Where I'm Calling From

stores. People here aren’t used to seeing men wear beards—or men who don’t work, for that matter.
    “Hello,” I said. I put out my hand when he set the carton down on the front fender. “The name’s Henry Robinson. You folks just arrive?”
    “Yesterday afternoon,” he said.
    “Some trip! It took us fourteen hours just to come from San Francisco,” the woman spoke up from the porch. “Pulling that damn trailer.”
    “My, my,” I said and shook my head. “San Francisco? I was just down in San Francisco, let me see, last April or March.”
    “You were, were you?” she said. “What did you do in San Francisco?”
    “Oh, nothing, really. I go down about once or twice a year. Out to Fisherman’s Wharf and to see the Giants play. That’s about all.”
    There was a little pause and Marston examined something in the grass with his toe. I started to move on.
    The kids picked that moment to come flying out the front door, yelling and tearing for the end of the porch. When that screen door banged open, I thought Marston was going to jump out of his skin. But she just stood there with her arms crossed, cool as a cucumber, and never batted an eye. He didn’t look good at all. Quick, jerky little movements every time he made to do something. And his eyes—they’d land on you and then slip off somewheres else, then land on you again.
    There were three kids, two little curly-headed girls about four or five, and a little bit of a boy tagging after.
    “Cute kids,” I said. “Well, I got to get under way. You might want to change the name on the box.”
    “Sure,” he said. “Sure. I’ll see about it in a day or two. But we don’t expect to get any mail for a while yet, in any case.”
    “You never know,” I said. “You never know what’ll turn up in this old mail pouch. Wouldn’t hurt to be prepared.” I started to go. “By the way, if you’re looking for a job in the mills, I can tell you who to see at Simpson Redwood. A friend of mine’s a foreman there. He’d probably have something…” I tapered off, seeing how they didn’t look interested.
    “No, thanks,” he said.
    “He’s not looking for a job,” she put in.
    “Well, goodbye, then.”
    “So long,” Marston said.
    Not another word from her.
    That was on a Saturday, as I said, the day before Memorial Day. We took Monday as a holiday and I wasn’t by there again until Tuesday. I can’t say I was surprised to see the U-Haul still there in the front yard. But it did surprise me to see he still hadn’t unloaded it. I’d say about a quarter of the stuff had made its way to the front porch—a covered chair and a chrome kitchen chair and a big carton of clothes that had the flaps pulled off the top. Another quarter must have gotten inside the house, and the rest of the stuff was still in the trailer. The kids were carrying little sticks and hammering on the sides of the trailer as they climbed in and out over the tailgate. Their mamma and daddy were nowheres to be seen.
    On Thursday I saw him out in the yard again and reminded him about changing the name on the box.
    “That’s something I’ve got to get around to doing,” he said.
    “Takes time,” I said. “There’s lots of things to take care of when you’re moving into a new place. People that lived here, the Coles, just moved out two days before you came. He was going to work in Eureka.
    With the Fish and Game Department.”
    Marston stroked his beard and looked off as if thinking of something else.
    “I’ll be seeing you,” I said.
    “So long,” he said.
    Well, the long and the short of it was he never did change the name on the box. I’d come along a bit later with a piece of mail for that address and he’d say something like, “Marston? Yes, that’s for us, Marston…. I’ll have to change the name on that box one of these days. I’ll get myself a can of paint and just paint over that other name… Cole,” all the time his eyes drifting here and there. Then he’d look at me kind of out the corners and bob his chin once or twice. But he never did change the name on the box, and after a time I shrugged and forgot about it.
    You hear rumors. At different times I heard that he was an ex-con on parole who come to Arcata to get out of the unhealthy San Francisco environment. According to this story, the woman was his wife, but none of the kids belonged to him. Another story was that he had committed a crime and was hiding out here. But not many people