vanished and, with it, the worst of the pain.
He knew what had happened. Hell had claimed him for its own. His sins were to be punished, as he’d always feared they would be. Perhaps not at once.
Perhaps he might be spared some hours or days. But the yoke had been placed on his shoulders, the collar was about his neck.
5
“Hello,” said the answering machine in a voice that could have been anybody’s. “You’ve reached 555-0023. Sorry there’s no one home. If you would like to leave a message, wait for the beep.”
She waited for the beep, which seemed to take forever, and then she said, “Petey, hello, are you there, this is your mother.”
She gave him more than ample time to pick up and then, when he refused to, she continued: “Well, whether you’re there or not, I hope you’re all right. I had another little episode today, but I’m fine now. There were chicken tenders for dinner, and I always like that, but the cook here doesn’t know how to make a cake and I swear she uses Crisco to make the frosting. This was not really my idea, calling up, but if I refuse to call, that goes on my record and I get the third degree from my counselor. ‘Why aren’t you using your phone privileges, Mrs. Bryce? Are you angry with anyone?’ As though I had anything to get angry about! Anyhow. Your brother came out to the cemetery and found me there, and I remember there was something I told him about your father, and now I can’t remember what. But something you’d want to know, too.
He’s a priest. Well, of course, you’d know that, wouldn’t you? What are you? I know what you look like, because the nurse, who’s sitting on the other side of the ward at this minute, knitting, pointed you out in the picture on my dresser, the one with just the two of us, and I’ve got to say, you ought to lose some weight . Your brother is much trimmer, and he’s your twin. I do remember some things. I mean, about the two of you. But mostly back when you were little. Or even teenagers. I remember, vaguely, that you used to fight. I guess with boys that’s inevitable. And you would always get the worst of it.
Which is funny when you think that it’s your brother who became the priest. Is this machine still recording me? Anyhow, this should satisfy the nurse about my mental equilibrium. For tonight, anyhow. Oh, it just came to me, isn’t that always the way. It was about your father— not Paul, your real father. And I’ve told you already, haven’t I? I never told your brother, but I did tell you. Years ago, when we got drunk, after Grandpa McCarthy’s funeral. You should have seen the look on your brother’s face when I told him today. I didn’t say who it was, only that it wasn’t Paul. And he didn’t say a thing, but I had a feeling that he was pleased. You were, weren’t you? I mean, whb would want Paul Bryce for their father? Not that the alternative is so much better, I guess. In fact, that was what was at the back of my mind just now, when I agreed to have the nurse dial your number. I can remember his face, sort of. Not bad looking, but no Clark Gable either. I remember he wore a cassock sometimes. But then I also remember him wearing one of my dresses.
It’s like watching Geraldo on TV, some of the strange people nowadays. Then, too—only then people didn’t talk about it on TV. They didn’t talk about it at all. Anyhow, I can’t for the life of me remember his name. But I think I told you. So you would know and I don’t, which certainly is a peculiar situation.
We could go on Geraldo, as a team. Anyhow. It’s nice talking to your machine.
I always feel we’ve got this special bond, your machine and me.
“Bye.”
His mother was always so much friendlier and more interesting when she talked to his machine than when she had him on the line that Peter Bryce rarely picked up the phone when she called in the evenings. He’d even taken to recording her different messages on the answering machine on
He knew what had happened. Hell had claimed him for its own. His sins were to be punished, as he’d always feared they would be. Perhaps not at once.
Perhaps he might be spared some hours or days. But the yoke had been placed on his shoulders, the collar was about his neck.
5
“Hello,” said the answering machine in a voice that could have been anybody’s. “You’ve reached 555-0023. Sorry there’s no one home. If you would like to leave a message, wait for the beep.”
She waited for the beep, which seemed to take forever, and then she said, “Petey, hello, are you there, this is your mother.”
She gave him more than ample time to pick up and then, when he refused to, she continued: “Well, whether you’re there or not, I hope you’re all right. I had another little episode today, but I’m fine now. There were chicken tenders for dinner, and I always like that, but the cook here doesn’t know how to make a cake and I swear she uses Crisco to make the frosting. This was not really my idea, calling up, but if I refuse to call, that goes on my record and I get the third degree from my counselor. ‘Why aren’t you using your phone privileges, Mrs. Bryce? Are you angry with anyone?’ As though I had anything to get angry about! Anyhow. Your brother came out to the cemetery and found me there, and I remember there was something I told him about your father, and now I can’t remember what. But something you’d want to know, too.
He’s a priest. Well, of course, you’d know that, wouldn’t you? What are you? I know what you look like, because the nurse, who’s sitting on the other side of the ward at this minute, knitting, pointed you out in the picture on my dresser, the one with just the two of us, and I’ve got to say, you ought to lose some weight . Your brother is much trimmer, and he’s your twin. I do remember some things. I mean, about the two of you. But mostly back when you were little. Or even teenagers. I remember, vaguely, that you used to fight. I guess with boys that’s inevitable. And you would always get the worst of it.
Which is funny when you think that it’s your brother who became the priest. Is this machine still recording me? Anyhow, this should satisfy the nurse about my mental equilibrium. For tonight, anyhow. Oh, it just came to me, isn’t that always the way. It was about your father— not Paul, your real father. And I’ve told you already, haven’t I? I never told your brother, but I did tell you. Years ago, when we got drunk, after Grandpa McCarthy’s funeral. You should have seen the look on your brother’s face when I told him today. I didn’t say who it was, only that it wasn’t Paul. And he didn’t say a thing, but I had a feeling that he was pleased. You were, weren’t you? I mean, whb would want Paul Bryce for their father? Not that the alternative is so much better, I guess. In fact, that was what was at the back of my mind just now, when I agreed to have the nurse dial your number. I can remember his face, sort of. Not bad looking, but no Clark Gable either. I remember he wore a cassock sometimes. But then I also remember him wearing one of my dresses.
It’s like watching Geraldo on TV, some of the strange people nowadays. Then, too—only then people didn’t talk about it on TV. They didn’t talk about it at all. Anyhow, I can’t for the life of me remember his name. But I think I told you. So you would know and I don’t, which certainly is a peculiar situation.
We could go on Geraldo, as a team. Anyhow. It’s nice talking to your machine.
I always feel we’ve got this special bond, your machine and me.
“Bye.”
His mother was always so much friendlier and more interesting when she talked to his machine than when she had him on the line that Peter Bryce rarely picked up the phone when she called in the evenings. He’d even taken to recording her different messages on the answering machine on
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