David Fowler
The night before Thanksgiving, the phone rang in my apartment in San Francisco. Back then, answering machines existed but I hadn’t made the leap. I was in the habit of just picking up the phone when it rang, which wasn’t that often. Otherwise, the caller might be gone forever.
“Hello,” I said. The caller was a young woman. I heard traffic swooshing and people talking in the background, so I figured she was calling from a payphone on the street. A call cost a dime. If you had enough dimes, you could call long distance from any corner.
She was in Sacramento, and she said I had the same name as her father. They’d been apart for many years. Oh, boy. Here we go.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I don’t have a daughter. What’s your father’s address?” Why did I ask that? I just dug in deeper.
“I don’t know his address,” she said. “Just San Francisco. The operator gave me a couple of names. I wanted to hear his voice, not even come see him, just hear him. Wish him a happy Thanksgiving.”
“You’re very sweet to think of him.” I’m never going to shake this girl.
“Thank you. What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” she said.
“Well, not much. Just me this year.” Thank goodness for the peace and quiet.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” she said. “You’re not seeing your family?”
“No, not this year. Too far away, everybody’s busy.” Okay, we’re done now, right?
I heard three quick beeps on the phone, the signal that time was running out. Change rattled as she pumped dimes in, talking while feeding the coins, frantic not to lose the connection.
“Well, I know how you feel,” she said. “I’ve been alone for quite a few Thanksgivings. We had a turkey and all when I was a kid. The whole deal, like you see on TV. Well, not that great but pretty nice.”
I laughed. “Yes, we had those. Not exactly Norman Rockwell, but everyone got together and all.”
She laughed.
“What happened? Why did you and your father drift apart?” I can’t just drop the phone at this point.
“I’m afraid I don’t have enough dimes for that story.”
“I understand. People just drift away sometimes.”
“You sort of remind me of him.”
“Well, I’m glad. He must be a wonderful guy and I’m sure you’ll find him.”
“I just wanted to give it a shot.”
Three beeps in the phone, but no sound of change rattling. A car honked, a siren passed.
“I have to go,” she said. “Thank you for talking. Have a happy Thanksgiving.”
“Thank you. I hope you-”
The phone went dead. Out of dimes.
I set the receiver down and watched the lights come on in the windows down Telegraph Hill, the fog rolling up the Bay, an outbound freighter passing beneath the Golden Gate. I lifted the receiver, thinking she might still be there.
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David Fowler has stories in The Threepenny Review, North American Review, River Teeth and others. He’s legally blind and now writes in Jackson, Mississippi, after living in San Francisco, New York and on a ranch ten miles east of Penelope, Texas.