Party Line

Calling home, with speaker phone on both ends, I can't tell one voice from another. I think it's Andy who asks about the food up here.

"The tomatoes fucking suck." I say. "So does the salsa."

I start to say something about potatoes, but her two-year-old cuts me off with a blood-curdling scream.

There's a voice I don't recognize. "Everything changes."

Is her mom there? Did I just say fuck in front of her mom?

"Ms. Patton?"

"That's my maiden name, honey," says Andy. No one else responds.

"Sorry, I thought I heard your mom or someone."

The conversation continues in its confusing stereo until I hear someone whisper, "It all goes to shit."

"Well, someone's feeling cynical."

"Huh?"

"Who's talking about everything going to shit?"

"Girl, you are losing your mind."

Indeed.

I leave the room and let my husband do the talking. I'm reaching into the fridge for a bottle of water when I smell burning hair.

"HALLELUJAH!" screams the space behind me. "HERE I COME!"

"Gah!"

(Yes, I sound like an idiot when I scream. My ohmigoditsaroach scream is more convincing.)

Static fills my ears and I am certain something is coming up from behind to get me. Then Stewart hangs up the phone.

Breaks the connection.

It's on your end, Andy. There's something in your house.

 

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