Where I'm Calling From: Selected Stories
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By the time of his early death in 1988, Raymond Carver had established himself as one of the great practitioners of the American short story, a writer who had not only found his own voice but imprinted it in the imaginations of thousands of readers. Where I’m Calling From, his last collection, encompasses classic stories from Cathedral, What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, and earlier Carver volumes, along with seven new works previously unpublished in book form. Together, these 37 stories give us a superb overview of Carver’s life work and show us why he was so widely imitated but never equaled.
From the eBook edition.
said, and we all laughed. “After I got the braces off, I kept putting my hand up to my mouth when I laughed. Like this,” she said. “Sometimes I still do it. Habit. One day Bud said, ‘You can stop doing that anytime, Olla. You don’t have to hide teeth as pretty as that. You have nice teeth now.’” Olla looked over at Bud. Bud winked at her. She grinned and lowered her eyes. Fran drank from her glass. I took some of my ale. I didn’t know what to say to this. Neither did Fran. But I knew Fran
said. “Your bed’s made up, Robert, when you’re ready. It’s right next to our room at the top of the stairs. We’ll show you up when you’re ready. You wake me up now, you guys, if I fall asleep.” She said that and then she closed her eyes and went to sleep. The news program ended. I got up and changed the channel. I sat back down on the sofa. I wished my wife hadn’t pooped out. Her head lay across the back of the sofa, her mouth open. She’d turned so that her robe had slipped away from her legs,
himself at all times in as dignified a manner as possible. He should keep walking until he came to the mortician’s house and stood before the door. He would then raise the brass knocker and let it fall, once, twice, three times. In a minute the mortician himself would answer. This mortician would be in his forties, no doubt, or maybe early fifties—bald, solidly built, wearing steelframe spectacles set very low on his nose. He would be modest, unassuming, a man who would ask only the most direct
understood they would not fit. For a long time he looked out the living-room window from behind the curtain. Then he returned to the bedroom and put everything away. He was not hungry. She did not eat much, either. They looked at each other shyly and smiled. She got up from the table and checked that the key was on the shelf and then she quickly cleared the dishes. He stood in the kitchen doorway and smoked a cigarette and watched her pick up the key. “Make yourself comfortable while I go
ribbons, bows. She put everything on the floor. Myers noticed Morgan staring at him again, not smiling now. Paula said, “Myers, there’s something in your hair, dearest.” Myers put a hand up to the back of his head and found a twig and put it in his pocket. “That dog,” Morgan said and chuckled again. “We were just having a hot drink and wrapping some lastminute gifts. Will you join us in a cup of holiday cheer? What would you like?” “Anything is fine,” Paula said. “Anything,” Myers said. “We