… long distance …

N THE DRUGSTORE a block away from the hospital Effie stood in the telephone booth staring at the dial face, as if some of its own blank unconcern might pass out to her. It could not be that to roll back two decades she had only to turn the dial, a voice would answer exactly as it had answered then. Thinking how incredibly simple was this contact with another age, Effie wondered what had restrained her from performing the miracle before this. What a comforting game it would have been, pretending his absence was only for the day, the hour, and not forever. Just a twist of the wrist as the magicians said, Hello, Bruster Company? Is this Tom? Mrs. Callingham speaking. Has Andy got there yet? When he comes in will you ask him to call the apartment? Thank you.

Effie found herself trembling as one should tremble before such miracles. She dared not risk it. Scientists must have felt the same primitive terror before bringing their robots to life, terror of the unknown world about to be released. Put up your right hand, dial up two down one. She looked again for the number in the book, mind balking on the side of fear. So easy. Bruster Company, Literary Agents, Graybar Building. Would the same Miss Hupfel be there, efficient, moderately friendly, later moderately patronizing.… “We are instructed to deposit the March royalties to your account in the Guaranty Trust.… Why, no, Mrs. Callingham, the new novel is late in being delivered. Mr. Bruster just had a letter from them. They’re in Singapore now. Yes, Singapore. They seem to be having a wonderful time. No, the last book didn’t do so well … he lost a good deal of his public by those pacifist articles of his, Mr. Bruster says, coming as they did right in the heat of the war feeling.…”

Effie’s hand darted up quickly, swung the dial around, swung it round to the year 1916, heard the calm answer on the phone, as calm as if there were no nineteen years between the two telephones. Long distance, thought Effie. It would be long distance, too, to take a train—quite possible, no reason why not—out to Cold Spring Harbor, walk along the harbor, see the Violet II there at the dock, perhaps, a launch really might survive that long.

“This is Mrs. Andrew Callingham”—how brave she was speaking out loud with only the dial face to mock her—“and I wanted to know if your office had heard from Mr. Callingham. Is he expected in America this month?”

“Mr. Callingham arrives on Saturday,” said the cool voice. No, it could not be Miss Hupfel, of course. Launches might last but not Misses Hupfel. “We’ve had a cable. You can reach him through this office if it’s important. What name was that again, please? Mrs. What?”

Thank God.

“Thorne, I said, Miss Thorne.”

“Thorne, did you say? I understood you—”

The receiver on the hook. Suddenly Effie took it down again, dropped in another nickel. Dennis. She must get back to Now, to the little Present that did not matter. She heard the buzz repeating dully, rhythmically. No answer. No Dennis. No one. It was hard to believe you had no one. Yet Marian, too, had no one. Still, that was not true, she had her belief in Andy and Andy was returning for her. Marian did have her Andy. She, Effie, had no one. She turned to the telephone book, fumbled desperately through its pages. Did she look so strange, for the boy at the soda fountain was peering at her intently? Did it matter? She found the number.

“Dr. MacGregor, please … Effie Thorne … Oh, doctor, I thought I’d call to see how you were. It was lovely seeing you last night. How have you been—oh, yes, you did say you’d been splendid. Andy’s coming on Saturday. I thought you’d like to know. Yes, I just had a cable. Yes, it will be nice seeing him—we’ve been in touch constantly of course. He always liked you so much. Yes … What? Oh, I’m fine. Yes, I’m fine. I sound funny? That’s strange, because I feel perfectly fine. No, there’s nothing else, I just thought I’d give you a ring. No, I’m fine. Goodnight. Goodnight, Dr. MacGregor. Thanks so much … What? Did you say thanks for what? … I don’t know, really, it just slipped out, I guess. Goodnight.”

Without warning, tears streamed down her face, she leaned her face against the telephone, mechanically pulled the booth door slightly open so the light would go off and hide her, she stood in there, receiver dangling from its hook, her body shaking. The soda fountain boy was looking at her. The marcelled blonde at the Helena Rubinstein counter was looking at her. The customer was looking at her. They could see through both glass doors, dark or light. They could see through long distance to Bruster Company, Literary Agents, to Dr. MacGregor in the Hotel Rumsey. They could see through everything but she could not stop crying. She picked up her pocketbook, left the receiver still hanging with I’m-fine-I’m-fine-I’m-fine and ran outdoors into brilliant sun.