Where I'm Calling From

car.
    She’s drunk. But I’m drunk, too, and there’s nothing I can do. I make it to a big chair that’s close to the radiator, and I sit down. Some guys look up from their TV. Then they shift back to what they were watching. I just sit there. Now and then I look up at something that’s happening on the screen.
    Later that afternoon the front door banged open and J.P. was brought in between these two big guys—his father-in-law and brother-in-law, I find out afterward. They steered J.P. across the room. The old guy signed him in and gave Frank Martin a check. Then these two guys helped J.P. upstairs. I guess they put him to bed. Pretty soon the old guy and the other guy came downstairs and headed for the front door.
    They couldn’t seem to get out of this place fast enough. It was like they couldn’t wait to wash their hands of all this. I didn’t blame them. Hell, no. I don’t know how I’d act if I was in their shoes.
    A day and a half later J.P. and I meet up on the front porch. We shake hands and comment on the weather. J.P. has a case of the shakes. We sit down and prop our feet up on the railing. We lean back in our chairs like we’re just out there taking our ease, like we might be getting ready to talk about our bird dogs. That’s when J.P. gets going with his story.
    It’s cold out, but not too cold. It’s a little overcast. Frank Martin comes outside to finish his cigar. He has on a sweater buttoned all the way up. Frank Martin is short and heavy. He has curly gray hair and a small head. His head is too small for the rest of his body. Frank Martin puts the cigar in his mouth and stands with his arms crossed over his chest. He works that cigar in his mouth and looks across the valley. He stands there like a prizefighter, like somebody who knows the score.
    J.P. gets quiet again. I mean, he’s hardly breathing. I toss my cigarette into the coal bucket and look hard at J.P., who scoots farther down in his chair. J.P. pulls up his collar. What the hell’s going on? I wonder.
    Frank Martin uncrosses his arms and takes a puff on the cigar. He lets the smoke carry out of his mouth.
    Then he raises his chin toward the hills and says, “Jack London used to have a big place on the other side of this valley. Right over there behind that green hill you’re looking at. But alcohol killed him. Let that be a lesson to you. He was a better man than any of us. But he couldn’t handle the stuff, either.”
    Frank Martin looks at what’s left of his cigar. It’s gone out. He tosses it into the bucket. “You guys want to read something while you’re here, read that book of his, The Call of the Wild. You know the one I’m talking about? We have it inside if you want to read something. It’s about this animal that’s half dog and half wolf. End of sermon,” he says, and then hitches his pants up and tugs his sweater down. “I’m going inside,” he says. “See you at lunch.”
    “I feel like a bug when he’s around,” J.P. says. “He makes me feel like a bug.” J.P. shakes his head. Then he says, “Jack London. What a name! I wish I had me a name like that. Instead of the name I got.”
    My wife brought me up here the first time. That’s when we were still together, trying to make things work out. She brought me here and she stayed around for an hour or two, talking to Frank Martin in private. Then she left. The next morning Frank Martin got me aside and said, “We can help you. If you want help and want to listen to what we say.” But I didn’t know if they could help me or not. Part of me wanted help. But there was another part.
    This time around, it was my girlfriend who drove me here. She was driving my car. She drove us through a rainstorm. We drank champagne all the way. We were both drunk when she pulled up in the drive. She intended to drop me off, turn around, and drive home again. She had things to do. One thing she had to do was to go to work the next day. She was a secretary. She had an okay job with this electronic-parts firm. She also had this mouthy teenaged son. I wanted her to get a room in town, spend the night, and then drive home. I don’t know if she got the room or not. I haven’t heard from her since she led me up the front steps the other day and walked me into Frank Martin’s office and said, “Guess who’s here.”
    But I wasn’t mad at her. In the first place, she didn’t have any idea what she was letting herself in for when she said I could stay with