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Stories from the small town of Whisper Gap where one life, one tale invariably reaches out to touch the next. by Jo Janoski.
"Did you say something?" The irritation in her voice cut through me. Mildred's wrinkled face peered from behind an open book. "No, I thought you said something." "Well I didn't." The silence again. When was the last time we had a decent conversation? It seemed decades really. Once you cross your fiftieth anniversary, what is left to say? We raised the kids and sent them off, retired five years ago only to discover life together 24/7 left little to the imagination. What irony after retiring to spend more time together, we were left with nothing to say. That noise again. A distinct crackle-pop. "Now what?" This time her voice hissed with impatience. "I didn't say anything!" She glared, then returned to her reading. I decided to let it drop. There was no point talking to, or should I say "at," her. I didn't think about the odd noise again until the next evening. Passing by the answering machine. I heard the odd static. I stopped short and listened. "Hello?" the machine murmured. The high-pitched whine had form and structure, albeit gravelly; but dammit, I heard the thing say "hello." The hot cup of coffee I was carrying catapulted to the floor. "What the hell are you doing?" My wife screamed, staring aghast at the brown stain streaming across the carpet. I looked her way with a zombie face. "Walter? What's wrong?" She inched closer in tiny steps as though afraid to move in too fast. "The answering machine said 'hello.'" Now it was her turn. Shaking her head as
though realizing what I'd said, she directed her gaze to the
contraption. "No. I know I erased it all yesterday." "Well, do it again, stupid! Then turn it off and on again." As I reached to push the button, the crackly voice screamed, "Don't touch me!" I stumbled backward, my heart flip-flopping across the room to Mildred. But she had her own problems, her face blanched, one trembling hand covering her mouth to stifle a scream. Our eyes met. "Try it again," she said. "Are you crazy? You try it!" "I'll make coffee," she murmured. Coffee was our family's solution to everything. Later, as we sat in the kitchen, the yellow room's warmth made me forget the machine in the living room. Mildred whipped up a batch of brownies, and they baked emitting a chocolate aroma wafting in sultry waves through the air. My mouth watered. With the nurturing coffee, all would be right with the world. She learned the brownie trick from my mother, who used them to soothe us kids through many disasters while we were growing up. Under the aroma's spell, even a talking answering machine didn't seem so bad. Then I came to my senses. "Mildred, maybe I should go and talk to it, reason with it." She glared back in horror. "Walter, no!" "Maybe it wants us to do something. We could fulfill its wishes and maybe it will quit talking." I ran my fingers through my hair. What was I saying? Talk to, reason with a machine! Was I nuts? Mildred looked back at me with eyes like blue puddles, confused and filled with hopelessness I'd never seen before. I reached across the table and took her hands in mine. The eyes warmed. Her fingers were cold in my grip. I rubbed to warm them. "Walt, I don't want you to get hurt," she murmured. I didn't know she still gave a damn about me. Gazing in her eyes, the Millie of old beckoned, the one I knew when I was young... and we were in love. I hadn't seen my girl in many a year. Monotony had dulled us to one another. "Millie, it will be okay." I stood up and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Time to confront the machine, The wretched contraption sat on the telephone table in quiet innocence. I approached in caution, summoning my courage. "Look here," I said. "You can't talk to us like that." Silence. "We don't appreciate you conversing at all, as a matter of fact. It's not your job, you know. You're only supposed to take messages, not speak openly to people." I felt buoyed by my success. The machine sat in silence while I spoke. Perhaps it was taking my words to heart, if machines have hearts; which on second thought, I determined they probably didn't. But then, its crackly response set my knees to knocking. "I'll stop. My work here is done." "What?" "You and Millie have found each other again, right?" "Yes," I stammered. "Well, that's all I wanted. It's been nasty around here with you two grumping at one another. I figured I'd give you something to talk about." "I see." Actually, I didn't see. Why would a machine care how Millie and I treated one another. It replied as if reading my mind. "I need a happy home," the machine stated. "Please tape a new, happy message, and I'll get back to work." It was right. We'd been using the canned
message that came with the machine, an act of indifference on
our parts. So, we did the right thing and recorded one of those
perky, two-voice messages accompanied by music. Just a little
greeting to make everyone happy, especially the machine. It's
had no complaints since. Copyright 2008 JO Janoski
Jo Janoski is a poet, author, and photographer from Pittsburgh, PA. For more from Jo visit her columns: March, February, January, December, November, October; and her poetry: March, February, January, December, November, and October. Or her online home. |
Cheshire Cat
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