The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Fifth Annual Collection

CALL HOME Dennis Etchison

When he walked in, the red light on the answering machine was blinking.

He dropped the mail on the coffee table and sat down. He ran a hand through his hair and leaned into the sofa, his ears still ringing from the rush-hour traffic.

He was in no hurry to replay his messages. It was easy to guess what they wanted: time, money, answers. He had none to spare. He reached out and stirred the pile of letters.

More of the same.

He got up, went to the bedroom and changed his clothes. Then he came back and sank deeper into the cushions. He propped his feet up and closed his eyes.

When the phone rang again, he let the machine take over.

I m not home right now,” he heard his own recorded voice say, “but if you care to leave a message, please begin speaking when you hear the tone. Thank you for calling. ...”

Beep.

A pause, and the incoming tape started rolling.

He waited to monitor the call.

Static. A rush of white noise. Like traffic.

No one there. Or someone who did not like talking to a machine.

A few more seconds and it would hang up automatically.

“Daddy? Is t-that you?"

He opened his eyes.

“Please, c-can you come get me? I don't know how to get home . . . and I’m scared!”

What?

“It's getting cold . . . and dark ...”

He sat forward.

“There's a man here . . . and he's bothering me! I think he's crazy\ And it’s going to rain and . . . and . . . Daddy, tell me what to do!”

He got to his feet.

“I don’t like this place! There's a rooster . . . it's burning . . . and a gas station . . . and a sign. It says, um, it starts with a p. P-I-C-O ...”

He crossed the living room.

“Daddy, please come quick . . . !”

He snatched up the receiver.

“Hello?” he said.

The child’s voice began to sing brokenly.

“Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home . . . your house is on fire . . . and your children will burn. ...”

Her voice trailed off as she started to cry.

“Hello? Hello?”

Click.

He stood there holding the phone, wondering what to do.

He was sure of only one thing.

He had no daughter.

So what if it was a wrong number? She was in trouble. A child, a little girl. What if something happened to her?

He couldn’t let it go.

She had spelled out a word. P-I-C-O. The sign. A rooster, a gas station . . . yes, it sounded familiar.

The chicken restaurant. Next to the 76 station. On Pico Boulevard.

It wasn’t far.

The traffic was still gridlocked. He crossed Wilshire in low gear, then Santa Monica, and turned west. A stream of cars growled past him, ragged music and demanding voices leaking from beneath shimmering hoods. He made a left on Westwood and kept to the right as he passed Olympic, slowing to a crawl as he came to the next corner.

She was huddled in the doorway of El Polio Muerto, a school book bag at her feet. Her legs were dirty and her hair was in her eyes. A few yards away, at the gas station, was the phone booth. She did not look up as he braked by a loading zone.

He leaned over and rolled down the window.

“Hey!” .

The people at the bus stop glanced his way blankly, then stared past him down the street.

She lowered her head, resting her forehead on her arms.

He cleared his throat and shouted above the din. “Hey, little girl!”

She raised her head.

A woman eyed him suspiciously.

“Hi!” he called. “Hello, there! Do you need any help?”

The woman glared at him.

He ignored her and spoke to the girl.

“Are you the one who—?” Suddenly he felt foolish. “Did you call me?”

The little girl’s face brightened.

“Daddy?”

The crowd moved closer. Then there was a rumbling and a pumping of brakes. He saw in his rearview mirror that an RTD bus had pulled up behind him. “Come on,” he said. “And your books—”

He opened the door for her as the bus sounded its horn.

“Daddy, it is you!”

The crowd surged past. The woman took notice of his license plate. The bus tapped his bumper.

“Get in.”

He slipped into gear and got away from the curb. The pressure of traffic carried him across the intersection.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked. He passed another corner before it was possible to turn. “What’s the address?”

“I don’t know,” said the little girl.

“You don’t remember?”

She did not answer.

“Well, you’ll have to tell me. Which way?”

“Want to go home,” she said. She was now sitting straight in her seat, watching the lights with wide eyes.

“Are you all right?”

I guess so.

At least it hasn’t started to rain, he thought. “Did anyone hurt you?”

“I’m kind of hungry,” she said.

He idled at a red light and got a good look at her. Seven, maybe eight years old and skinny as a rail. The bones in her wrists showed like white knuckles through the thin skin.

“When was the last time you had anything to eat?”

“I don’t know.”

She crossed her legs, angling a bruised ankle on a knobby knee, and he saw that her legs were streaked and smudged all the way up. My God, he thought, how long since she’s had a bath? Has she been living on the streets?

“Well then,” he said, “the first thing we’ll do is get you some food.” And then he would figure out what to do with her. “Okay?”

He took her to a deli. She gulped down a hot dog, leaving the bun on the plate, and watched him as he chewed his sandwich. He started to order her another, and realized something. He touched his hip pocket. Empty. He had forgotten his wallet when he changed his clothes.

“Take half of mine,” he told her, trying to think.

“I don’t like that kind.”

She continued to watch him.

Finally he said, “Do you want another hot dog?”

“Yes, please!”

He ordered one more and saw to it that she drank her milk.

Afterward, while the waitress was in another part of the restaurant, he said abruptly, “Let’s go.”

They drove away as the waitress came out onto the sidewalk.

“That was good,” said the little girl.

“Glad you liked it. Now—”

“The way you did that. You didn’t even leave a tip. You did it for me, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” What was I supposed to do? he thought. I’ll come back tomorrow and take care of it. “Now where are we going?”

“Home,” she said. “Oh, Daddy, you’re so silly! Where did you think?”

“You’ve got to tell me,” he said in the driveway.

“Tell you what?”

She got out and skipped to the front door, dragging her book bag. She waited for him on the porch.

He shook his head.

“Well,” he said once they were inside, “are you going to tell me?”

“Urn, where’s the bathroom?”

“In there.” He went to the phone. “But first—”

He heard water running.

He stood outside the bathroom door and listened. The shower was hissing, and presently she began to sing a song.

In the living room, the phone rang.

“I’m not home right now—”

“Jack, would you pick it up, please? I know you’re there. ...”

“Hello, Chrissie. Sorry. I just got in.”

“So late? Poor baby ...”

“Listen, Chrissie, can I call you back? There’s something I have to—”

“Are Ruth and Will there yet?”

“What?”

“Don’t tell me you forgot! Well, I guess I can pick up something on the way over. You know, maybe we can get rid of them early. Would you like that?”

“Yeah, sure. But—”

“See you in a few minutes, love. And Jack? I’ve missed you . . . !”

Click.

“Daddy,” called the little girl, “can you come here?”

He entered the darkened bedroom.

The bathroom door was open and steaming. She wrapped herself in a big towel and jumped up on the bed. She opened the towel.

“Dry me?”

“Listen,” he said, “who told you to do this? I don’t think it’s such a good idea to—”

“ ’S okay. I can do it myself. ” She made a few swipes with the towel and dropped it on the bed. Even in the faint light he could see how pink, how clean she was. And how small, and how vulnerable. She lay down and wriggled under the sheet. “Sleepy,” she said.

He sat next to her, on the edge of the mattress.

“Kiss me good-night,” she said. Her pale arms stretched out. He started to push her away, but she clung to him with all her might. He felt her tears as sobs wracked her body.

“There,” he told her, patting her between sharp shoulder blades. “Shh, now ...”

“Don’t go,” she said.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

He lay down next to her till her breathing became slow and regular. After a while he covered her with the blanket, and planted a kiss on her cool forehead before he left the room.

Ruth and Will parked behind Chrissie. He watched from the porch as they helped her carry the take-out food into the house.

He cleared his throat. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

“We already know,” said Ruth.

“How?”

“They didn’t hear it from me, I swear,” said Chrissie.

“A little bird told me,” Ruth said. “And all I can say is, it’s about time.”

Will plopped down on the sofa. “Well, I think it’s great. No point in paying rent on two places.”

“T/n’s place sure isn’t big enough,” said Ruth. She stopped on the way to the kitchen and scanned the dining room. “Even if you got rid of these bookcases, it wouldn’t work. You need more space.”

“You know, Jack,” said Will, “I have a friend in the real estate business. If you need any advice. Where’s the Scotch?”

“Hold on . . .”

Chrissie winked at him as she passed. “They want to know if we’ve set the date. What do you think? Should we tell them everything?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Wait a minute,” said Will, rising and navigating for the bedroom door. “I want to hear this.”

His stomach clenched. “Where are you going?”

Will grinned. “To take a leak. That all right with you?”

“Uh, would you mind using the other bathroom? This one’s—stopped up.” Chrissie said, “It is? You didn’t tell me that.”

“I was going to. I was going to tell you all.”

“Tell us what?” asked Ruth, coming out of the kitchen.

They looked at him expectantly. There was a long pause. His hands were shaking.

“I don't know where to start,” he said. He tried a laugh but it came out wrong. “Take your time,” said Ruth. “We’ve got all evening.”

Chrissie squeezed his arm. “Who needs a drink?” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “Maybe we could have a drink first.”

“What’s this?” said Chrissie. She kicked the book bag on the floor, where the little girl had left it.

“Nothing,” he said. “Here. Let me give you a hand.”

He walked her to the kitchen.

“I can explain,” he said.

“Explain what? You look tired, Jack. Was it an awful week?”

He took a deep breath. “Just this. I know it sounds crazy, but—”

On his way out of the small bathroom, Will stuck his head in the kitchen. “Am I interrupting anything?”

“Of course not,” said Chrissie.

“If this is a bad night for you two—”

There was a piercing scream from another part of the house.

He knew what it was before he got there.

The little girl was in the bedroom doorway, rubbing her eyes. She had on one of his shirts.

“Daddy?”

Ruth and Will looked at her. So did Chrissie. Then they looked at him.

“Oh, Daddy, there you are! I had a nightmare. There were people. Are they going now?”

“Daddy?” Chrissie stared at him as though she had never seen him before.

He focused on the little girl as his stomach clenched tighter.

“Tell them,” he said.

“What?”

“Everything.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Daddy.”

“All right,” he said, “that’s it. You’re leaving—right now. I’ll tell them the whole story myself. Come on. Let’s go.”

“No! I’ll tell. How you picked me up at the bus stop and got me in the car in front of all those people? Or how you cheated and stole for me? Or the part where you gave me a bath and dried me and kissed me and we took a nap together?” “I think we’d better be leaving,” Ruth said.

“Yes,” said Chrissie. “That might be a good idea. A very, very good idea.” “Wait.” He followed her out. “Chris, I—”

“Don’t,” she said. “I have to think. And don’t call me.”

He watched numbly as the cars drove off. It started to rain softly, a misting drizzle in the trees above the mercury-vapor lamps. He watched until their red taillights turned the corner, like the reflection of a fire passing and moving on, leaving the street darker than ever.

“No,” he said, hunching his shoulders. “No. No. No ...”

He went back into the house.

“Where are you?” he shouted.

She was in the kitchen, helping herself to the food.

“Hi, Daddy,” she said. “You got dinner for us. Just you and me. Thank you!” “Who the hell do you think you are?”

He shook her violently.

“Daddy, you’re hurting me!”

“I’m not your daddy and you know it, you little wretch.”

“You’re scaring me!”

“Don’t bother to turn on the tears this time,” he said. “It won’t work.”

She broke free and ran.

He braced himself against the table to stop shaking while he reached for the bottle of scotch and poured a double shot.

Then he walked slowly, deliberately to the living room.

“Out,” he said. “I don’t care if it’s raining. You’ve done enough. Get your things and—”

She had the phone in her hand.

“Daddy?” she said into the mouthpiece. “C-can you come get me? I don’t know how to get home . . . and I’m scared!”

He tried to take the phone away, but she dodged him and kept on talking. “It’s cold . . . and dark . . . and there’s a man here ... I think he’s crazy! Daddy, tell me what to do! I don’t like this place!”

She gave a description of his street.

“Daddy, please come quick!”

Then she began to sing sweetly, a high, plaintive keening like the wind outside, and the rain that blew with it, settling so coldly over the house.

“Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home . . . your house is on fire . . . and your children will bum. ...”

Her voice trailed off as she started to cry.

She hung up. She stopped crying. Then she went about her business, collecting her clothing and her book bag as though he no longer existed.

He stood there, wondering what it was that was supposed to happen next.