The phone calls were always in the middle of the night. I’d hear my mother’s cry, and carefully in the dark, I’d make my way to her bedroom. “I miss you,” she was saying into the receiver. “Over.”

The tip of her cigarette glowed in the dark. She could even smoke, half-asleep. “Where are you stationed?” she asked. “Over.”

Then she’d push the phone on me, and I heard the voice, clogged with static, warbling all the way from Vietnam. “So damn hot here,” he said. “Over.”

I told him, “It’s barely spring in Chicago. The forsythias haven’t bloomed. Over.”

“Don’t tell Mom yet,” he said. “But I’m signing up for another tour. Over.”

I only half-believed him. “Why?” I asked. “That will make three. Why? Over.”

They must have been in a clearing of a forest, soldiers lined up to talk into a radio that was patched into the phone line. Then I heard a beep and knew we’d been cut off. “When’s he coming home?” my mother asked.

I hung up, watching my mother in the shadows of her room, the cigarette alive between her fingers. The glow-in-the-dark hands of the wind-up clock ticking on her dresser pointed to 3:00 a.m. I wondered how long I could keep the re-up secret, if she would guess it, if she would blame me, and why I had to be the one to tell her. I wondered if my brother would finally let me ride in his VW sedan that sat in our garage like a museum display, or if he’d give me driving lessons, or when or if he’d even come home. Over.

Related Posts
Filter by
Post Page
Featured Fiction Why I Write New Fiction Essays/Articles (all) Advice / Suggestions Most Popular
Sort by

The Daily Comics: an Essay in Frames

 Monday i. When I see my son drawing,
2019-02-06 12:52:33


Why I Write: Meghan McNamara

I’d like to say it’s complicated, but it’s not: I write because I have to—the sensation, a kind of electric pulse, dr
2019-02-06 11:59:48


“A Miscarriage of Sorts”

Lucia and I had broken up a few months before, and I was still mourning the loss of her,
2019-02-04 11:22:27


Why I Write: Hillary Shepherd

I write because I have so many outrageous true stories to tell. I write because everyone in my immediate family but
2019-02-01 08:33:44


“If You Can Make It Across”

If you can just make it across 35
2019-01-09 09:25:45


“Writing and the Unconscious: A Personal Exploration of Process and Content”

If dreams are the royal road to the unconscious mind as proposed by Freud, then what are the stories that we write?
2018-12-28 19:34:37


“A Time for Fantasy”

When I was ten, my bedtime stories were Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit. The prose was far beyond
2018-12-24 10:59:26



The ranger pulled into Patcher Woods, parked on the shady side, and wrote the time into his notebook. 1102 hours.
2018-12-21 07:45:46


“Death of the Short Story”

The other day I was at a coffee shop with a fellow writer and we were discussing the current state of American
2018-12-19 09:24:05


“Chekhov’s Rule”

When I first met Walker, he had a job at the tackle shop on the river and a classic early-seventies Chevy Nova,
2018-12-03 11:27:44


About Karen Loeb

Karen Loeb lives in western Wisconsin where she now teaches very part time, writes, and gardens during the cherished warm months. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Hanging Loose, Thema, The Main Street Rag, Carve, New Ohio Review and other magazines. In 2014 her story “Cantaloupe” won the Wisconsin People and Ideas fiction contest, and “The Walk to Makino” won an Editor’s Choice award in the Raymond Carver contest from Carve Magazine. Both stories are available online and in print. A poem of hers was given first place in the 2016 Wisconsin People and Ideas contest and has a July publication date.