McCleod puts his face back in his book and continues to read.
B ACK HOME ... THE HONEYSUCKLE. S HE HAD A LOVELY little garden waiting for her behind the house. A set of silver wind chimes dangling from a drainpipe under the eaves of the garage. In the breeze the wind chimes sounded like music made out of little girls' dreams ... charm bracelets, porcelain dolls, the kind of teacups so delicate and thin that if you held them to the light you could see through them.
Whispers
A T EXACTLY 2:30 D IANA GLANCED AT HER WATCH.
In five minutes they'd open the doors of her daughter's elementary school and let the little girls scamper back into the world. Deep at the center of herself she could feel the engine that kept her minivan idling. It purred on every side of her and over and under her ... a great humming motor at the heart of her small universe. She was afraid she'd fall back to sleep, so she turned on the radio.
It was only static at first
The whispers of the dead,
she thought in a flash, not knowing why she thought it And then she adjusted the dial until she heard the voice of her favorite talk-show shrink.
"Of course she means it!" Dr. Laura said. "Drunks always
mean
they're going to quit."
"So ... you think I need to see what she actually
does?
" the caller asked.
"Exactly. And don't count on anything. Thank you for your call."
There was a second of silence, the click of the caller being disconnected, and then Dr. Laura addressed the radio audience.
"Don't call me," she said, "and ask me whether your spouse is going to quit drinking. How should I know? I'm not God. Ask your spouse, and then—and this is the most important thing—ask yourself."
Diana felt a wisp of something—a little white feather, the kind stuffed deep inside a decorative pillow—brush her face with smug relief. Her husband didn't drink—or philander or gamble or take drugs. Never in seventeen years of married life had she felt the urge to ask anyone, especially not someone on the radio, for even the smallest scrap of advice.
"Hello, you're on the air," Dr. Laura said.
Again, a second of dead silence.
"Hel-lo? Are you there?"
"Ma'am?"
The caller was either an older boy or a woman with a very deep voice—a voice that sounded as if it were coming from the end of a long tunnel, a tunnel made of porous stone or cement, something that soaked up sound.
"Y-hes?" Dr. Laura said in a singsong that indicated impatience. "How can I help you?"
"I ... I don't need help."
The voice was not hollow or breathy, but neither did it seem physical. The voice sounded like a recording of a recording played back at a too-slow speed.
"Well, then," Dr. Laura said, "why are you calling my show?"
There was a low grinding. Again the sound of a cassette tape played backward or too loosely, followed by machine grinding, and then the voice, faster and unnaturally bright, said, "I am in hell."
Diana exhaled as if she'd been punched, and she put her hand to her chest.
She looked up toward the hill, but the girls were still inside the school. Where were the other mothers? There was no one in the semicircular drive except herself...
Winter turns to spring, and everything melts.
The water in the drinking fountain in the high school hallway is nauseatingly warm, like human fluids.
Ryan Haslip puts his sister's bikini on Mr. McCleod's skeleton, and Mr. McCleod seems amused.
They have never seen him amused.
Someone puts a rose between the skeleton's bared teeth, and, along with the bikini, Mr. McCleod lets it stay.
I T COULD HAVE MEANT ANYTHING, BUT D IANA M C F EE felt a bright flash at the side of her face as if she'd been slapped fast by a cold hand, and she snapped the radio off.
She inhaled after what seemed like a long time and smelled something familiar but out of place in the air ... the smell of the baking-supplies aisle at the grocery store. Spices, flour, crushed dry leaves.
I am in hell.
It could have meant,
I'm in love with a married man. My
B ACK HOME ... THE HONEYSUCKLE. S HE HAD A LOVELY little garden waiting for her behind the house. A set of silver wind chimes dangling from a drainpipe under the eaves of the garage. In the breeze the wind chimes sounded like music made out of little girls' dreams ... charm bracelets, porcelain dolls, the kind of teacups so delicate and thin that if you held them to the light you could see through them.
Whispers
A T EXACTLY 2:30 D IANA GLANCED AT HER WATCH.
In five minutes they'd open the doors of her daughter's elementary school and let the little girls scamper back into the world. Deep at the center of herself she could feel the engine that kept her minivan idling. It purred on every side of her and over and under her ... a great humming motor at the heart of her small universe. She was afraid she'd fall back to sleep, so she turned on the radio.
It was only static at first
The whispers of the dead,
she thought in a flash, not knowing why she thought it And then she adjusted the dial until she heard the voice of her favorite talk-show shrink.
"Of course she means it!" Dr. Laura said. "Drunks always
mean
they're going to quit."
"So ... you think I need to see what she actually
does?
" the caller asked.
"Exactly. And don't count on anything. Thank you for your call."
There was a second of silence, the click of the caller being disconnected, and then Dr. Laura addressed the radio audience.
"Don't call me," she said, "and ask me whether your spouse is going to quit drinking. How should I know? I'm not God. Ask your spouse, and then—and this is the most important thing—ask yourself."
Diana felt a wisp of something—a little white feather, the kind stuffed deep inside a decorative pillow—brush her face with smug relief. Her husband didn't drink—or philander or gamble or take drugs. Never in seventeen years of married life had she felt the urge to ask anyone, especially not someone on the radio, for even the smallest scrap of advice.
"Hello, you're on the air," Dr. Laura said.
Again, a second of dead silence.
"Hel-lo? Are you there?"
"Ma'am?"
The caller was either an older boy or a woman with a very deep voice—a voice that sounded as if it were coming from the end of a long tunnel, a tunnel made of porous stone or cement, something that soaked up sound.
"Y-hes?" Dr. Laura said in a singsong that indicated impatience. "How can I help you?"
"I ... I don't need help."
The voice was not hollow or breathy, but neither did it seem physical. The voice sounded like a recording of a recording played back at a too-slow speed.
"Well, then," Dr. Laura said, "why are you calling my show?"
There was a low grinding. Again the sound of a cassette tape played backward or too loosely, followed by machine grinding, and then the voice, faster and unnaturally bright, said, "I am in hell."
Diana exhaled as if she'd been punched, and she put her hand to her chest.
She looked up toward the hill, but the girls were still inside the school. Where were the other mothers? There was no one in the semicircular drive except herself...
Winter turns to spring, and everything melts.
The water in the drinking fountain in the high school hallway is nauseatingly warm, like human fluids.
Ryan Haslip puts his sister's bikini on Mr. McCleod's skeleton, and Mr. McCleod seems amused.
They have never seen him amused.
Someone puts a rose between the skeleton's bared teeth, and, along with the bikini, Mr. McCleod lets it stay.
I T COULD HAVE MEANT ANYTHING, BUT D IANA M C F EE felt a bright flash at the side of her face as if she'd been slapped fast by a cold hand, and she snapped the radio off.
She inhaled after what seemed like a long time and smelled something familiar but out of place in the air ... the smell of the baking-supplies aisle at the grocery store. Spices, flour, crushed dry leaves.
I am in hell.
It could have meant,
I'm in love with a married man. My
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