I answered the phone today.

Normally I don’t. At the Myers’, Ken or his wife Kate are there to pick it
up. Out in the studio, Ken always gets it or I let the answering machine
take a message. It’s more efficient than me jotting something down. At the
office in Charlottesville, Jenna, Jeff, Bart, Florence, or Ken will shout, “I
got it.” At the Wallaces, Doug, Joanne, or Alice answer the phone or else I
let it ring and allow voice mail take care of the messaging.

But today Ken went to C’ville by himself, leaving me with a room full of
books to label. He had to leave really early and run around to several
appointments, so it made more sense for me to stay behind. Turned out it was
a good thing I did.

I was sitting at the electric typewriter, pecking out a Library of Congress
number when the phone rang. I stopped to listen if someone would leave an
audible message on the machine. But the phone kept ringing. I decided it
was the home line, since it wasn’t letting up. Ken had promised to call when
he got a chance, and Kate and the kids were gone, so I went into the studio
and picked up the phone with the flashing red light. “Hello?”

“Hello?” It was Ken. “I guess Kate is gone since you answered?” he
surmised.

“Yeah, they went to the library.”

“Ah, well, how are you?”

“Fine.” One thing about Ken is if he’s ever talked to you before, he’ll ask
you how you are the next time he talks to you. Every morning when I walk
into the office, he asks me how I am. I’ve given up on answering with
anything other than the usual.

“How is everything?” he went on, “Any fires, earthquakes, catastophes of that
nature?”

“No, nothing major,” I answered.

“How are you?” he asked again.

“Doing well,” I tried another answer. He went on to give some details about
his schedule for the rest of the day, which I promised to pass on to Kate.
I’d hung up and walked back into my area when the phone rang again before I
could sit down. He’s forgotten something, I thought as I returned into the
studio and picked the phone back up. “Hello?”

It was Kate. “Do you know where Flat Rock is?” she asked.

“No idea.” She gave me detailed directions even though it was just down the
road right past the first traffic light. The family car had picked that
resting spot to die. I was there within five minutes. All the junk that has
accumulated in my car in the past couple weeks found its way to the trunk as
Kate and the two kids piled in.

“It’s a good thing you answered my call,” Kate smiled. “I was going to let
it ring and ring till -somebody- figured out which phone it was and picked it
up.”

In other news, working backward, I got to “C” in the room full of books
organized by author last names. Jonathan was sick with a fever, so I’m glad
they didn’t have to walk back in the hot sun after the car died.