The Caller Read online

“—and live in this big house—”

  “—the Amazon—”

  “—and provide everything Patrick needs—”

  “—BMWs, Porsches—”

  “—but we don’t want to spoil him—”

  “—Jacuzzi …”

  I jumped on him and assaulted him with kisses. On the cheeks, the forehead, the nose, the lips. I pressed my mouth into his, licked his tongue with mine. I gripped his shoulders tighter, feeling his sudden erection against my navel. I grew suddenly hot. I began undoing his top buttons and licking his chest.

  “Hold up, honey, hold up for a sec.”

  I worked my hands down his shirt, ignoring him.

  “Yo, hold up. Time out.” He was trying to back away.

  I held onto him, determined to win him out, do it on the floor if I had to.

  He straightened his arms and pushed me away. I stood there looking at him, thwarted.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to jump into that yet.”

  I smiled.

  “I know, it’s tough because you’re so beautiful, but—”

  I advanced, but he stopped me.

  “Leslie, I’m serious,” he said with a dry laugh. “Not now. I’ve got some paperwork I want to finish up in the study.”

  “Crab.”

  “Save it for me,” he said, backing toward the hall. “Keep the bed warm. When I get in there, I’m gonna exhaust you.”

  “Oh, you think so?”

  “I know it.”

  “What makes you think you can pass me up for a later date all of a sudden?” I asked, smiling, trying to look seductive.

  “’Cause you’re my wife. And I love you.”

  “Hah,” I said and whisked back to the bedroom to watch some television.

  I outlasted two sitcoms and the first half of a TV movie. I kept it good and warm under the sheets. But by the time Richard came to bed that night, I was long asleep.

  ***

  I awoke at seven the next morning. Richard’s side of the bed was empty. I found a brief note downstairs on the kitchen counter, scrawled on a napkin:

  Early start today. Have to take care of a few things in the office. Talk to you at lunch. Back for dinner.

  L. R-

  I slid the napkin into the trash can and fixed myself a bowl of corn flakes. I ate in silence, acutely aware of the eerie quiet inside the house: the grandfather clock ticking softly in the adjacent room; the low, mitigating hum of the refrigerator. But it was another element of the silence I was aware of today, some new essence that seemed to underscore it. It was a dullness, a hollowness, although I’d have never confessed to it back then. I know now, however, that the quality of a silence can reflect the quality of the mind. Silence had a sound, even then.

  I finished half of the corn flakes and dumped the rest down the sink. Then I went back upstairs to get Patrick. I peered over the crib railing with a smile. He was lying on his back, eyes open, looking up calmly, as if waiting for me to arrive. Few sights have given me greater satisfaction. It’s one thing to see or hold a human infant, but to rear one is extraordinary. I reached down for him and brought him up against my chest, kissing him on the head. My mother told me once that no one will ever love you more than your mother, and now I understand what she meant.

  Patrick rarely cried in the morning. I often found him staring at the ceiling, as if absorbed in a quiet spell of baby contemplation. He still sleeps like a baby today, five and a half years later.

  I took him out on the back deck to nurse him. The backyard was so natural in the morning, so serene. When I leaned back in my full-length chair to nurse, I slipped gently into the transpiring scene around me, became a functioning element of it. The birds were busy at that hour and always a pleasure to watch. The more time I spent observing them, the more I noticed how much their actions contribute to their survival. Everything a bird does appears to serve some necessary function. Watching them often made me consider some of the things we humans do that mean little or nothing to the furtherance of our daily lives. Watching television, for instance. Eating when we’re not hungry, smoking cigarettes.

  I became particularly intrigued by a family of sparrows nesting in a holly bush along the right-hand side of the yard, near the fence. For several weeks, a single male, having staked out this territory, worked furiously to construct a nest and defend the area simultaneously. Once completed, he would perch himself on a branch a foot above the nest, chasing away other sparrows—males, presumably—that approached his holly bush. I also noticed that two sparrows would not nest within a certain distance of each other. Birds of different species didn’t seem to care, however. That same spring, a family of robins nested in a low branch of a silver maple not far from the holly bush. Farther back, a mockingbird clan moved into the shrubbery. It amazes me how much one can learn by the mere act of observation.

  On this particular morning, I focused my attention on the sparrows in the holly bush. The chicks were a week old, and the parents were busy gathering food for them. I watched intently as Patrick nursed from my breast. Because most holly bushes aren’t too dense like other shrubs, I could easily see the nest from my vantage point. If I listened closely, I could even hear the chicks peeping away.

  The parents’ quest to feed their young was constant. One would return with an insect morsel, loiter briefly, and then fly off for more. Minutes later, the other would zoom in and land on the edge of the nest, relinquish its finds, and then fly off again. The cycle never ended.

  But a sustained observation of the sparrows in the holly bush inspired in me deeper insights than just the redundancy of their tasks. I marveled at the simplicity and cooperation inherent in their lives. Nothing was complicated. Nothing was questioned, as far as I could tell. It was just done. And it was beautiful. I have come to the conclusion that few things are as fulfilling as sitting down and watching nature work. It’s ironic how simple it is … yet we never understand until we take the time to sit and watch. Until we allow ourselves to blend in.

  Blending in was easy for me back then. Nursing Patrick seemed analogous to the sparrows’ search for insects in the yard. For that part of the day, with Patrick in my arms, I truly belonged.

  But my observation of the sparrows on this morning seemed to divert me elsewhere instead of inviting me into the scene. Change often begins in subtlety, as I know now. Only years later do I realize the meaning of that vague sense of alienation I felt that sultry spring morning on my back deck.

  If I had to anoint a vertex in the scheme of things, a point where things began to feel wrong, it was then. Somehow, unlike mornings prior, I felt like a human being looking into the scene instead of being inside it, being a part of it. I felt locked out.

  It’s amazing how change creeps up on you. You can’t look into a mirror and decide how much your hair has grown in the last hour. Only when it drapes over your eyes and obstructs your vision do you discover you aren’t seeing clearly anymore.

  ***

  As time passed, Richard’s lunchtime calls thinned out.

  It was a gradual process. He’d forget a day, call me the next few, and then forget again. Eventually he’d dwindled his average to three calls a week, on select days when he wasn’t “snowed under in the office.” I asked him about it several times in bed, but the answer was always uniform. He was moving up in the business world, and advancement required time, even if it meant sacrificing several calls per week. It was the price to be paid for success.

  “Don’t worry, babe,” he said, staring quietly at the ceiling. “Someday we’re gonna have everything. Then you’ll be proud of me.”

  “What do you mean then?” I asked, sitting up in bed, looking down at him. “I’m proud of you now, Richard. Do I make it seem like I’m not proud of you?”

  “No, of course not,” he said. His upward stare was u
nwavering.

  I never understood what he found so engrossing about the ceiling—it was as if he was conjuring some divine futuristic image of himself. That’s where Richard was wrong. He was too dead-set on thinking ahead, dreaming about what was going to be while the present flew past, unnoticed. “Maybe that came out wrong,” he said. “Maybe I don’t know what I meant. I’m kind of tired.”

  He turned on his side, away from me. I laid my hand on his shoulder and caressed him. It had been a while since we’d made love.

  “Not tonight, honey. Got a long day tomorrow. Early start.”

  I slumped down in bed and turned on my side, away from him. “What else is new?” I mumbled, hoping he would hear.

  I’m not sure if he did or not, but he never answered.

  ***

  Before long, Richard’s early starts became a daily happening. I’d wake up at six, and he’d be gone. Our breakfasts on the back deck came to an end, leaving only Patrick and me. And the sparrows.

  His lunchtime calls dropped to one or two a week. Coupled with this was a drastic fall in the quality of the calls. No more smiles, happy thoughts, warm feelings. As the months passed and Richard’s workaholism worsened, I began to realize that I didn’t want him phoning me during lunch anymore.

  His calls were hurried. Often his voice was tense, as if someone was watching, grading his performance from a balcony high in his office. We began to convey less and less, and before long the entire endeavor had lost its meaning.

  I often heard voices in the background, phones ringing, machines humming. On a number of occasions, he had to cut our conversation short to return some important business calls. Some days the messages would be stacked miles high on his desk, according to what he told me, from people who needed to be called back because they were depending on him. The routine lunchtime love call became a lost cause in its own time. I soon realized that Richard’s efforts to continue the routine were pure farce. I could tell by the impatience in his voice that it had become a time-consuming annoyance for him, ill-conducive to the endpoint of what needed to be accomplished.

  Soon after, his “early start” had joined hands with a “late finish.” I’d have dinner ready at five thirty, and he’d walk in at six with his briefcase, claiming he had some work to finish. Six became six thirty, a quarter to seven … sometimes seven o’clock.

  It reached the point where I’d stand with hands on hips, watching crossly as he strode tiredly into the kitchen.

  “Sorry, hon, I really am. Snowed under today. You wouldn’t believe it.”

  Following an awkward pause, I asked, “So, everything’s going well, I take it?”

  “Oh, it’s incredible,” he told me, as he so often did. “Moving up like light speed.”

  I am able to realize nowadays the role I played in Richard’s neurosis. So often I refused to address the problem, to reveal my unhappiness over him being gone all the time. Instead I’d ask a meaningless question, one that buried the issue and intensified his inebriating fervor. But change happens slowly. Perhaps I was too young and naïve to step outside of myself and wholly understand the problem. I know better today.

  By the time Richard was promoted in the finance department, our dinners—those he made it to, that is—had assumed a startling similarity to his midday checkup call, which had been whittled to once a week. He sat at one end of the table, me at the other, Patrick next to me. We spoke less and less, and the words we did exchange, usually spurred by a question of mine, conveyed little. Often, Richard would look down at his food the entire time, as though his spinach and roast duck and mashed potatoes were more engaging than I was—or his child, for that matter. I tried posing questions now and then, sparking some real conversation, but he replied bluntly, shrugging his shoulders or mumbling under his breath. When dinner was over, he’d come around the table, kiss me on the forehead, and retreat to his study.

  “Again?” I asked one night, Patrick in my arms. “Wouldn’t you rather lie next to me on the couch or cuddle with your son?”

  An obscure look passed over his face, a look of uncertainty, of momentary confusion. It was subtle, but it was there. I recognized that the decision between work and his family troubled Richard in some deep mental abyss.

  Then he caressed Patrick’s head and looked at me fretfully. “You know I want to, honey, but I can’t. Not tonight.”

  “Why not? We miss you around here. Don’t we, Patsy-Watsy?” I said, tickling the child.

  “You’ll have to get by without me tonight. Always work to do. Gotta finish up on some things.”

  “Yeah, we know. We know what’s more important to some people, don’t we, little guy?” Patrick squirmed playfully in my arms.

  “Tell you what, then. Next weekend—not this one coming, but the one after—we’ll go to the beach.”

  My eyes lit up. “You think so?”

  “I know so. You can put it on the calendar. Write it in pen.”

  “You’re sure you won’t be working that weekend, though.”

  In addition to weekdays, Richard had started putting hours in every other Saturday. He’d work eight in the morning until one o’clock.

  “Not that day I won’t. We’ll get a sitter for Pat. It’ll be just you and me. How’s that?”

  “But do I have to wait that long to spend some quality time with you, unlike most other wives in the world?”

  He grinned merrily but didn’t reply.

  He resigned to his study on the second floor as I resigned to kitchen cleanup and then some television.

  Two Fridays later, Richard called from work to say he’d be home late, that I was to eat without him.

  “Ready for some sun and sand?” I asked.

  “I can feel it right now, sweetheart. And you next to me. Don’t wait up for me. I’ll probably be here a while.”

  As it turned out, I was in bed and sound asleep when he walked in. It had to be past ten thirty, I later surmised. I’d packed a beach duffel with towels, sunglasses, and sunscreen and left it on the hope chest by the windows, ready for tomorrow. I’d also made a pair of Italian subs for us and some iced tea, waiting in the refrigerator.

  But Richard never woke me the following morning to go to the beach. I awoke on my own around seven thirty, and he was gone. Nonplussed, I ran around the house calling his name, but he didn’t respond. With a sudden soreness in my throat, I ran out to the driveway. His car was missing. I stood on wobbly legs for a minute, thinking he’d perhaps made a quick trip to a deli or mini-mart to grab a few essentials and goodies before waking me. But then another thought came to me. I dashed into his upstairs study to look.

  His briefcase was gone. Richard had left for the office.

  I remember standing in the open doorway of his study, staring at the floor near the side of his desk where his briefcase should have been, feeling the sudden swelling in my eyes. I entertained the possibility that he hadn’t returned home last night, but his side of the bed had clearly been slept in.

  It still makes no sense to me today how someone of Richard’s age and intelligence could be so irresponsible. For God’s sake, I’d mentioned it to him over the phone the previous afternoon! So I guess I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t heartbroken. For the first time, I consciously felt alone and detached.

  I made no effort to call the office. No part of me wanted anything to do with that office today. I retrieved Patrick from his crib and went out to the back deck to watch the sparrows. The tears welled, and I cried freely, letting them roll smoothly down my face in the soft morning. Patrick squirmed in my arms, perusing the yard with his curious brown eyes. The sparrows chipped and chirped, doing their thing. Never had I felt so ostracized from a scene I had once slipped into like a bathrobe.

  Thirty minutes later, the phone rang. I got up to answer it. It was Richard.

  “Oh God, honey, I’m so sorry. Oh
, Jesus, I just remembered now, can’t believe I forgot this. I know you were looking forward—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I told him glumly. “It wasn’t anything to get excited about anyway, just a trip to the beach.”

  “Yeah, but I promised you, didn’t I? Christ, I can’t believe I did this. Honestly, I woke up and just thought I was on for today—”

  “You’re on every day, Rich.”

  There was a quick pause in his gush of words. “Yeah, but I wasn’t today, and, you know, I didn’t even realize it when I got here. I just sat down and got going.”

  What I most remember about that call was Richard struggling to explain the idiocy of his mistake and how shameful he felt. Not once did he raise the notion of just coming home. Looking back, I don’t think he was waiting for me to tell him that, either. I doubt the idea ever pierced the bruised membrane of his thought process. That’s the scary thing. It never occurred to him to simply come home.

  “Don’t worry over it, Richard. Things are fine, really. I’m okay,” I said flatly.

  “But I’m sorry, Les, I really am. I don’t know how to be more sorry. How can I make it up to you?”

  “You don’t have to make anything up to me,” I told him softly, and gently laid the phone on the hook.

  I stood there, trembling. It was the first time I’d ever hung up on my husband.

  That’s when things really started to get bad.

  CHAPTER 7

  IT WAS DAVID BLOCK’S voice that gripped and shook me, bringing me back to where I was. That wasn’t what scared me, though. Block’s gravelly, cobblestone voice—the voice of a grandfather—was unapt to scare anyone. What frightened me were the dual forms of Sam Evans and Patty Lunesta gathered below the speakers of the old Fischer. Sam and Patty were hanging on Block’s every syllable. I did not like the looks on their faces—Sam’s especially.

  David Block was the evening deejay at WMTS 109.8—our local oldies station. A lifelong Connecticut native and a fixture on the FM dial, Block had apparently forsaken his favorite Rialtos singles in lieu of traffic and weather updates. Gone were the relaxed and often sultry subtextures with which he normally spoke. Now he spoke in a clipped, fast-paced narrative. Sam and Patty were hunched over against the metal filing cabinet atop which the old Fischer sat, attuned to every word. A shadow darkened Sam’s face. Patty shook her head.