Where I'm Calling From

camera. Then the man and woman get into an old car and drive away into the late afternoon traffic.
    The announcer goes on to say that the girl, Susan Miller, had gotten off work as a cashier in a movie theater in Summit, a town 120 miles north of our town. A green, late-model car pulled up in front of the theater and the girl, who according to witnesses looked as if she’d been waiting, went over to the car and got in, leading the authorities to suspect that the driver of the car was a friend, or at least an acquaintance. The authorities would like to talk to the driver of the green car.
    Stuart clears his throat then leans back in the chair and sips his drink.
    The third thing that happens is that after the news Stuart stretches, yawns, and looks at me. I get up and begin making a bed for myself on the sofa.
    “What are you doing?” he says, puzzled.
    “I’m not sleepy,” I say, avoiding his eyes. “I think I’ll stay up a while longer and then read something until I fall asleep.”
    He stares as I spread a sheet over the sofa. When I start to go for a pillow, he stands at the bedroom door, blocking the way.
    “I’m going to ask you once more,” he says. “What the hell do you think you’re going to accomplish by this?”
    “I need to be by myself tonight,” I say. “I need to have time to think.” He lets out breath. “I’m thinking you’re making a big mistake by doing this. I’m thinking you’d better think again about what you’re doing.
    Claire?”
    I can’t answer. I don’t know what I want to say. I turn and begin to tuck in the edges of the blanket. He stares at me a minute longer and then I see him raise his shoulders. “Suit yourself then. I could give a fuck less what you do,” he says. He turns and walks down the hall scratching his neck.
    This morning I read in the paper that services for Susan Miller are to be held in Chapel of the Pines, Summit, at two o’clock the next afternoon. Also, that police have taken statements from three people who saw her get into the green Chevrolet. But they still have no license number for the car. They are getting warmer, though, and the investigation is continuing.
    I sit for a long while holding the paper, thinking, then I call to make an appointment at the hairdresser’s.
    I sit under the dryer with a magazine on my lap and let Millie do my nails.
    “I’m going to a funeral tomorrow,” I say after we have talked a bit about a girl who no longer works there.
    Millie looks up at me and then back at my fingers. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs Kane. I’m real sorry.”
    “It’s a young girl’s funeral,” I say.
    “That’s the worst kind. My sister died when I was a girl, and I’m still not over it to this day. Who died?”
    she says after a minute.
    “A girl. We weren’t all that close, you know, but still.”
    “Too bad. I’m real sorry. But we’ll get you fixed up for it, don’t worry. How’s that look?”
    “That looks… fine. Millie, did you ever wish you were somebody else, or else just nobody, nothing, nothing at all?”
    She looks at me. “I can’t say I ever felt that, no. No, if I was somebody else I’d be afraid I might not like who I was.” She holds my fingers and seems to think about something for a minute. “I don’t know, I just don’t know…. Let me have your other hand now, mrs Kane.”
    At eleven o’clock that night I make another bed on the sofa and this time Stuart only looks at me, rolls his tongue behind his lips, and goes down the hall to the bedroom. In the night I wake and listen to the wind slamming the gate against the fence. I don’t want to be awake, and I lie for a long while with my eyes closed. Finally I get up and go down the hall with my pillow. The light is burning in our bedroom and Stuart is on his back with his mouth open, breathing heavily. I go into Dean’s room and get into bed with him. In his sleep he moves over to give me space. I lie there for a minute and then hold him, my face against his hair.
    “What is it, mama?” he says.
    “Nothing, honey. Go back to sleep. It’s nothing, it’s all right.”
    I get up when I hear Stuart’s alarm, put on coffee and prepare breakfast while he shaves.
    He appears in the kitchen doorway, towel over his bare shoulder, appraising.
    “Here’s coffee,” I say. “Eggs will be ready in a minute.”
    He nods.
    I wake Dean and the three of us have breakfast. Once or twice Stuart looks at me as if he wants to say something, but