Stephen Dixon - Love and Will - Twenty Stories

She says “We didn’t say anything about your holding my hand.”

“Are you delirous?” I say.

“Yes.”

“I know what you mean now. I forgot. No, we didn’t say anything about my holding your hand. But I thought you might want me to. I know I wanted to. And it feels good, doesn’t it?”

She nods, closes her eyes, dies.

I go off, but it’s never the same with anyone else after that.

Come in. Over here. Sit down. Make yourself at home. Are you comfortable? Like something to drink? To eat? I want to tell you something. How about another cushion? Different seat? Try the couch. It’s much more comfortable. The other side — that one has bad springs. Push away the cat. Then I’ll get him away. Rosy, get off. I said to get off. There. You’re allergic to cat hair? By the way you sneezed. Maybe you don’t know you are. Rosy, get out of the room. He never listens. Off the chair yes but not out of the room. And she I mean. To me all cats are hes, isn’t that ridiculous? Particularly if you caught two copulating. Because to most people cats are shes. Which would be just as ridiculous if you caught them in the act. But not to me. I mean to me all dogs are shes. But I’ll get her out of the room just in case you are allergic. Some people only become that way to cats later in life. When they’re adults like you and I. Or like you and me. I can almost never get those two straight too. Rosy, come here. Thataboy. To me she’ll always be a boy. I’ll throw him out of the room and close the door. There. Now watch. You probably won’t sneeze again or at least not for the time you’re here.

Now about what I have to tell you. I haven’t forgotten. But you sure you don’t need more cushions? One more then. It’s only on the other chair. I’ll get it. No bother. Put it behind your back. Then in top of the couch where your head or neck can rest. How does it feel? Much better I bet. And notice you’re not sneezing anymore. I told you it was the cat. What’s that? Another sneeze? It could be from the newspaper ink. So you’ve never sneezed from it that you know. Though I always say it’s what you don’t know that counts. I don’t always say it but have thought of it often and occasionally said it I believe. At least a few times. Maybe only once. Could be I only just thought of it before and once. But I’ll take the newspaper away and throw it into the other room with the cat. Let’s see if he sneezes from the ink. If you sneeze again with both of them out of the room, I’ll almost believe you’re allergic to me.

So what I want to talk to you about. It’s quite important. Very. Though like some music on first? Simple for me to do. Mozart or Bach? To me they’re the only true composers. Plus a couple of others — Beethoven of course. And Handel and Haydn, Vivaldi and Bartok. Which would you like? Also Stravinsky, Gabrieli, Mahler and Pärt. Let me also get you that drink. It doesn’t have to be stronger than iced tea. Or any mix you want that goes with gin except grapefruit juice I’ve got. Okay, one coming up. I’ll also select what music to play if you won’t. Now what do you think? About the drink and this piece. His number twenty-four. For piano and orchestra. Guess which composer. Wrong. Guess again. Again wrong. I hate guessing games and often the people who participate in them. It’s not, though, Mozart.

Where was I again? What I wanted to tell you. Have to. Important. Extremely. Almost more than I can say. We’re both comfortable though, correct? Drink. Music. Volume not too loud or low. Reasonably soft couch on that side and mine a relatively easy seat. Air. How’s the air? I can turn the air conditioner down or off. I’ll leave it at medium. I only had it at high to quickly cool the room, not that it’s that muggy out or hot. But you get used to these things. I do, I don’t know about you. Maybe you don’t even own one. I almost keep it on steadily till people tell me there’s a cold wave out. Almost not true. A minor exaggeration. But I think I do overabuse this machine and help create a minor energy crisis with it all by myself. At least for this city. But enough of me and our city. Let’s get down to what I brought you here to tell you. Because you’re quite comfortable now, right? Pleasant temperature in the room. Pleasant room. It is a pleasant room, isn’t it? Designed the entire place myself. Rebuilt the walls and mixed the paints to get that color which I’m wondering if you find too bright or even like. And the lights? They also too bright? I can turn them down. Turn them off even, which wouldn’t be too smart to do, though we’d still have the little light from the stereo. At least sufficient light from it to find the wall switch. Furniture’s all mine too, built from scratch. From wood, actually, but you knew what I meant. Everyone’s allowed a little joke, even before the crematorium. So here we are. Pleasant temperature and room, agreed? And I hope you know that was a statement about the joke in general and not a joke about the crematorium. Cool drink in your hand. Like a refill? I won’t go around calling you a heavy drinker. I usually like a quick one myself and then to linger over the second for half an hour or more. Though linger over your second, if you have one, for fifteen minutes or ten or even five if you like. Or finish your first, knock down the second and linger over a third. Whatever you wish. While you’re here, my home is yours. I’ll get you that refill. No bother. There. Cool drink again. Music — too loud or do you even like this piece? I’ll change it if you want. To viola, solo piano, anything with voice or strings. Something more modern or jazzier, I have those too. Fine. Music. Room. Temperature and drink. Pleasant everything. Best part of the couch. Cat and newspaper out of the room. And you’re still not sneezing anymore. So I suppose it was the newspaper you were allergic to, if you don’t sneeze here again, or a delayed end of allergic reaction to the cat.

But what I practically had to drag you here to tell you about. That’s what I now have to speak to you about. That’s what I think is foremost in my mind. It is. I don’t just think so but know. Unbelievably important. But come in. Sit down. Over here. Make yourself comfortable. You are comfortable. You are here and sitting in this room. All that’s true. In the best seat in the house. And I’m sitting here lingering over a drink and being comfortable across from you. Anyway, what was it again I had to talk to you about? Suddenly I forgot. I’m sure I can remember it if I try. Let me think. I’m trying. I can’t remember. No bother. Drink up and if you don’t want another and I can’t remember before you leave what I wanted so urgently to tell you, I know we can save it for another time.

I wrote a novel for Sarah and sent it to her. She wrote back “For me? How sweet. Nobody has ever done anything or presented me with anything near to what you’ve just given me. I’ll treasure it always. I must confess I might not get around to reading it immediately, since I am tied up to my neck and beyond with things I’m forced to do first. But I can’t describe my pleasure in receiving this and the overwhelming gratitude I’ll always have in knowing it was written especially for me.”

I painted a series of paintings and crated and shipped them to her and she wrote back “Are these really all for me? I only looked in one of them and it said ‘1st of a series of 15,’ and I counted the other crates and came up with fourteen more and thought ‘My God, I have the entire series.’ You can’t imagine how this gift moves me. I’ll open the rest of the crates as soon as I find the time, as I have been unrelievedly busy these past few days and will be for weeks. The one I did open I’ll hang above my fireplace if I can find the space among my other paintings and prints. Meanwhile, it’s safely tucked away in a closet, so don’t fear it will get hurt. Again, what can I say but my eternal thanks.”