9:17 P.M.
The landline rang.
I keep it because it was my mother’s number and because I’m sentimental about a dial tone. Almost nobody calls it anymore except the pharmacy and people trying to sell me solar panels.
I almost let it go.
I answered on the fifth ring.
“Hello?”
“Is this Ruth? Ruth Ballard?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Peter. I’m Jeffrey Hale’s son.”
I Sat Down on the Kitchen Floor
I actually did. I slid down the cabinet with the receiver in my hand because my legs went.
“Jeffrey’s son.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What happened?”
There was a pause.
“My father wants to speak with you. He — “
Another pause.
“He doesn’t have much time.”
Then I Heard Movement
Fabric. Somebody shifting.
And then a voice, much weaker than I remembered but absolutely, completely his.
“Ruthie.”
My eyes went before I could do anything about it.
“Jeffrey?”
And then a small breathless laugh through the phone.
