Where I'm Calling From

north. I lay on the sofa and listened to the rain. Now and then I’d lift up and look through the curtain for the mailman.
    There was no one on the street, nothing.
    I hadn’t been down again five minutes when I heard someone walk onto the porch, wait, and then knock.
    I lay still. I knew it wasn’t the mailman. I knew his steps. You can’t be too careful if you’re out of work and you get notices in the mail or else pushed under your door. They come around wanting to talk, too, especially if you don’t have a telephone.
    The knock sounded again, louder, a bad sign. I eased up and tried to see onto the porch. But whoever was there was standing against the door, another bad sign. I knew the floor creaked, so there was no chance of slipping into the other room and looking out that window.
    Another knock, and I said, Who’s there?
    This is Aubrey Bell, a man said. Are you Mr. Slater?
    What is it you want? I called from the sofa.
    I have something for Mrs Slater. She’s won something. Is Mrs Slater home?
    Mrs Slater doesn’t live here, I said.
    Well, then, are you Mr. Slater? the man said. Mr. Slater… and the man sneezed.
    I got off the sofa. I unlocked the door and opened it a little. He was an old guy, fat and bulky under his raincoat. Water ran off the coat and dripped onto the big suitcase contraption thing he carried.
    He grinned and set down the big case. He put out his hand.
    Aubrey Bell, he said.
    I don’t know you, I said.
    Mrs Slater, he began. Mrs Slater filled out a card. He took cards from an inside pocket and shuffled them a minute. Mrs Slater, he read. Two-fifty-five South Sixth East? Mrs Slater is a winner.
    He took off his hat and nodded solemnly, slapped the hat against his coat as if that were it, everything had been settled, the drive finished, the railhead reached.
    He waited.
    Mrs Slater doesn’t live here, I said. What’d she win?
    I have to show you, he said. May I come in?
    I don’t know. If it won’t take long, I said. I’m pretty busy.
    Fine, he said. I’ll just slide out of this coat first. And the galoshes. Wouldn’t want to track up your carpet.
    I see you do have a carpet, Mr….
    His eyes had lighted and then dimmed at the sight of the carpet. He shuddered. Then he took off his coat.
    He shook it out and hung it by the collar over the doorknob. That’s a good place for it, he said. Damn weather, anyway. He bent over and unfastened his galoshes. He set his case inside the room. He stepped out of the galoshes and into the room in a pair of slippers.
    I closed the door. He saw me staring at the slippers and said, W. H. Auden wore slippers all through China on his first visit there. Never took them off. Corns.
    I shrugged. I took one more look down the street for the mailman and shut the door again.
    Aubrey Bell stared at the carpet. He pulled his lips. Then he laughed. He laughed and shook his head.
    What’s so funny? I said.
    Nothing. Lord, he said. He laughed again. I think I’m losing my mind. I think I have a fever. He reached a hand to his forehead. His hair was matted and there was a ring around his scalp where the hat had been.
    Do I feel hot to you? he said. I don’t know, I think I might have a fever. He was still staring at the carpet.
    You have any aspirin?
    What’s the matter with you? I said. I hope you’re not getting sick on me. I got things I have to do.
    He shook his head. He sat down on the sofa. He stirred at the carpet with his slippered foot.
    I went to the kitchen, rinsed a cup, shook two aspirin out of a bottle.
    Here, I said. Then I think you ought to leave.
    Are you speaking for Mrs Slater? he hissed. No, no, forget I said that, forget I said that. He wiped his face. He swallowed the aspirin. His eyes skipped around the bare room.
    Then he leaned forward with some effort and unsnapped the buckles on his case. The case flopped open, revealing compartments filled with an array of hoses, brushes, shiny pipes, and some kind of heavylooking blue thing mounted on little wheels. He stared at these things as if surprised. Quietly, in a churchly voice, he said, Do you know what this is?
    I moved closer. I’d say it was a vacuum cleaner. I’m not in the market, I said. No way am I in the market for a vacuum cleaner.
    I want to show you something, he said. He took a card out of his jacket pocket. Look at this, he said. He handed me the card. Nobody said you were in the market. But look at the signature. Is that Mrs Slater’s signature or not?
    I