The Caller

by Dan Krzyzkowski

  I held Patrick against me and looked at Mary, then at Sam. We were all silent for a moment, the five of us, a silence alive with sound. Not of men’s voices and howling wind but of the truthful essence of the evil that had conspired here on Westfall Boulevard tonight, and that other evils of similar natures were as likely to happen anyplace else in the world, anyplace where good and bad struggled to strike a stability in what we know as home.

  “You and Patrick can stay at my place for the night,” Mary proposed. “It’s probably best.”

  “You’re a doll, Mary,” I told her. “I think we’d like that very much.” The last thing I wanted right now was to be in my house, me and Patrick by ourselves. Not tonight.

  “Leslie?”

  I immediately recognized that voice and saw Justin standing to Mary’s right, bundled in a heavy winter coat. His red hair waved and flapped in the wind. A pair of officers was standing behind him.

  “Oh, Justin,” I said.

  He came forth, and I embraced him as well, squeezing both him and Patrick into my arms.

  He let go moments later and looked at me, snowflakes blowing past his ears and cuffs.

  “You did real fine tonight, Justin. I’m really proud of you. I really am.”

  “I’m proud of you too,” he said, and hugged me again. “Will you wait here with me until Mom and Dad get back?” he asked in the embrace, his voice cracking.

  I patted him on the back with one arm while holding Patrick against me with the other. “Of course I will. God, of course I will.”

  EPILOGUE

  July 23, 1994

  Dear Leslie,

  I helped grandmom today. She has a garden with plenty things like tomates and punkins and berry and eggplants inside with lots of windows for sunlight. A little snake was in plants and grandmom was scared and ran into the house get something so she could kill it. but I got it with my hands and took it out from her plant house to let it go away.

  It went away real fast to its hole where it lived it was neat. Grandmom is scared of snakes but says she hates snakes when they always get in her plant house like that.

  Cork hates them to. we played trucks at his house after lunch he has big dumper and the dirt mover. I have a bulldozer and steemwheel one to make it flat, our town is Holland. It was Cork’s name because he says his dad went there once on a airplane. We made tunnles for the water to go throuh when it rains and a dam in the lake so the people there can fish there when it finished. I talked to dad and we can see a basball game when he comes to see us. Grandmoms dog is Barker but he does not bark too much only when the door bell rings in the living room. Can Patrik come here some time and play trucks with me and cork and see Barker?

  Sincerely,

  Justin

  PS—Holland is almost done.

  ***

  Dear Leslie,

  (July 19, 7:35 p.m.)

  Better late than never, right? Sorry it’s been so long, but things have been rather hectic. You know, settling in, getting my life in order. I’m sure you can identify with me, whatever you’re doing right now.

  Funny, isn’t it? Neighbors for that long, and you were just the woman next door, vice versa for myself, no doubt. I still remember the day you and Richard moved in, when Pat was still an infant, if you can believe that. Kind of ironic, what it took to get us together after all that time.

  I think about it often. We have a small creek that winds past the house out here (an outflow of the Wapsipinicon, I think), small enough to call your own, but wide enough for good thinking. I walk the narrow trail that follows it with Mom’s dog, Barker, every morning before breakfast to get my thoughts straight, and I think about it often. It’s hard to get on paper, really, because there’s so much to think about, and personal feelings that go along with it. It’s hard for me to see myself sitting in the fourth row next to Marty, watching The Music Man, and imagine what my little boy was going through back at the house, and it hurts to think this. But I’m also thankful in a strange way because at least it made me see things in a different light, in a better light.

  That’s where I’m most thankful to you, Leslie. I won’t go as far as saying that you changed my way of thinking—though maybe you did—but you made me realize a lot of things. I thank you so dearly for that—for enabling me to reach into myself and understand what I found there, and to know what needed to be changed, and for finding the courage to make those changes. Thanks and thanks again.

  Marty and I settled our business in court over the summer. I think he was more perturbed by the thought of alimony than that of losing me (a caring sentiment from one of Achulsen’s top bacteriologists, right?). I should be shocked, but I’m not, really.

  I guess it goes back to what you said about things changing, how you don’t notice until things have really progressed—or regressed. When I think about it today—while I walk along the creek—I can’t imagine how I tolerated living with him, especially with all the time he spent at the lab, playing with his culture dishes and growing things. And he never should have kept those things hidden in the house like he did, as secret as they were. I always detested that. What if those burglars had actually found them? Where might we be today?

  I’m living with my mother out here, and things are going well. It’s nice to get away for a while, to get somewhere different. Mom enjoys the company, I think. She’s lived alone since ’84, when Pop died of lung cancer. We’ll wait it out and see how things go.

  I’m almost afraid to say it, but I met someone yesterday. First time, yeah, but he was extremely polite and attractively old-fashioned. Can you believe me? One-time-Sheldon-resident, falling for old fashions! But that’s how it is out here in this little place that someone got the idea to call Shellicksville. Harold was his name. He owns the Corner Market down by Creekbend (my little creek runs behind his place). Anyway, I was in there for the first time yesterday (Mom always insists on getting the groceries), and I accidentally knocked some yellow apples off the shelf and onto the dirt floor, five or six of them. When I bent down to pick them up (apples hadn’t been on my list), this guy Harold comes over and insists on getting them for me. I tried apologizing, but he said not to fret and insisted I keep the apples at no charge. He even used his apron to wipe them off, then put them gently in my basket. He placed them all in there with their stems pointing upward. Sounds silly, I know, but that’s not something you do by accident. It took mental planning and all. He’s in his mid- to late thirties, I’d guess, and his fingers were bare, which means nothing really ’cause I just met him, but you never know, right? Jeezum, can you believe me? I sound like a little girl again. But that’s okay. It’s kind of fun to feel young. Anyway, I think I’ll fix up one of my eggplant parmesans and take it down tomorrow to show my reciprocity.

  How about you? Another man in your life yet? If not, I assure you that you can feel it again. You’ll have to write back and fill me in. Or call us sometime. I’ve written our address and number on the back of the last page. Maybe you can come out and see us sometime. We’d love to have you and Patrick for a week, seriously. And Justin would love it. I think he considers you an aunt now, if you know what I mean. He always asks when you’re coming to visit.

  Well, I’ll let you go now. Time to get started on that parmesan. I thank you again, for all you’ve done for us. I think my life is finally getting on track again. I hope your life is going well, and I hope you’re still doing what you do best. You have a way with kids and a special warm spot that knows how to touch people. Really, you do. Take care, and write back soon.

  With love,

  Nellie

  (8:26 p.m.)

  I ARRANGED THE MEMO pages sequentially and slid them back into the envelope. I’m holding the envelope again, running my hands over it. The paper is still crisp and firm but no longer heavy and potent. It seems warm now—warm and light. I feel gratified, really damn fine. I popped
some peanuts and gazed across the yard, watching the purple martins.

  Things are fine here in North Carolina—not wonderful but fine. We live on an old gravel road that sees only local traffic and an ice-cream truck every day. Mr. Festrada, eighty-one years old, lives three houses down and owns seven golden retrievers. He honey-roasts peanuts and sells them in front of his house. They’re delightful. I send Patrick out for a bag every other night or so.

  An even older woman lives in a trailer at the far end of the street. Her name is Roberta, and she does these latch-hookings as a hobby. She brought us one the day we arrived, a two-by-three-foot image of a hilly meadow at day’s end, in which a lone cow pauses to look into the sunset with a mouthful of grass. Roberta told me she’d worked on it for fourteen months. I was awestruck when I first saw it. It’s simple yet deep and revealing at the same time. It’s hanging in our living room now, above the television set. I get to looking at it often and think about living on a grassy hillock like that one, pausing to appreciate a mouthful of grass and a beautiful sunset. I’m never inclined to ponder the time before or after that moment in the cow’s life, just that moment. It’s amazing how some of the simplest things can hit you the hardest.

  The dwellings here are strictly middle class, if that, and the people are friendly. Even the ice-cream man is a sweetheart. His name is Milo, and he takes his poodle, Winnie, along with him every day. Patrick loves Winnie, and I love the warmth that Winnie brings to Patrick’s face. I’ve already decided to get him a dog for his next birthday.

  Patrick and I came to North Carolina near the end of February, five weeks after Justin called me at the church that snowy, stormy night. I can’t formulate the words to accurately express why. I think the decision was silently made at Mary’s house that night, though I was unable to accept it until several weeks later. My company granted me a two-week reprieve following the incident to regather myself, take a vacation or something, but all I really did was sit in my kitchen and listen to the clock ticking softly above the refrigerator. I did a lot of thinking—a lot of thinking—and the more I thought, the worse things seemed to feel. The house grew more alien around me, reeking of the elements that bad dreams are made of: my struggles with Richard, his eventual death and the odd emptiness that followed, the phone call, and Tammy’s death.

  And Sheldon. Sheldon.

  I had a Realtor put the house up for sale. It sold in four days. Sheldon never felt like home again, and I never regained the motivation to return to work as an accountant.

  Elsie Patterson lost $12,000 worth of jewelry that night. I lost $7,000, and Nellie Rudebaker lost $21,000. Tammy had been strangled to death with a wire garrote, they told me. They’d found her on my living-room floor, just like Wickman said. I was glad I had confined Justin to the kitchen.

  The perpetrators are still at large today, six months later. A thorough investigation produced nothing. No prints or hair or even a snub of rubber from a shoe sole. A police data search turned up two similar joint crimes. One was in Elmira, New York, two years ago, in which back-to-back-to-back apartment units were entered and robbed. The other was near Savannah, Georgia, four and a half years ago, where four neighboring motor homes in a trailer park were picked clean. No prints or hair or anything was recovered from those sites, either, according to what I was told. It makes you think.

  Marty and Nellie Rudebaker escaped allegations of child neglect due to “hazardous weather” that night. They’d gone to see a play in Milford, which had supposedly ended at nine. They’d been swamped by the blizzard and hadn’t arrived home until after eleven. Boy, did they get a surprise. Their home had been turned upside down, furniture thrown everywhere, the walls stripped bare.

  I was willing to leave Sheldon, but I refused to leave Justin behind on the hot plate. There was still his confession to deal with, and I’m not one for leaving business undone. I considered writing it down on a slip of paper and leaving it in Nellie Rudebaker’s mailbox, but that idea was cowardly and full of holes. There was a chance that her husband would get the letter before she did. And even if she did get the letter first, who’s to say she would believe it?

  Nellie knocked on my door the following afternoon, the twelfth, and asked to be let in. I obliged and even warmed up a pot of tea for us. It was obvious that she’d needed to work up the courage to come see me. Her anxiety showed in the way her fingers quivered when she held her cup of tea as well as the hesitations she employed in her diction. She thanked me for talking Justin through the ordeal, and we eventually got to talking. I won’t lay it out for you verbatim—we spoke for over two hours—but as it turned out, she wasn’t such a bad person. As our conversation continued and the rapids lessened and the pools deepened, I began to feel touched by the softness in her voice and the tension in her eyes. She was a mother who, as she put it, was made aware of her son’s needs and vulnerability by the incident. She confessed to feeling a lot of guilt at the time, for failing to recognize the time being consumed by her job. She had never thought twice about the possibility that Justin might be lonely. This event had opened her eyes, and I was happy for her.

  I was able to see an entirely new person in Nellie Rudebaker within those two-plus hours of conversation. The opportunity available, I chose that moment to tell her about her husband and Mrs. Fallon. I told her exactly what Justin had told me and how shaken he had been. Ironically, Nellie wasn’t surprised. She made a sardonic face and said she doubted it was the first time her husband had cheated on her. She thought she knew of at least two others, women who worked with the Achulsen Bros.

  That was six months ago. I still keep in touch with friends from home: Sam, Mary, and the others. I last spoke with Elsie Patterson in early June, and she told me that Nellie had split up with her husband and that she and Justin were residing with Nellie’s mother out in Iowa. Today’s letter is my first word from Nellie and Justin since I left Sheldon. I’ll write back tomorrow.

  Like Nellie, you may be wondering what I do for a living out here, so I’ll fill you in. I’ve learned that accounting is a job that earns a paycheck, but working with children is what I truly love. I’ve landed a day job at a clinic over in Rocky Mount helping children who come from dysfunctional households. Many are teenagers who come in to be counseled. Teens today need as much attention and guidance as children. Much of my work centers around kids of alcoholic families, but I will occasionally work with teens who have been physically abused. I go to work each day feeling as though I’m making a difference.

  I gulped a handful of Mr. Festrada’s peanuts and downed the last of my iced tea. It’s humid here, but I don’t mind. It beats the winter gales of Sheldon.

  One thing I left behind, speaking of Sheldon, were my sparrows. But now I have purple martins. If you’ve never seen a martin, they’re wonderful birds, dark and sleek and swallow-like. They winter in South America and migrate up here for the warm season.

  There’s a martin house near the back of my backyard, elevated twelve feet by a steel pole. Because martins are communal, the birdhouse is actually an apartment complex, two stories high with eight units in each level. Every morning and evening, the yard is vibrant with swooping martins as they hunt for insects. Mr. Festrada told me that a purple martin will eat one thousand bugs a day. A thousand! Now there’s a good bird to have around!

  Today has been a real cracker, I guess. The birds are out, and the air is sweet. And I got a letter from Justin and Nellie. It’s nice to know there are people in the world who still think of you and remain thankful for something good that you did for them. It helps rejuvenate the warm spot in your heart.

  I closed my hands around the envelope and smiled in the warm night. It felt nice to smile.

  It felt nice to belong again.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I WOULD LIKE TO thank Mark Bauman, Katy Lido, Austin Young, and Shannon Morris. All read early drafts of The Caller prior to its original publication in the m
idnineties. The manuscript has changed a lot since then, but I remain grateful for the wisdom and insight you provided.

  And thanks again to Ron Delaney, whose round-the-clock technical support approaches something close to wizardry.