The Collection

and rang the bell, but again there was no answer. The Adams must have gone someplace.

Nina looked around the neighborhood. They had only moved in a couple of months ago, and hadn't met many of the neighbors. She didn't feel comfortable walking up to some stranger's door. Especially not with this wild tale.

But this was an emergency....

The car!

The car. She didn't know why she hadn't thought of it earlier. There was an extra set of keys in the little magnetic box attached to the wheel well. She could get the keys and take off. Moving slowly, quietly, she pushed through the wall of bushes which separated the Adams' house from her own. Ducking low, she ran along the side of the house to the garage.

The phonebook man was sitting in the driver's seat of the car.

He smiled at her as she ran up. 'We have to go to the store,' he said. She could see his phonebooks piled on the seat next to him.

Anger broke through her fear and shock. 'That's my car! Get out of there!'

He looked at her, confused. 'If you don't want me to drive, that's all right. You can drive.'

Nina sat down on the floor of the garage, her buttocks landing hard on the cement. Tears-tears of anger, hurt, frustration, fear-ran down her face. Snot flowed freely from her nose. She sobbed.

Vaguely, through her tears, through her cries, she heard the sound of a car door being slammed, of feet walking across cement. She felt a light hand on her shoulder. 'Would you like a phonebook?'

She looked up. The phonebook man was bending over her, concern on his face. She shook her head, still crying, and wiped the tears from her cheeks. 'Just go away,' she said. 'Please.'

He nodded. 'You sure you don't need another phone-book?'

She shook her head. 'Just go.'

He shifted the load of books under his arms, looked at her and started to say something, then thought the better of it and walked silently down the driveway toward the sidewalk. He walked up the street toward the McFarlands'.

The tears came again-tears of relief this time-and Nina felt her whole body relax, tension leaving her muscles. When the crying stopped of its own accord, she stood up and walked into the house through the side door. The kitchen was a mess. He had spilled milk and coffee all over the countertops and had left the eggs, shell and all, in the pan on the stove. Salt and sugar were everywhere.

She started to clean up.

She was washing out the sink when the phone rang. She jumped, startled. She recalled that the phone had been dead, and she approached it with something like dread, afraid to pick up the receiver. The rings continued-five, six, seven times-and slowly, hesitantly, she picked up the receiver.

'Phonebook man.' The voice was low and insinuating.

She dropped the receiver, screaming.

It was then that she noticed the note. It was taped to the broom closet next to the refrigerator. The note was attached low to the door, below her line of vision, and it was scrawled in a childish hand.

'Gone to pick up Erin. Be back for lunch.'

It was unsigned, but she knew who it was from. She ran to the bedroom, grabbed her keys, and sped out to the car. The car bumped over the curb on the way out into the street, but Nina didn't care. She threw the car into drive and took off toward the school.

She should have known better. She should have known he wouldn't leave her alone. The car sped through a yellow light at the intersection. She would pick up Erin and go straight to the police station. He was still around some­where, between home and school; they should be able to catch him.

But where had he called from?

Someone else's house, probably. He was now torturing some other poor soul.

She swung the car into the school parking lot just as the kindergarten classes were letting out. Hordes of small chil­dren streamed out of the school doors. She left the keys in the car and dashed across the asphalt toward the kids. She scanned the stream of faces, looking for Erin (what was she wearing today? red?), and finally saw her, chatting happily to a friend.

She ran over and picked up her daughter, ecstatic with re­lief.

Erin dropped the phonebook she'd been holding.

Nina stared at her in disbelief. 'Where did you get that?' she demanded.

'The phonebook man gave it to me.' Erin looked at her innocently.

'Where is he now?'

Erin pointed up the street, where the children were start­ing to walk home. Nina could see nothing, only a sea of heads and colored shirts, bobbing, skipping, running, walk­ing.

'He said for you to stop bugging him about the phone-books. He can only give you two.' Erin pointed to the book on the ground. 'That's your second one. He said he's not coming by anymore. That's it.'

That's it.

Nina held her daughter tight and looked up the street, her eyes searching. She thought she saw, over the children's heads, a shock of brown hair above a clean-shaven non­descript face. But it disappeared almost immediately, and she could not find it again.

The children moved forward in a tide, walking in groups of two or three or more, talking, laughing, giggling.

Somewhere up ahead, the phonebook man walked alone.

Estoppel

'Estoppel' is a legal term that means 'it is what it says it is.' It applies primarily to pornography, allowing prosecutors to more easily prove in court that a maga­zine is 'obscene' or 'pornographic' if it is specifi­cally advertised as such. I learned about estoppel in a Communications Law course, and since I was bored in class that day, I thought up this story instead of pay­ing attention to the lecture.

Side note: There's a reference in here to the Chico Hamilton Quintet. Known to mainstream audiences primarily for appearing in and scoring the Burt Lan­caster/Tony Curtis film The Sweet Smell of Success, the quintet featured a cellist named Fred Katz who, in addition to being a truly spectacular jazz musician, went on to write the music for Ken Nordine's ac­claimed Word Jazz albums, the music for the Oscar-winning cartoon 'Gerald McBoing Boing,' and music for the Roger Gorman cult classic Little Shop of Hor­rors. At the time I wrote this story, Fred Katz was my anthropology professor at Gal State Fullerton.

Most people assume I am mute without asking. I never tell them otherwise. If anyone does ask, I simply hand them one of the 'mute cards' I had printed up for just such a reason and which I always carry with me. 'Peace!' the cards say. 'Smile. I am a Deaf Mute.'

Most people also assume I am a derelict. I dress in old, filthy, raggedy clothes, I seldom bathe, and I never cut my hair or trim my beard. I have noticed, over a period of years, that people do not ordinarily talk to derelicts, and I became one for that reason.

I have done everything possible to minimize my human contacts and to keep people from speaking to me or ad­dressing me in any way.

I have not uttered a single intelligible word since 1960.

I know that, for all intents and purposes, lama mute, but I have never been able or willing to make it official. I have refrained from saying the words. I should have proclaimed, 'I am mute,' years ago. But that would be permanent. It would be irreversible.

I guess I've been afraid.

To be honest, there is very little of which I am not afraid. I have spent half of my life being afraid. For nearly a decade, I was afraid to write anything down. I would neither speak nor write. What if, I thought, it happened with writing as well as speaking?

But those years, those ten long years of almost total iso­lation, were sheer and utter hell. I did not realize how im­portant communication was to me until it was denied. And after a decade of such isolation, I literally could not take it anymore. It was driving me mad. So one night, my blood running high with adrenaline and bottled