I was in the kitchen this morning, stirring Splenda into my Folgers, when the phone rang. Actually it doesn’t so much ring anymore as it tweedles frenetically, almost psychotically. It’s annoying; I guess that’s the point. I peered at the caller ID, muttering Oh what fresh hell is this. Ironically, it was the local Catholic church. I was perplexed.

I am by the grace of God a Christian man, by my acts a great sinner. I can’t say that I’m not in need of an occasional Come to Jesus call from whatever ecclesiastic folk find themselves so disposed. By the same token, I’m Russian Orthodox; we have certain brotherly disagreements with the Bishop of Rome. Why would they be calling me? Still, we love each other, right? Of course, we speak. So I did.

“Mr. Wakefield!” the man on the line said. I thought about this for a moment. I considered it a most excellent assertion, borne in so much faith that I wondered if it might not be true. Could I possibly be Mr. Wakefield? For a moment, I wanted this very much. I just hated so much to disappoint.

“No,” said I, “you have the wrong number.”

And it all came flooding back in memory. Wakefield was the guy who had my phone number before me. I used to get a call for him every few years. And I’ve only had the number since May, 1978, so naturally it’s still on the records at the church. I picture a big rolodex on the rector’s desk in that pretty building down the street from my parents’ house.

I explained to the nice man on the phone that this is no longer Mr. Wakefield’s line. He apologized, and we hung up. Now I’m left with these nagging questions:

How long as it been since they tried to call this poor lost lamb?
Do they still have Pinewood Derby races in the church’s Boy Scout troop?
Whatever happened to Wakefield?

I knew nothing of him before except his old phone number, and now I know he was a Catholic. So I’m making progress; things are starting to heat up.

Being a fictional writer myself, I could make things up for old Wakefield easily. Tiring of perpetual seasonal drought, he drug up, packed his grip and dixied north, finally alighting in Suquamish Washington. He has a little house on the shore and a telescope to watch the boats. He drives to St. Olaf’s in Poulsbo for Mass. And the rain is just all right with Wakefield.