Saying Goodbye to the Beloved Phone Booth
There are seven of us. Five kids and my parents. I’m the youngest. The low man on the totem pole. I have no say in anything. For the most part, it’s not a problem. Until one day when I am 12.Here’s the thing. We have one phone. It’s anchored on the downstairs hallway wall, off the one bathroom. One phone. One bathroom. Seven people. The hallway is a high-traffic area. Privacy? Hasn’t been invented yet.ADVERTISEMENTThanks for watching!Visit WebsiteOne day the phone rings. Mom answers.Paul? No, he isn’t here, she says. I am standing no more than five feet away from her. It’s a small house. I am always standing no more than five feet away from anyone.I don’t know where he is, she says.I am looking right at her.I don’t expect him home anytime soon, she says. Again, right here mom. I hear a faint, optimistic, female voice through the phone asking if my mother would take a message. Fat chance. Mom hangs up. Who was that? I ask. A girl, she says. And glares. At me. I start to say something but think better of it. I leave to get a sweater because it is suddenly very, very cold in our small house. I am 12. Girls, who until recently, were stupid and likely cootie-infested, are now, oddly, sort of interesting. And even more weird, they find me – somehow, someway – dreamy. A bigger mystery Sherlock Holmes had never tackled.ADVERTISEMENTThanks for watching!Visit WebsiteADVERTISEMENTThanks for watching!Visit WebsiteADVERTISEMENTThanks for watching!Visit WebsiteAnd because of this recent development, my sainted mother, the epitome of all that is good in my world – kind, gentle, loving – was lying. Worse, she is upset with me for making her lie. Because a girl was calling. For me. Her baby. The hussy!I learned two things that