Where I'm Calling From

the suitcase.
    Son of a bitch! I’m so glad you’re leaving! She began to cry. You can’t even look me in the face, can you?
    Then she noticed the baby’s picture on the bed and picked it up.
    He looked at her and she wiped her eyes and stared at him before turning and going back to the living room.
    Bring that back, he said.
    Just get your things and get out, she said.
    He did not answer. He fastened the suitcase, put on his coat, looked around the bedroom before turning off the light. Then he went out to the living room.
    She stood in the doorway of the little kitchen, holding the baby.
    I want the baby, he said.
    Are you crazy?
    No, but I want the baby. I’ll get someone to come by for his things.
    You’re not touching this baby, she said.
    The baby had begun to cry and she uncovered the blanket from around his head.
    Oh, oh, she said, looking at the baby.
    He moved toward her.
    For God’s sake! she said. She took a step back into the kitchen.
    I want the baby.
    Get out of here!
    She turned and tried to hold the baby over in a corner behind the stove.
    But he came up. He reached across the stove and tightened his hands on the baby.
    Let go of him, he said.
    Get away, get away! she cried.
    The baby was red-faced and screaming. In the scuffle they knocked down a flowerpot that hung behind the stove.
    He crowded her into the wall then, trying to break her grip. He held on to the baby and pushed with all his weight.
    Let go of him, he said.
    Don’t, she said. You’re hurting the baby, she said.
    I’m not hurting the baby, he said.
    The kitchen window gave no light. In the near-dark he worked on her fisted fingers with one hand and with the other hand he gripped the screaming baby up under an arm near the shoulder.
    She felt her fingers being forced open. She felt the baby going from her.
    No! she screamed just as her hands came loose.
    She would have it, this baby. She grabbed for the baby’s other arm. She caught the baby around the wrist and leaned back.
    But he would not let go. He felt the baby slipping out of his hands and he pulled back very hard.
    In this manner, the issue was decided.

Why Don’t You Dance?

    In the kitchen, he poured another drink and looked at the bedroom suite in his front yard. The mattress was stripped and the candy-striped sheets lay beside two pillows on the chiffonier. Except for that, things looked much the way they had in the bedroom—nightstand and reading lamp on his side of the bed, nightstand and reading lamp on her side.
    His side, her side.
    He considered this as he sipped the whiskey.
    The chiffonier stood a few feet from the foot of the bed. He had emptied the drawers into cartons that morning, and the cartons were in the living room. A portable heater was next to the chiffonier. A rattan chair with a decorator pillow stood at the foot of the bed. The buffed aluminum kitchen set took up a part of the driveway. A yellow muslin cloth, much too large, a gift, covered the table and hung down over the sides. A potted fern was on the table, along with a box of silverware and a record player, also gifts. A big console-model television set rested on a coffee table, and a few feet away from this stood a sofa and chair and a floor lamp. The desk was pushed against the garage door. A few utensils were on the desk, along with a wall clock and two framed prints. There was also in the driveway a carton with cups, glasses, and plates, each object wrapped in newspaper. That morning he had cleared out the closets, and except for the three cartons in the living room, all the stuff was out of the house. He had run an extension cord on out there and everything was connected. Things worked, no different from how it was when they were inside.
    Now and then a car slowed and people stared. But no one stopped.
    It occurred to him that he wouldn’t, either.
    It must be a yard sale,” the girl said to the boy.
    This girl and this boy were furnishing a little apartment.
    “Let’s see what they want for the bed,” the girl said.
    “And for the TV,” the boy said.
    The boy pulled into the driveway and stopped in front of the kitchen table.
    They got out of the car and began to examine things, the girl touching the muslin cloth, the boy plugging in the blender and turning the dial to MINCE, the girl picking up a chafing dish, the boy turning on the television set and making little adjustments.
    He sat down on the sofa to watch. He lit a cigarette, looked around, flipped the match into