The phone rings late last night.
The female voice on the other end starts talking (not uncommon around here) and I listen, trying to figure out who it is.
Unsuccessful, I finally ask, “I’m sorry. Who am I talking to?”
“Oh. Is Wilma there?”
I tell her she’s got the wrong number, this is the church number and then she asks me if I’ve got Wilma’s number.
The funny thing is that I know who she’s asking for.
Just to be sure, I ask, “Wilma Obaugh?”
“Yes,” she answers.
“I don’t, but let me look it up real quick.”
Turns out she had the right number, but had just hit a wrong button.
And then we talked a bit ourselves, about the drop in the temperature, whether it would frost, old fingers hitting wrong buttons – the light conversation of two women late at night with nothing but time and a little grace for a stranger on our hands.
I hope she got ahold of Wilma – I know she’ll be glad to hear from her.