The Caller

by Dan Krzyzkowski

  “They can’t see you, can they?”

  “Uh-uh, the cabinet door is shut. It’s really dark in here.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t speak,” I told him. “They might hear.”

  “I don’t think so. I can hear if somebody comes close. Leslie, I thought the police were coming. You said they were coming.”

  “I know, Justin, I know. And they are coming, I promise you. We may need to be a little more patient than we earlier thought. But that means you have to stay put. No more going out on your own. Is that understood?”

  “Why did the lights come back on?” he asked.

  “Justin, I don’t … I really don’t know what’s going on …”

  I was distracted by Sam Evans and Patty Lunesta. Both were gathered beneath the Fischer again. Both wore gravid faces. I heard bits and pieces of David Block’s play-by-play voice, mingled with the voices of other volunteers, and moving chairs, and Justin talking to me in one ear. “Time out, Justin. Hold on a second.” Block had just mentioned something about an accident. I had to assume it was the aforementioned collision on Route 7 to which he was referring—the one involving the Greyhound bus. But moments later I heard the words Orchard Drive issuing from the speakers, so this must be a new one.

  Orchard Drive was a road I knew well. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t far from the church. It was a treacherous stretch of County Road 519 that wound its way through the sloped, angled terrain of the Wortman’s apple orchard. The road was characterized by tight, looping S-turns and low visibility. And because the road was elevated well above ground level, accidents and spinouts were common. It was not unheard of for a fast-moving car to fly off the road and come to rest, ensnared, in the upper limbs of an apple tree.

  David Block had added Orchard Drive to his growing list of roads now closed for the night.

  I had to get on Orchard Drive in order to get home. If it was closed …

  I’d have to go another way, that’s all. Certainly, there were ways around the orchard, but those routes were circuitous and time-consuming. Crestfallen, I began to think less of Justin and his parents and more about Patrick and Tammy and the steps I was going to have to take in order to get home that night.

  You may not be getting home at all, Leslie. First things first. Take care of Justin. You can call Tammy later.

  “You think your parents might be home soon, Justin?” I asked. “It’s almost nine.”

  “Don’t know. I told you, they didn’t say.”

  “Do they usually get back late when they go out like this?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Sometimes what?” I asked. “What’s that mean?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes they get back real late. Like after I go to sleep in my bed.”

  “What time do you usually go to bed?”

  “I don’t know. Whenever I feel like it, I guess. Ten, mostly.”

  “Do you hear them usually, when they come in?” I remembered the spiral stairwell that linked his room to the den, which neighbored the front foyer.

  “Yeah. Mostly. I’m mostly too scared to fall asleep until they come back.”

  “I can’t believe they leave you home like this,” I told him, no longer bothering to hide my displeasure. “I’m not surprised that you’re scared at night, Justin. If I were a kid, twelve years old even, I’d be scared too.”

  Silence for a moment. I grew anxious at first but then forced myself to relax. The boy was simply thinking, that’s all. And thinking loudly.

  “Well, it’s a good thing you know our number, huh, Justin?”

  “Yeah,” he replied in a far-off voice. I sensed he was devoting only a fraction of his attention to me, the rest to something beyond my knowing. Loud thought if I ever heard it.

  “How often do you call us?” I asked. “I know you mentioned that you call in the afternoon most of the time, when I’m not here.”

  “Yeah, mostly. Not much to do around here. Except watch TV and stuff.”

  He’d dropped into that pensive mode again, as he’d done the two previous times I had addressed this subject. I was now certain that he was holding onto something, keeping his fists balled tightly around it. Over the phone, to a person he’d never met, I couldn’t expect much. But kids are like that. Something bad happens, and they hold onto it, afraid to let it go, or perhaps believe it. They’re at an age where good and bad means little because they’ve yet to be fully taught what is good and what is bad.

  But one thing is unmistaken. They leave clues behind. I’ve seen this many times. They leave hints of an inner turmoil that oftentimes not even they comprehend. Though incapable of accurately articulating their distress, they almost always leave a scent trail behind them. It is the job of the parent or caregiver to pick up on the scent and follow it to its source.

  I tried to visualize Justin’s parents. I really couldn’t see them as the type to pick up on their son’s distress signals. This may have had something to do with the fact that they’d left him home alone after dark in a snowstorm.

  Follow the scent, Leslie …

  Most of our calls were the result of latchkey boredom. Most kids wanted someone friendly to talk to, someone to confide in. Justin was no different. But much of this work is intuitive. Sometimes it was best to listen to your gut.

  Follow the trail …

  “Are you sure there isn’t something else you want to tell me, Justin?” I asked him. “Something at home? Or something at school that’s bothering you? It could be one of your classes, or maybe a bully on your bus?” I was greeted with phone static. “I won’t even talk if you don’t want me to. You can tell me, and I won’t say a word. Promise.”

  I was greeted with more silence, more loud thought.

  Although I was doubting my chances of locating the source of Justin’s discontent, I decided to take a small gamble by saying nothing. I greeted his silence with a silence of my own. I sat and waited. I would force him to issue the next word, whatever that might be.

  There was a lot of static and a great many wheels turning in his head, but I held my ground. I drummed my fingers on the scarred desk surface. I glanced across at Mary, whom I’d nearly forgotten. I saw my own weariness mirrored in her complexion and wondered how many calls she’d fielded during the course of this call … and whether she had any inkling of how long this call had lasted. I was already over an hour, which was easily a personal record. The existing record for lengthiest call at our station was two hours and twenty minutes. The recipient of that dubious honor was a volunteer named Stacey Dour, an older woman who is no longer among our staff. It was dubious because no one had ever verified who exactly she’d been on the phone with for those two-plus hours. Back then, calls had not been recorded as they are today. There were several prevailing rumors pertaining to Stacey Dour’s mystery caller the day she’d set her record for longest call. One theory maintained that she’d been on the phone with a ten-year-old boy whose older sister had been giving birth on the kitchen table. Another held that she’d actually been conversing with her divorce lawyer the entire time. A third rumor—

  “I’m scared … I don’t know. Just scared.”

  My reverie died in its tracks. “Scared of what, Justin? Scared of who?”

  “Mrs. …” He paused to swallow a lump in his throat. “Mrs. F-Fallon.”

  “Who is Mrs. Fallon, Justin? Want to tell me about her?”

  “My teacher,” he said.

  “You’re scared of your teacher? Why?”

  There came a long, anxious pause before he continued.

  “She’s not … nice … to me anymore.”

  “Mrs. Fallon is mean to you, you’re saying?”

  “I’m scared of her.”

  “What does she do that you don’t like?”

  “I don’t know. She doesn’t like me.”

  “Why, J
ustin? Why doesn’t she like you?”

  “She told me to get out,” he said.

  “Get out of what?” I asked. “Out of her classroom?”

  “She told me to shut up. She thinks I’m bad.”

  “Why does she think that, Justin? Tell me.”

  “But I didn’t do anything. It wasn’t my fault.”

  “What, Justin, what?”

  He hesitated, perhaps to regather himself and his thoughts. Maybe to realign himself with the situation at hand. Maybe anything. It was the loudest thought I ever heard.

  “We had half-days for a whole week,” he said. “’Cause our parents had to talk to our teachers.”

  “Parent conference week,” I said. “That was last fall, right?” Our afternoon staff had supposedly been busy that week.

  “Yeah, I think. But my dad, he picked me up from school the one day and dropped me and Joey off at the playground.”

  “Okay.”

  He halted again, and I feared he’d reached a critical point … that he might abort his entire story right here.

  “What about your dad?” I asked. “Did he stay at the playground with you?”

  “Uh-uh. He went back. He went back.”

  “Back to the school?”

  “Yeah.”

  “For the conference, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about your mom? Did she go to the conference too?”

  “Uh-uh,” he muttered. “She had to work a lot.”

  “Your mother was working?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right,” I said. “So what happened? Something happened to you at the playground?”

  “My dad said he would pick me and Joey up later, but Joey got hurt.”

  “Joey got hurt after your dad had already gone,” I restated, to be sure.

  “Yeah. We were on the big slide, going down it, and he got hurt.”

  “What happened to Joey?”

  “He cut his leg sliding down one time. Something sticking out on the slide cut his leg open, and he was bleeding real bad and crying real loud.”

  “And you couldn’t call your dad because he wasn’t home,” I said. “He was at the school.”

  “Some lady heard us and called a policeman.”

  “And the policeman came and got both of you?”

  “Uh-huh. We had to go to the hospital so Joey could get stitches from the slide.”

  “Was Joey all right?”

  “He was crying a lot ’cause he was really scared. His dad and mom came to the hospital to get us.”

  “Right,” I said, trying to follow the story. “So, what happened next? Did you get home okay?”

  “Yeah, ’cause Joey’s mom and dad dropped me off.”

  “Oh, I see now. Now you were at home, but your father was still supposed to pick you up at the playground, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, what did you do? Did you try to call the school or tell Joey’s parents?”

  “I forgot until I got in my room.”

  “So, you didn’t tell Joey’s parents, then.”

  “Uh-uh. I got scared and tried to call the school ’cause I was afraid my dad would get real mad and punish me.”

  “And what happened when you called the school?” I asked.

  I was greeted with silence, and I knew I was on the threshold.

  Open your fist, Justin. It’s all right …

  “I h-had to go over to my mom and dad’s room ’c-cause they have the cordless phone and a … phone book in there … to call … the school.”

  “It’s okay, Justin, it’s okay. I’m right here with you. I’m right here.”

  “The d-d-door was closed going in there, and I opened it … to go in … and … I saw …”

  Oh my God, no … I covered my mouth, breathless.

  “—my dad on the bed—”

  —Oh, Jesus—

  “—and he saw me—”

  —no, don’t say this—

  “—and … and … sh-she was sitting there—”

  —no, no, no—

  “—with no … clothes, and … and sh-she turned around, and … it was Mrs. Fallon, and she yelled at me real loud to g-get out—”

  The boy dissolved into tears, sobbing gently into the receiver. As far as I saw it, he had no more to say.

  I was devoid of words. A numbing grayness had swelled within me, and I swayed from its drunken effect. I couldn’t remember having felt this powerless since Richard had thrown his tantrum in the kitchen and I’d been unable to tend to Patrick’s crying. How does one respond to something like this? How does one justify it, sum it up, cast it in a better light when there is nothing to justify, nothing to sum up, and no light to extenuate the ugliness of the wrongdoing? I couldn’t even hug the child, which was what he needed at that moment more than anything. I could do nothing at all. It was just him and me and a phone line between us.

  “I’m … sorry, Justin.” It was weak and inadequate, but it was all I could muster. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  CHAPTER 10

  NINE O’CLOCK STRAIGHT UP. The close-down process began around me. I caught a glimpse of Luetta Saxton, a gorgeous, dark-skinned woman, as she bundled herself beneath a thick overcoat, waved to several people, gave Sam Evans a hug, and trounced out the door into the outer reaches of the church basement. Mary was still handling a call across from me.

  Justin wept for several minutes, and I stayed with him, consoling him as best I could. There was little I could do, and crying it out was probably the best remedy anyway. He at least knew that what he had seen was wrong and that it felt better to get it out.

  Until now, he had told no one of his father’s infidelity—not even his mother, whom he feared telling. And the stress he faced in school was obvious. I envisioned him sitting in his classroom with Mrs. Fallon glaring down at him, not to mention his father on the other side of the problem, at home. I couldn’t imagine how the boy had coped up to this point. I was equally surprised he hadn’t repressed the event and that he’d been capable of articulating it to me, a stranger.

  “I’m so very glad that you told me, though,” I said. “This is an awful thing you’ve seen, and it’s important that you were able to tell someone.”

  “Uh-huh.” He sounded ashamed for having witnessed such a thing.

  But I could feel the cleansing he’d undergone, the removal of that tremendous weight from his chest.

  It was imperative, of course, that Justin bring this matter to his mother, but I left that issue alone for now. To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure that Justin’s revelation of his father’s afternoon fling would be conducive to Justin’s physical and mental well-being. What if his mother refused to believe him? And his father later beat the tar out of him?

  You need to let that go for now. There’s only so much you can do, Leslie.

  “Ow,” the boy said suddenly.

  “What? What was that for?”

  He groaned. “Bumped my elbow in here.”

  “You all right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Be careful of the plumbing pipes under there. They’re all metal.”

  “They’re farther down, I think. By my feet. The sink is over my feet.”

  “Well, whatever, just be careful,” I told him. “Don’t bang against anything too loudly. You need to stay quiet.”

  “I know. They didn’t hear me.”

  “What’s happening over there anyway? Can you still hear those men?”

  He paused. “Uh-huh. They’re upstairs, I think.”

  “Upstairs? Both of them? Can you hear them?”

  “I think,” he whispered. “They’re still moving things around.”

  I wondered what Justin’s house was going to look like wh
en those perps got finished with it.

  And what a surprise the mister and missus are going to have when they walk in. Whenever the hell they get back, that is.

  “This is up to you, Justin, but do you think you might want to try and get out of the house now? Through the basement?”

  He chewed on that for a moment, which signified his unease.

  “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

  “I don’t know. I’m still afraid a little, about the basement.”

  “I know what you mean. There’s probably no one else down there, but you’re not sure.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Plus the fact that you feel okay where you are right now. Right?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Up to you,” I said. “If you feel safer sitting it out, that’s fine with me. I’ll sit it out with you.”

  I waited for him to say something in return, but he didn’t. I figured he was pondering my idea. More loud thought.

  “In fact,” I told him, “if we’re going to use this approach, we’d best go to tapping.”

  I waited for him to comply, but I was greeted with silence. I held onto the phone and listened, opened my mouth to speak but then shut it. I treaded water in the moment, hearing raspy static through the phone line and the thumping at the sides of my neck.

  Something is happening … something in his kitchen.

  It was just like before, those other times when the boy had suddenly lapsed into silence. The ensuing quiet was no different here, and I intuitively knew to keep my mouth shut. Through a wavelength we now seemed to share, I perceived Justin crammed beneath the counter space, having tuned me out in order to tune in to an alien sound in the kitchen or somewhere else close by.

  Maybe his parents are walking in, I wondered with thin hope, knowing this wasn’t the case. Finally, I opened my mouth to ask in my softest voice—

  I froze when I heard a noise through the receiver.

  A faint sound was coming through … barely audible … barely perceptible. It was almost smooth—if, in fact, a sound can be described as such. Susurrant …

  What’s going on? What is that noise? What is Justin doing?

  I was frightened by not knowing, unable to plan a course of action. My pulse throbbed louder in my neck. I could feel my heartbeat jabbing the inside of my ribcage.