Chapter One: One innocent phone call, that's all or...
photo by ldyck
Chapter
two
I
wake in a good mood—I mean, really good. My wife is still asleep. I
move closer and kiss the nape of her neck.
And
she says, “I have to review today’s lesson plan,” or some other
lame excuse and climbs out of bed.
I
don’t say anything, just let her go. I dream of the voice on the
phone. Silly schoolboy stuff, but it’s all I’ve got.
The
car engine wakes me, as usual.
After
showering, I search the closet for my favourite blue shirt. I know it’s got to be here. I hung it up myself. Growing frustrated, I
shoved her skirts. The empty hangers chime as they collide together.
One jumps off the rod and falls to the floor. I stoop to pick it up.
A blue pile in the back of the closet catches my eye. She knocked it
off the hanger and didn’t even bother to pick it up. Typical! I
hold the shirt up to the morning light that’s pouring through the
window. It’s wrinkled beyond hope. I crumble the shirt into a ball
and toss it back into the closet.
Downstairs,
dressed in the plaid shirt my wife hates, I pour a mug of coffee
and take a sip and frown. It needs sugar and a little milk. I open the
fridge. The carton feels light in my hand. When I turn it upside down, all that comes out is a few drops. Every single bloody time. Her
face, that’s what I see when I drive the heel of my foot into the
milk carton. I hide evidence of her imagined demise in the recycling
bin. Then I feel guilty. It’s not really her fault. She’s too
obsessed with her job, her students. They’ve become her entire
life. I’ve tried to help her see that she needs more, that she
still needs me. But she just won’t listen.
I
put my mug in the sink and stare at the phone, willing it to ring. I
want, so badly, to hear her
voice.
There’s
a note beside the phone: ‘Kenneth James, I have organized a
teacher/parent conference. You have my permission to dine alone.’
Gee,
thanks.
Br-r-r-ring.
I
pick up the receiver and...
“Good
morning,” she sings. “I hope you don’t mind. This isn’t a
mistake. I mean, I didn’t dial the wrong number. I mean, it may sound
odd. I mean, I don’t even know you, but I couldn’t stop thinking about
you. I had to dial your number. I couldn’t... But if you want me to
hang up, I will. Just say the word and I’ll never bother you again.
I promise, I won’t.”
It’s
not like the other times. This is innocent. We’re just friends
talking. “I’m glad you phoned,” I assure her.
I
let her steer the conversation. She shares details of her life so
willingly.
Her
name: Darlene McDonald
Her
favourite colour: emerald green—the same as mine.
Her
favourite song: Your Nobody Til Somebody Loves You—an
oldie by Dean Martin, I didn’t think anyone remembered but me.
“Both
sides of my family tree have deep roots in Canada,” Darlene tells
me.
“Dig
up those roots and go back farther,” I encourage. “I like
history.”
“Really?
Me too. Okay, so, they’re a hodgepodge of things, but mostly
Scottish. You probably guessed that by my last name—McDonald, eh?
Grandma told me that we’ve lived in BC for four or five
generations. I can’t remember what part of Scotland we came from,
even though she has told me. She’s told me so many times that I
can’t ask her again without making her upset. She’s got this
fierce temper—you’ve got to be careful around her or you’ll
pay. She says it’s passed down in our family, but I don’t have
it. I’m mellow—that’s me. Why get mad? It doesn’t get you
anywhere. She’s my dad’s mom. My other grandparents live down in
the States. Although if you ask them, they still say they’re
Canadian. I don’t understand how that works. Most people think I
look like my mom, but I’m definitely a daddy’s girl.”
Oh, that could be good news for this old man. “How do you make a
living?”
“I
change diapers and blow noses. Glamour all the way for me.
Officially, I’m an Early Childhood Educator, but I like to think of
myself as a play facilitator. I work in the infant room—enriching
the environment so the children in my care will be challenged,
entertained and inspired. I love my job. The children are alive to
the magic that surrounds us every day. They’ve taught me to be the
same. The Daycare is across from a school, so most of the parents are
teachers. The parents get summers off—and so we do too. I fill the
time pursuing my other passions. Like history. I’m a tour guide at
Craigdarroch Castle. Which, of course, doesn’t pay anything. I’m a
volunteer. I do that—volunteer. And work in daycare. And that’s
about it. Oh, yeah and I...” She goes on and on about her full,
rich life. “I’m into life. Well, enough about me. It’s your
turn.”
“There’s not much to tell.” I’m not eager to talk about myself, for obvious
reasons. But I could go on
listening to her for hours.
“Oh,
come on, share.”
“I’m
Icelandic-Canadian—broad, round face and fair complexion.”
“Handsome.”
“I
like to think so.”
She
giggles.
“Many
people,” My wife was the first and she insists on it, “call me
Kenneth James, but my given name is Kjartan.”
“Kar-teen.”
I have to give her credit for trying.
“It’s
a tricky name. You can just call me—.”
“No,
help me. I can get it.”
“Char-tan,”
I say my name more slowly this time.
“Char-tan,
see, I told you I could get it.”
“Ja,
mjog gott.”
“Char-tan.
Oh, I love that. Can I call you Kjartan?”
“Why
not? You’re calling me now.”
“Cute.
So what do you do when you’re not talking to me?”
“I
work at Uvan.”
“Oh,
for a moving company.”
So
she’s not an academic. I decided to find that refreshing. “The
University of Vancouver. I teach history.”
“Oh,
I love history. What...?”
She
asks some polite questions about my classes. But she can’t really
be interested, can she?
I
look down at my watch, notice the time and am just about to tell her
regrettably I have to go when she says, “Sorry, I’m going to be
late for work if we talk much longer. It was nice chatting, Kjartan.
Listen, I’ll give you my cell phone number.”
And
I give her mine, stressing that it’s the best way to contact me.
Please note that Uvan is a fictional entity created solely for this story.
photo by ldyck
Second phone call, slightly less innocent than the first. Is a friendship blooming, or...?
Chapter three
photo by ldyck
Without a reader
A writer's words mean
Nothing
I enjoyed reading "Blue Box" by Anne Tyler, and you may as well.
