The Call Read online

  RESULT: The man looked around his barn. He spoke in a whisper. Maybe someday I’ll get another one. I’m whispering so the wife doesn’t hear. You see, they’re no trouble to keep. Have you seen their manure? It has no smell. It’s easy to clean. They do it all in the barn, not inconsiderate like a horse or a cow, going wherever and whenever it pleases in a field. No wonder he died of fear. He was gentle. He will go to alpaca heaven, the owner said, and I tried to picture what alpaca heaven would look like but all I pictured was the same barn I was standing in and the owner petting the dead alpaca’s side.

  THOUGHTS ON DRIVE HOME: If I could time-travel in only one direction, would I go forward or backward?

  WHAT THE WIFE COOKS FOR DINNER: Turkey soup with rice. I wanted noodles, but we had none. I helped her with the dinner. I pulled out the bag of basmati rice from the pantry. I washed the rice well. There were no Indian stones or bugs I wanted to find in a mouthful of soup.

  WHAT THE WIFE SAID: Your levels will love this soup.

  WHAT SARAH SAID WHILE WE ATE THE SOUP: Sam would hate this soup.

  WHAT THE WIFE SAID: He would not! Then she stood and dumped her soup into the kitchen sink and let the water run over it and watched it for a very long time.

  CALL: A woman who needs a prepurchase exam on a Dales Pony.

  ACTION: Drove to farm. X-rayed pony, checked his legs, did a spavin test, and, bending his leg at the knee, held knee bent for a while, looking to see how much it could flex.

  RESULT: Dales Pony was in fine shape. Owner was thankful, asked, before I left, if I wanted to see her Mammoth Mules. Mammoth Mules? I asked. She led me to her back field. There they were, all sixty-five of them. The tallest maybe fifteen hands high. The last of their breed, she told me, and if it were not for her farm they would be extinct. I touched their huge, mammoth ears. Your mules are the horse for me, I said to her. They were so cute. I wanted to take one home.

  WHAT I TALKED TO SAM ABOUT IN THE HOSPITAL: How, when he was better, we could build a chicken coop big enough to keep a Mammoth Mule. He would protect the chickens from the coyotes, from the fisher-cats. We could come to visit the Mammoth Mule throughout the day, feeling up along the backs of his mammoth ears, the soft hairs.

  WHAT THE HOSPITAL SAID: Visiting hours are over.

  WHAT THE NIGHT NURSE SAID: No, not you, you can stay. You’re family.

  WHAT I WISHED: That I wasn’t. That I was one of the ones who could leave. That I was just a friend, an acquaintance, anyone else but the father, and that in the bed it was anyone else but my son with the tubes in his nose and the legs that were beginning to look thinner every day so that who would know they weren’t arms except for the fact that they were at the foot of the bed?

  WHAT THE WIFE COOKED FOR DINNER: Ham steak with mashed yams and green beans.

  WHAT SARAH SAID: We are eating pig for dinner.

  WHAT MIA SAID: Pig is good.

  WHAT WE ALL DID: Agreed how cute pigs were and how good the ham steak was, and then I told the girls how I had read that pigs were one of the few animals that used mirrors the same way we did, and that pigs could look into a mirror and see their food behind them and turn and find the food. And then I thought how I would tell Sam this when I saw him next, and that I hoped I remembered to tell him since he had always talked about having a pig for a pet.

  WHAT WE DID AFTER DINNER: Sat by the fire and took turns reading Jane Eyre out loud.

  WHAT THE RABBIT DID: Wore her diaper and hopped around and on top of the girls as they lay flat on their backs on the carpet.

  WHAT JANE EYRE HAD: A really sad life.

  WHAT MIA SAID: She should have had a bunny, then she would not have been so sad.

  WHAT WE ALL AGREED: That Jane Eyre, that anybody, would be better off if they had a bunny, especially one who wore diapers.

  WHAT SARAH ASKED: Can’t we bring the bunny to see Sam?

  WHAT THE WIFE DID: Shook her head, but it was so slight, it looked as if it was just her eyes that moved from side to side.

  CALL: No call.

  ACTION: Went deer hunting instead while the wife and children went to visit Sam. Thought maybe I would see the hunter who shot my son. Maybe that hunter always hunted the same spot of land. I was that hunter’s hunter. I had images of shooting him in the shoulder when I found out who he was, just so he would know how it felt. I gritted my teeth in anger while I stood in the stand, and at first I didn’t even know I was doing it. I thought it was a squirrel chattering and making grinding noises next to me, warning me to stay away from his tree and his nuts.

  RESULT: Saw no one, not even a deer. Saw the trees in front of me, so many of them dead, so many of their limbs down. Bits of leaves sticking up between a lightly fallen snow and after my anger I became sad and it hurt in my heart and I wondered if people’s hearts would not hurt when they were sad if people hadn’t always said things like “their heart was heavy” or that there was a pain in their heart.

  WHAT I SAW ON MY WALK BACK HOME AT DUSK: Not the rock wall I had followed to get to my spot against my beech.

  WHAT I FELT: Fear. I was lost, but I knew where the sun had set. I knew which direction to follow, but still, where had the rock wall gone? I had no light. My clothes would not be enough to keep me warm throughout a night until daybreak. Would I freeze to death? I was lost and would never be found. Hunting deer will kill me, I thought, and I thought didn’t the deer know already how high my levels were? Didn’t the deer already know what had happened to my son and it was already killing me and that there was no need to kill me like this, and then, in that moment, I loved the deer more than I had before, because of course they did not care about my levels, or feel sorry for me about my son. The deer would kill me the same as any other man, with the fever, buck fever.

  WHAT I DID: I walked downhill, through woods I swore I had never walked through before. My feet on thick, carpeting needles of pine I could not remember having felt before beneath my boots. I listened for the sounds on the road, for the cars that might be driving up or down to steer my way. There were no sounds, just the sound of the wind in the trees, creaking tops. I walked on, going down, not sure which side of the ridge I was on, thinking I could have turned myself around completely when I had stood up from my spot against the beech. Finally I saw the bright lights. I thought it was the object from the sky that had landed. I followed it. It turned out to be my house. I felt stupid to see it. It was so large, the light in the kitchen window so bright. Inside I went to the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror. I should have known I was never lost at all but just letting myself enjoy the thrill of fear, a thing that seemed to be alive. It was so strong I thought that if I were smart enough, if I were pig enough, then when I looked in the mirror I could have seen the fear standing there and I could have turned to it and dealt with it the way the pigs could understand a mirror and turn and find their food when they looked in it. I was not pig enough, I decided, nor was I man enough, I thought, because I wasn’t any closer to finding the man who had shot my son.

  CALL: A Weimaraner that was listless and had stopped eating.

  ACTION: Had owner, my neighbor, bring the dog to my garage. Turned on X-ray machine, laid dog down on blanket. X-rayed belly to see if there was an obstruction.

  RESULT: Noticed significant signs of bloat. Dog had eaten a “greenie,” a processed dog bone, two days earlier. There was a substantial amount of air in the dog’s stomach. Told Sandy, my neighbor, whose hair was coming undone from her ponytail, that the dog was not in good shape. I pulled back the lips of the dog and showed her his gums. They were not pink, they were gray, almost the same color as the dog’s coat. I told Sandy she had best take the dog for emergency surgery at the small-animal clinic. I helped lift the dog into the back of the car. Sandy asked how much she owed me and I told her nothing. I told her she better get going, the dog was very ill. I also told her that the surgery works sometimes, and sometimes it doesn’t. She nodded her head. Let me know how it turns out, I said, and then s
he drove off.

  THOUGHTS ON WALK BACK INTO HOUSE: I wonder if Sandy has German in her blood. She looks like she knows about kugel and schnitzel. She looked strong, like I think German women would be. She hardly needed my help carrying that dog to her car. She probably could have lifted Sam as easily from the ground when he had been shot and carried him back to our house. I could have sworn that when she drove off she said “tschüss,” good-bye, to me and maybe I said “tschüss” back and maybe she thinks I’m German too and maybe next time she has to come over because her dog has bloat, or whatever, we will practice our German together. Maybe she has a good German accent. Maybe she can help me say the things I cannot say.

  WHAT THE WIFE SAID WHEN SHE SAW SANDY DRIVE OFF: Will the dog be all right?

  WHAT I SAID: The dog is in good hands, I said. Feeling for sure now that Sandy was German, that Sandy would drive as fast as she could, as fast as one would on the autobahn, to get to the animal hospital, that she would not waste time at the front desk, that she would probably, on her own, carry the bloated Weimaraner in her strong arms into the surgery and onto the table. Maybe Sandy even could help me find the man who had shot my son. She could come with me to every house near our house. She could hold my son in her arms while I knocked, she could lay him on my neighbors’ kitchen tables, his eyes still shut, and she could say, look, who has done this to this man’s son? “Gott im Himmel,” she could say, pounding the table, making plates and cups jump, “answer me!”

  WHAT I DID: I called the animal hospital and told them to expect her and the dog. I told them that I was sure she would be there very soon.

  WHAT THE WIFE SAID: What do you want for dinner?

  WHAT I SAID: Bratwurst.

  WHAT THE WIFE SAID: Well, we don’t have bratwurst. How about chicken?

  WHAT I SAID: Then why did you ask?

  WHAT THE WIFE SAID: I was being polite, wanting to know what you felt like eating tonight. That’s polite, she said.

  WHAT I SAID: If you already know the answer, then how is that polite?

  WHAT SHE SAID: It is, it just is.

  WHAT SARAH SAID: Poppy, there have been eighty-two deer bagged in our town so far. We read it on a piece of paper hanging on the wall at Phil’s, beside the shelf for videos, above the special soup for the day.

  WHAT I SAID: I am going out now. And to myself I said what Sam would say, “Kill the deer, eat the meat, kill the deer, eat the meat.”

  WHAT I SAW GOING UP TO MY SPOT: Three coyotes. They were beautiful and big. Their silver-tipped winter coats, already in, made them appear fluffy. They turned and looked at me, as if waiting for me to come along, and then they trotted east, over the ridge, where I couldn’t see them any longer.

  WHAT I HEARD WHILE AT MY SPOT: Three rifle shots.

  WHAT I SAW WALKING BACK HOME: Two hunters who told me that earlier they had shot three coyotes for fun.

  WHAT I WONDERED: Why everyone is shooting everything that shouldn’t be shot.

  CALL: The caller who hangs up. The caller who my wife thinks is always the hospital when it’s not. The caller who lets me listen to the dial tone of our phone. The caller who makes me turn the phone off and on again and say “hello, hello, hello,” even though the dial tone drones on.

  CALL: A retired veterinarian who needed some bute for his horse.

  ACTION: Drove to his farm. Saw that he was combing his horse. Handed him the bute. He would administer it to his horse himself. He talked very quietly, so quietly I had to stand very close to him. I could see the short hairs of his horse on his sweater, sticking to the woolen sleeve. I used to work at Suffolk Downs, he said. Really? I said. I had worked at the racetracks in Southern California for years, before moving here, I told him. He nodded his head. I think he began to speak even more quietly, and so I leaned in even closer to him, my chin now almost touching his shoulder. Is that so? he said. Well, then we have something in common. Tell me, he said, do they still use as many drugs on the track as they used to? Even more, I said. He shook his head again. You know, when I started practicing near here, I saved my clients money on the goners, I carried a Colt .45 pistol in my truck. It was much cheaper than that fancy euthanasia solution.

  I wondered if my clients would think that was okay, to step out of my truck with a pistol instead of a syringe. People these days, I told the retired veterinarian, might not like me putting a hole in their horse’s skull.

  You tell them they can save some money, they’ll do it, he said, nodding his head at the same time.

  You’re probably right, I said.

  Yes, I’m right, he said. I’ll tell you something else, he said. I’ll tell you how to kill a horse with just a scalpel. Think, he said, how would you do that and not leave a mess of blood?

  I liked this. It was a mystery I had to solve. I thought about it. I stood back from the retired veterinarian’s horse and looked at it, thinking how I could kill it with just a scalpel. The horse was calm right now, but I knew that if I pulled out a scalpel and tried to stab into its throat, it would rear and strike and run, and besides, even if I were able to cut into the horse with a scalpel, he would bleed profusely. I thought of all the orifices a horse has. If I were able to stab it in one eye, it would still bleed copiously before it died. Then it struck me, of course, where I could cut the horse. If I reached up inside the anus with my scalpel, I could cut into the large artery there. In less than an hour he would be dead, and there would be no blood on the outside that anyone could see, just a horse lying on fall’s carpet of gold and red leaves.

  RESULT: I told the retired veterinarian I had figured it out. He smiled and nodded while I told him. You’ve got it, he said quietly. And then he said how he bet it would work on humans, too, and I told him I wasn’t planning on killing any humans and then the moment I said it I realized I had lied. I had imagined my son wasting away hooked up to machines. I had imagined the mass of him disappearing beneath the white hospital sheet. I had imagined having to put an end to my son when the time came. I told the retired veterinarian I had a riddle for him now. A riddle I haven’t been able to answer myself. I told him you go hunting in the woods with your son and your son gets shot in the shoulder, and who did it? I ask. Who knows who did it is what you should be asking, the retired veterinarian said, his voice even quieter now, and the tail end of the word asking sounding like a whisper that sailed away in the cold afternoon wind.

  THOUGHTS ON DRIVE TO VISIT MY SON IN THE HOSPITAL WHILE MY WIFE AND SARAH AND MIA DRIVE WITH ME: I no longer need my doctor visits. My doctor will have to find someone else to share his amazement with over my high levels. I will not be going back. I can’t think about myself. I can only think about my son.

  WHAT THE WIFE SAID TO MY SON AFTER SHE FIXED A PLATE FOR HIM THAT SHE KNEW HE COULD NOT EAT: The Thanksgiving turkey is cold. The marshmallows on the yams caved in. Then Jen told our son how she had seen a man’s stand in the back field. He left a little wooden plaque with his name on it and his address, she said. The stand was deluxe. There was a wide padded seat. I would not be surprised if there was a drink holder in the stand. I felt like climbing up the stand and sitting in it and taking a picture of myself in it and sending the picture to the man, so he could see me sitting in his deer stand on our property, then I would like to take a picture of me with a buck I had shot from his deer stand, and I would like to tell him thank you for setting up his deer stand on my property because I have now shot the biggest buck in our county. But, of course, Jen said, there is no buck I can spread out before you. I did not climb the stand. It was up too high, and there was dinner to cook, the green beans to watch over, this oyster dressing, now cold, to prepare. Then Jen lifted a forkful of turkey and gravy and held it beneath our son’s nose. At least smell it, she said.

  WHAT I SAID TO MY WIFE IN BED THAT NIGHT: Oysters are an aphrodisiac.

  WHAT THE WIFE SAID IN BED: I am so stuffed. And then she rolled over.

  WHAT THE COYOTES SAID: What have you done with our brethren?

&nbs
p; CALL: The caller who hangs up. Who needs to reach me but can’t talk when I say hello? Who is this? I’m listening, I say, but no one answers, only this time I don’t hear the caller hang up. I think I can hear him breathing. It sounds restful. It is the sound a seashell makes when you hold it up close to your ear.

  WHAT SARAH AND MIA SAID: Pop, figure this one out. You’re out in the wilderness in the freezing cold, you come across a cabin and go inside, there’s a match, a candle, a kerosene lantern, and a woodstove. Which one do you light first?

  WHAT I THINK: Is Gisela in the cabin? Is she across the bearskin rug?

  WHAT THE CHILDREN SAY: Well?

  WHAT I SAY: Uhm.

  WHAT THE CHILDREN SAY: You light the match first!

  WHAT THE SMOKE ALARM SAID: Beep-beep-beep. Wake the hell up, you have left the windows open and now the smoke from your chimney has blown back into the house on this night of no wind where the smoke is not carried far away.

  WHAT MIA WOKE UP SAYING WHEN THE SMOKE ALARM WENT BEEP-BEEP-BEEP: Is Mommy getting a transmission?

  CALL: Arlo has a fresh cow that needs calcium.

  ACTION: Drove to Arlo’s. Noticed how there was scarcely any snow on his roads. There was a milky mist but it lay loosely over fields that were still green, where plants in summer gardens, although dry, still stood, as if fooling themselves thinking a short-lived sun on an autumn day could warm the green back through their withered leaves and shrunken stalks as thin as fingers of the sick and old.

  RESULT: Handed Arlo the bottle of calcium. Admired the fresh Chianina cow, a white tall giant of a breed from Italy, standing here, strangely, the backdrop of the white-peaked mountains framed between its bony haunches. Arlo’s cattle were always healthy-looking, their weight perfect and their fields nicely draining so that they were not muddy seas. Arlo also kept the Chianinas clean, and bathed them so that their whiteness was impressive and made the cows appear majestic, like huge ghosts walking slowly through the valley and along the mountain face where the borders of their fields spanned. Arlo then showed me an eight-point buck he had shot. It hung from his tree, nicely cleaned, twirling in a moist wind that started to come in from the east. I could almost smell the salt of the ocean in it and Arlo said how he had sat in his tree stand for ten hours before the buck walked down beneath him and he had a shot to the neck that knocked the buck flat down. Oh, he’s a fine buck, I told Arlo. Arlo shook his head and his hair that was as black and as shiny as licorice shook also, and I think how he even smells a little like licorice or some kind of pipe packed with licorice-smelling tobacco. Nah, he said. He’s just a normal buck and I will eat him all winter, that’s all, he said. Not like some other guys, he said. Some who kill an animal and throw away the meat.