark at this end of the house. But when I cautiously put my head out I could see light from the living room at the end of the hallway. The radio was playing quietly, as usual. Why did I hesitate?
    Except for the fog, it was a night very much like any other we had spent together in the house. But there was something else afoot tonight. At that moment I found myself afraid—afraid, if you can believe it, in my own house!—to walk down the hall and satisfy myself that all was well. Or if something was wrong, if my wife was experiencing—how should I put it?—difficulties of any sort, hadn’t I best confront the situation before letting it go any further, before losing any more time on this stupid business of reading her words in somebody else’s handwriting!
    But I didn’t investigate. Perhaps I wanted to avoid a frontal attack. In any case, I drew back and shut and locked the door before returning to the letter. But I was angry now as I saw the evening sliding away in this foolish and incomprehensible business. I was beginning to feel uneasy. (No other word will do.) I could feel my gorge rising as I picked up the letter purporting to be from my wife and once more began to read.
    The time has come and gone for us—us, you and me—to put all our cards on the table. Thee and me.
    Lancelot and Guinevere. Abelard and Heloi’se. Troilus and Cressida. Pyramus and Thisbe. JAJ and Nora Barnacle, etc. You know what I’m saying, honey. We’ve been together a long time—thick and thin, illness and health, stomach distress, eye-earnose-and throat trouble, high times and low. Now? Well, I don’t know what I can say now except the truth: I can’t go it another step.
    At this point, I threw down the letter and went to the door again, deciding to settle this once and for all. I wanted an accounting, and I wanted it now. I was, I think, in a rage. But at this point, just as I opened the door, I heard a low murmuring from the living room. It was as if somebody were trying to say something over the phone and this somebody were taking pains not to be overheard. Then I heard the receiver being replaced. Just this. Then everything was as before—the radio playing softly, the house otherwise quiet.
    But I had heard a voice.
    In place of anger, I began to feel panic. I grew afraid as I looked down the corridor. Things were the same as before—the light was on in the living room, the radio played softly. I took a few steps and listened. I hoped I might hear the comforting, rhythmic clicking of her knitting needles, or the sound of a page being turned, but there was nothing of the sort. I took a few steps toward the living room and then-what should I say?—I lost my nerve, or maybe my curiosity. It was at that moment I heard the muted sound of a doorknob being turned, and afterward the unmistakable sound of a door opening and closing quietly.
    My impulse was to walk rapidly down the corridor and into the living room and get to the bottom of this thing once and for all. But I didn’t want to act impulsively and possibly discredit myself. I’m not impulsive, so I waited. But there was activity of some sort in the house— something was afoot, I was sure of it—and of course it was my duty, for my own peace of mind, not to mention the possible safety and well being of my wife, to act. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. The moment was there, but I hesitated. Suddenly it was too late for any decisive action. The moment had come and gone, and could not be called back. Just so did Darius hesitate and then fail to act at the Battle of Granicus, and the day was lost, Alexander the Great rolling him up on every side and giving him a real walloping.
    I went back to my room and closed the door. But my heart was racing. I sat in my chair and, trembling, picked up