Chapter One: One innocent phone call, that's all or...
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
Sunday, July 20
4:40 pm PST (ish)
I enjoyed reading "Blue Box" by Anne Tyler, and you may as well.