Where I'm Calling From by Raymond Carver Page B

and was dressed in slacks and a sweater and was wearing leather slippers.
    “His name is Buzzy,” Hilda Morgan announced and made a face. “It’s Edgar’s dog. I can’t have an animal in the house myself, but Edgar bought this dog and promised to keep him outside.”
    “He sleeps in the garage,” Edgar Morgan said. “He begs to come in the house, but we can’t allow it, you know.” Morgan chuckled. “But sit down, sit down, if you can find a place with this clutter. Hilda, dear, move some of those things off the couch so Mr. and Mrs Myers can sit down.” Hilda Morgan cleared the couch of packages, wrapping paper, scissors, a box of ribbons, bows. She put everything on the floor.
    Myers noticed Morgan staring at him again, not smiling now.
    Paula said, “Myers, there’s something in your hair, dearest.”
    Myers put a hand up to the back of his head and found a twig and put it in his pocket.
    “That dog,” Morgan said and chuckled again. “We were just having a hot drink and wrapping some lastminute gifts. Will you join us in a cup of holiday cheer? What would you like?”
    “Anything is fine,” Paula said.
    “Anything,” Myers said. “We wouldn’t have interrupted.”
    “Nonsense,” Morgan said. “We’ve been… very curious about the Myerses. You’ll have a hot drink, sir?”
    “That’s fine,” Myers said.
    “Mrs Myers?” Morgan said.
    Paula nodded.
    “Two hot drinks coming up,” Morgan said. “Dear, I think we’re ready too, aren’t we?” he said to his wife. “This is certainly an occasion.”
    He took her cup and went out to the kitchen. Myers heard the cupboard door bang and heard a muffled word that sounded like a curse. Myers blinked. He looked at Hilda Morgan, who was settling herself into a chair at the end of the couch.
    “Sit down over here, you two,” Hilda Morgan said. She patted the arm of the couch. “Over here, by the fire. We’ll have Mr. Morgan build it up again when he returns.” They sat. Hilda Morgan clasped her hands in her lap and leaned forward slightly, examining Myers’ face. The living room was as he remembered it, except that on the wall behind Hilda Morgan’s chair he saw three small framed prints. In one print a man in a vest and frock coat was tipping his hat to two ladies who held parasols. All this was happening on a broad concourse with horses and carriages.
    “How was Germany?” Paula said. She sat on the edge of the cushion and held her purse on her knees.
    “We loved Germany,” Edgar Morgan said, coming in from the kitchen with a tray and four large cups.
    Myers recognized the cups.
    “Have you been to Germany, Mrs Myers?” Morgan asked.
    “We want to go,” Paula said. “Don’t we, Myers? Maybe next year, next summer. Or else the year after.
    As soon as we can afford it. Maybe as soon as Myers sells something. Myers writes.”
    “I should think a trip to Europe would be very beneficial to a writer,” Edgar Morgan said. He put the cups into coasters. “Please help yourselves.” He sat down in a chair across from his wife and gazed at Myers. “You said in your letter you were taking off work to write.”
    “That’s true,” Myers said and sipped his drink.
    “He writes something almost every day,” Paula said.
    “Is that a fact?” Morgan said. “That’s impressive. What did you write today, may I ask?”
    “Nothing,” Myers said.
    “It’s the holidays,” Paula said.
    “You must be proud of him, Mrs Myers,” Hilda Morgan said.
    “I am,” Paula said.
    “I’m happy for you,” Hilda Morgan said.
    “I heard something the other day that might interest you,” Edgar Morgan said. He took out some tobacco and began to fill a pipe. Myers lighted a cigarette and looked around for an ashtray, then dropped the match behind the couch.
    “It’s a horrible story, really. But maybe you could use it, Mr. Myers.” Morgan struck a flame and drew on the pipe. “Grist for the mill, you know, and all that,” Morgan said and