After The Tone

I wish she’d let me die.

Toss me out. Take me and the rest of the junk in this box to the curb.

Let us meet our unnatural end.

God knows how long ago we were cast into this closest—this door-knobbed coffin.

Every few days we do get a burst of light, a flash of familiarity; that’s when she takes out the Hoover. Oh to be a Hoover—useful! But even his usefulness existed, again, in bursts. And now, I can’t remember the last time she reached for him.

He was here when I was first brought home. How long ago was that, now? Goodness. Let’s see, my first recording was from June 8, 1997 at 4:17 pm.

“Hey, Mom. It’s Tim. Justing testing out your new machine. No need to call back. Make sure to delete this. Love ya.”

What a thrill that first day was! I’d been sitting in my little cardboard box for weeks, barely able to contain my excitement. Who was going to take me home? Then I heard it—that sweet, gentle voice with the slightest drawl, warming every room she entered. Her thin, soft hands so careful with me, placing me, first, on the kitchen table and reading every page of the booklet she found under me. She moved me over to my home, the small white end table between her chair and Ray’s. Within seconds, I was live and ready. In one take—just one take—like a pro!—she recorded her outgoing greeting.

“Hello Friends! This is Claire and Ray. We’re out gettin’ into trouble, so leave us a quick message and we’ll call you back! Bye!”

What a gal. I’d never seen anything like it. So easy. So inviting. Granted, I’d never seen much of anything, this being my first home. Still, it was easy to see why this woman received so many calls, especially in the early days.

January 9, 1998

“Nana? It’s Jessie. Umm…we wanted to know if we could come spend the night. You’d need to come get us though. At my house. My mom’s house. K. Bye.”

March 30, 1999

“Hi Claire. This is Pastor Tom. I was hoping you’d be able to bring your German Chocolate Cake to the Wednesday night service this week. And bring Mr. Ray with ya! We’re gonna need his muscle to move those chairs downstairs. See y’all then!”

November 1999

“Ray and Claire. This is Juanita from across the street. I think Dixie’s in our front yard. She’s not botherin’ nothin’. I just didn’t know if you knew she’s out here. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll do my best to bring her over to you before dark. Ok. Bye then.”

Of course, as time went on, she finally switched to more convenient and mobile forms of communication, especially once Ray started doing more long hauls on the road. She wanted him to be able to reach her wherever he was and wherever she was. I didn’t get to hear too much from her family and friends after that, but there were the odd ones, like when Tim’s wife Julie couldn’t get ahold of her and knew she had the girls.

August 7, 2003

“Hey Mom, it’s Julie. Are you home? I tried your cell, but there’s no answer. If you’re there, can you pick up? I’ll wait for a minute or two. Just want to make sure everything’s ok. Jessie and Kat were supposed to check in with me after dinner and I’m still…”

They were all fine. They’d just been in the backyard tending to the weeds and planting their own flowers in Grandma’s garden, something they’d wanted to do since they were little. They were still little then, I guess.

If I’ve been in this house for more than a quarter century, then five of those years have been spent in this box—a box bigger than my original. She finally waved good riddance after years of every call to the house being a salesperson or someone trying to convince her she knew them. She didn’t.

There I sat in those later years, more a nuisance than a tool. Taking space away from Ray’s drink glass and his TV Guide. Ray didn’t like me all that much. He didn’t like having to press more than one button to do something. He liked simple and straightforward—like he was. I took some getting used to for him, even when he would call the house from the road.

April 22, 1999

“Hello? Claire? Claire? I can’t hear you. Hello? Oh. Damn this…Hello? If…If you can hear me, I’ll be home tomorrow ‘round noon.”

I miss Ray.

I know she does too.

Some evenings around supper time, I’ll hear her sit down at that tiny little table and clink the ice in her glass the way he used to do. She’ll talk to him while she eats. She’ll tell him about her day, the errands she ran, and what all she got into, and how she’ll do it all over again tomorrow. Then she’ll get real quiet. Every now and then, she’ll get up from her side and sit in his seat. She’ll rub the wooden arms and lean into the back rest just as heavy as she can.

On nights like that, she’d pull me out of this box and put me on the kitchen table. She’d click the arrows four or five times until she landed on what she wanted.

October 14, 2005 10:47 pm

“Claire Bell. You there? Hello? Claire? Ah well. I’m in Evansville. Just made it to the far side. Gonna get a few hours of shut eye before I take off again. Just wanted to tell you happy anniversary and that I love you. I really do, darlin’. I know you hoped—me too—that I’d get to be home this year, but just one more year and you’ll be so sick of me being home all the time…Well, I best be goin’. I’ll call you tomorrow, my love. I love you. Goodnight.”

There was a time when she’d play it ten, fifteen times in a row. She’d listen with her head down, sometimes on the table, her hand gently covering my speaker, trying to feel his words on her hands.

It's been a year or more since she last listened to that.

It’s been about that long since this closet has been kissed by the daylight. Until this morning. Now there are fewer boxes. There’s more commotion than I’ve seen since the girls were younger. More footsteps. More doors opening and closing.

More voices, unfamiliar most of them. Some recognizable yet aged.

I’m still waiting, one more time, for her voice. I’d love to hear her one more time before we leave.

Claire? Are you there?