Where I'm Calling From

sidewalk. People are starting cars. I put out my hand and hold on to a parking meter.
    Sunlight glances off polished hoods and fenders. My head swims. “He’s admitted having relations with her that night, but he says he didn’t kill her.” She snorts. “They’ll put him on probation and then turn him loose.”
    “He might not have acted alone,” I say. “They’ll have to be sure. He might be covering up for someone, a brother, or some friends.”
    “I have known that child since she was a little girl,” the woman goes on, and her lips tremble. “She used to come over and I’d bake cookies for her and let her eat them in front of the TV.” She looks off and begins shaking her head as the tears roll down her cheeks.
    Stuart sits at the table with a drink in front of him. His eyes are red and for a minute I think he has been crying. He looks at me and doesn’t say anything. For a wild instant I feel something has happened to Dean, and my heart turns.
    “Where is he?” I say. “Where is Dean?”
    “Outside,” he says.
    “Stuart, I’m so afraid, so afraid,” I say, leaning against the door.
    “What are you afraid of, Claire? Tell me, honey, and maybe I can help. I’d like to help, just try me.
    That’s what husbands are for.”
    “I can’t explain,” I say. “I’m just afraid. I feel like, I feel like, I feel like….”
    He drains his glass and stands up, not taking his eyes from me. “I think I know what you need, honey.
    Let me play doctor, okay? Just take it easy now.” He reaches an arm around my waist and with his other hand begins to unbutton my jacket, then my blouse. “First things first,” he says, trying to joke.
    “Not now, please,” I say.
    “Not now, please,” he says, teasing. “Please nothing.” Then he steps behind me and locks an arm around my waist. One of his hands slips under my brassiere.
    “Stop, stop, stop,” I say. I stamp on his toes.
    And. then I am lifted up and then falling. I sit on the floor looking up at him and my neck hurts and my skirt is over my knees. He leans down and says, “You go to hell then, do you hear, bitch? I hope your cunt drops off before I touch it again.” He sobs once and I realize he can’t help it, he can’t help himself either. I feel a rush of pity for him as he heads for the living room.
    He didn’t sleep at home last night.
    This morning, flowers, red and yellow chrysanthemums. I am drinking coffee when the doorbell rings.
    “Mrs. Kane?” the young man says, holding his box of flowers.
    I nod and pull the robe tighter at my throat.
    “The man who called, he said you’d know.” The boy looks at my robe, open at the throat, and touches his cap. He stands with his legs apart, feet firmly planted on the top step. “Have a nice day,” he says.
    A little later the telephone rings and Stuart says, “Honey, how are you? I’ll be home early, I love you.
    Did you hear me? I love you, I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you. Goodbye, I have to run now.”
    I put the flowers into a vase in the center of the dining room table and then I move my things into the extra bedroom.
    Last night, around midnight, Stuart breaks the lock on my door. He does it just to show me that he can, I suppose, for he doesn’t do anything when the door springs open except stand there in his underwear looking surprised and foolish while the anger slips from his face. He shuts the door slowly, and a few minutes later I hear him in the kitchen prying open a tray of ice cubes.
    I’m in bed when he calls today to tell me that he’s asked his mother to come stay with us for a few days. I wait a minute, thinking about this, and then hang up while he is still talking. But in a little while I dial his number at work. When he finally comes on the line I say, “It doesn’t matter, Stuart. Really, I tell you it doesn’t matter one way or the other.”
    “I love you,” he says.
    He says something else and I listen and nod slowly. I feel sleepy. Then I wake up and say, “For God’s sake, Stuart, she was only a child.”

The Calm

    I was getting a haircut. I was in the chair and three men were sitting along the wall across from me. Two of the men waiting I’d never seen before. But one of them I recognized, though I couldn’t exactly place him. I kept looking at him as the barber worked on my hair. The man was moving a toothpick around in his mouth, a heavyset man, short wavy hair. And then I saw him in a cap and uniform, little eyes watchful in