The Wind

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The phone rang at five-thirty that evening. It was December, and long since dark as Thompson picked up the phone.

«Hello.»

«Hello, _Herb?_»

«Oh, it's you, Allin.»

«Is your wife home, Herb?»

«Sure. Why?»

«Damn it.»

Herb Thompson held the receiver quietly. «What's up? You sound funny.»

«I wanted you to come over tonight.»

«We're having company.»

«I wanted you to spend the night. When's your wife going away?»

«That's next week,» said Thompson. «She'll be in Ohio for about nine days. Her mother's sick. I'll come over then.»

«I wish you could come over tonight.»

«Wish I could. Company and all, my wife'd kill me.»

«I wish you could come over.»

«What's it? the wind again?»

«Oh, no. No.»

«Is it the wind?» asked Thompson.

The voice on the phone hesitated. «Yeah. Yeah, it's the wind.»

«It's a clear night, there's not much wind.»

«There's enough. It comes in the window and blows the curtains a little bit. Just enough to tell me.»