THIRD PLACE SUDDEN FICTION
truMPet M. J. KELLEY
My Dad calls. What’s wrong? he asks. I don’t know, I say, I don’t think it’s working. You want to come home? he asks. I don’t know, I say, I don’t know anyone here, nothing’s working. Wait, hold on, son. Can I call you back? I have a customer here. I’m the only one working today, he says. We hang up, and I stare out the window: there is a fence separating the two side yards, and then there’s just the wall of the house next door. No light, no plants – empty. The phone rings. I’m sorry, son, he says, It will get better for you. I guess, I say. Remember when I used to hum to you when you were a baby? No, Dad. I used to hum to you and hold you in my arms until you fell asleep. Now you live up in the city, he says, I can’t believe it. OK, Dad, I say. I have another customer. I’ll call you back. I look out the window again: there is a snail inching its way up the fence, its dark brown shell slightly, slowly swaying, its antennas poised, a transparent trail marking its passage. After a few minutes the phone rings. OK, son, he says, This is a song called “Can’t Help Falling in Love” by Elvis Presley. Ready? What are you doing, Dad? It’s OK, no one’s in the store. I hear the thud of him putting the phone down. My Dad hums and for a moment I’m afraid he’ll sing. Then comes the smooth ring of his trumpet, a deep brassy bellow echoing out of the phone. I’m struck with 108
Berkeley Fiction Review
