A Redbird Christmas Read Free Page B

said.
    “Hello?” she said again.
    “Who is this?”
    “This is Frances. Who’s this?” she asked, in the same southern accent as the operator.
    “This is Oswald Campbell, and I’m trying to find the phone number for a hotel.”
    “Well, Mr. Campbell, this is the community hall you’ve reached.”
    “I know. The operator gave me this number.”
    “The operator? Where are you calling from?”
    “Chicago.”
    “Oh, my!”
    “Do you happen to have the number of the Woodbound Hotel? It’s a health resort that supposed to be down there.”
    “The Woodbound Hotel?”
    “Have you ever heard of it?”
    “Yes, I’ve heard of it . . . but it’s not here anymore.”
    “Did it close?”
    “Well, no. It burned down.”
    “When?”
    “Just a minute, let me see if my sister knows.” Frances called out, “Mildred, when did the old hotel burn down?”
    Mildred looked at her funny. “About 1911, why?”
    “Mr. Campbell, it was in 1911.”
    “In 1911? You’re kidding!”
    “No, they say it burned right to the ground in less than an hour.”
    “Oh . . . well . . . could you give me the name of another hotel I could call?”
    “Down here?”
    “Yes.”
    “There isn’t any.”
    “Oh.”
    “There used to be a few, but not anymore. If you don’t mind me asking, how on earth did you hear about the old Woodbound all the way up there in Chicago?”
    “My doctor gave me a brochure, but obviously it was a little out-of-date. Thanks anyway.”
    “Hold on a second, Mr. Campbell,” she said, and called out, “Mildred, close that screen door, you’re letting the flies in. I’m sorry, Mr. Campbell. What kind of place were you looking for?”
    “Just somewhere to spend a couple of months this winter, get out of the cold weather for a while. I have a little lung problem.”
    “Oh, dear. That’s not good.”
    “No. My doctor said I needed to get out of Chicago as soon as possible.”
    “I can understand that. I’ll bet it’s cold up there.”
    “Yes,” he said, trying not to be rude but also wanting to hang up. This call was probably expensive. But Mrs. Cleverdon continued talking. “Well, it’s hot down here. We just had to open the windows and turn all the fans on. Oh. Hold on. Mr. Campbell, I’ve got to go close that door. . . .”
    While he was waiting, he could actually hear the sounds of birds chirping in the background over long distance. It must be some of those damn whip-poor-wills, he thought, and they were costing him money.
    Frances picked up the phone again. “Here I am, Mr. Campbell. Now, would this be a place for you and your wife or just you?”
    “Just me.”
    “Have you tried anywhere else?”
    “No. I wanted to try there first, it sounded like a nice place. Oh well, thanks anyway.”
    “Mr. Campbell. Wait a minute. Give me your number. Let me see if I can come up with something for you.”
    He gave her his number just to get her to hang up. What a crazy place. Evidently they would just talk the head off of any stranger that happened to call.
     
    Mildred came back in the kitchen after putting flowers on the two long tables in the other room. “Who were you on the phone with so long?”
    “Some poor man from Chicago with bad lungs who needs a place for the winter. His doctor had given him a brochure for that old hotel, and he thought he might want to come here.” She walked over and pulled out the huge coffeepot. “Why
did
it burn down, I wonder?”
    “They say it was rats and matches.”
    “Oh, lord,” said Frances, opening a large dark-brown can of A&P Eight O’Clock coffee. “They’ll just chew on anything, won’t they?”
     
    Around three o’clock the next afternoon, Oswald was about to pick up the phone and make another call to Florida when it rang. “Hello?”
    “Mr. Campbell, this is Frances Cleverdon, the lady you spoke to in Alabama yesterday. Do you remember me?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Listen, have you found a place yet?”
    “No, not yet, not one I