Where I'm Calling From by Raymond Carver Page A

when I came even with their box and nodded in her direction.
    “Getting settled all right?” I asked.
    “It’ll be a little while,” she said and moved a handful of hair away from her forehead while she continued to smoke.
    “That’s good, I said. “Welcome to Arcata.”
    I felt a little awkward after saying it. I don’t know why, but I always found myself feeling awkward the few times I was around this woman. It was one of the things helped turn me against her from the first.
    She gave me a thin smile and I started to move on when the young man—Marston was his name—came around from behind the trailer carrying a big carton of toys. Now, Arcata is not a small town and it’s not a big town, though I guess you’d have to say it’s more on the small side. It’s not the end of the world, Arcata, by any means, but most of the people who live here work either in the lumber mills or have something to do with the fishing industry, or else work in one of the downtown stores. People here aren’t used to seeing men wear beards—or men who don’t work, for that matter.
    “Hello,” I said. I put out my hand when he set the carton down on the front fender. “The name’s Henry Robinson. You folks just arrive?”
    “Yesterday afternoon,” he said.
    “Some trip! It took us fourteen hours just to come from San Francisco,” the woman spoke up from the porch. “Pulling that damn trailer.”
    “My, my,” I said and shook my head. “San Francisco? I was just down in San Francisco, let me see, last April or March.”
    “You were, were you?” she said. “What did you do in San Francisco?”
    “Oh, nothing, really. I go down about once or twice a year. Out to Fisherman’s Wharf and to see the Giants play. That’s about all.”
    There was a little pause and Marston examined something in the grass with his toe. I started to move on.
    The kids picked that moment to come flying out the front door, yelling and tearing for the end of the porch. When that screen door banged open, I thought Marston was going to jump out of his skin. But she just stood there with her arms crossed, cool as a cucumber, and never batted an eye. He didn’t look good at all. Quick, jerky little movements every time he made to do something. And his eyes—they’d land on you and then slip off somewheres else, then land on you again.
    There were three kids, two little curly-headed girls about four or five, and a little bit of a boy tagging after.
    “Cute kids,” I said. “Well, I got to get under way. You might want to change the name on the box.”
    “Sure,” he said. “Sure. I’ll see about it in a day or two. But we don’t expect to get any mail for a while yet, in any case.”
    “You never know,” I said. “You never know what’ll turn up in this old mail pouch. Wouldn’t hurt to be prepared.” I started to go. “By the way, if you’re looking for a job in the mills, I can tell you who to see at Simpson Redwood. A friend of mine’s a foreman there. He’d probably have something…” I tapered off, seeing how they didn’t look interested.
    “No, thanks,” he said.
    “He’s not looking for a job,” she put in.
    “Well, goodbye, then.”
    “So long,” Marston said.
    Not another word from her.
    That was on a Saturday, as I said, the day before Memorial Day. We took Monday as a holiday and I wasn’t by there again until Tuesday. I can’t say I was surprised to see the U-Haul still there in the front yard. But it did surprise me to see he still hadn’t unloaded it. I’d say about a quarter of the stuff had made its way to the front porch—a covered chair and a chrome kitchen chair and a big carton of clothes that had the flaps pulled off the top. Another quarter must have gotten inside the house, and the rest of the stuff was still in the trailer. The kids were carrying little sticks and hammering on the sides of the trailer as they climbed in and out over the tailgate. Their mamma and daddy were nowheres to be