Stephen Dixon - Love and Will - Twenty Stories

“Fresh air,” I say. “The moon and stars — they’re really there.” My legs get wobbly and I sit on their building’s stoop and take lots of deep breaths and then stay there because all my energy got used up making my way downstairs. It’s almost dark, about the time of night when I was first on this block nobody on the street or at the windows, no passing cars. “People — help me,” I want to shout, but my voice is too weak for even the next door first-floor tenant to hear.

Someone must have seen me and phoned the police — maybe even the sisters — because a squad car comes especially for me a half-hour later. I put my arms out to him and he says “Too much to drink tonight, eh pal?”

“Not it at all. I’ve been kidnapped by two sisters in this building for the last eight years and was only just now released.”

“Eight you say. Good story. Why not ten years? — let’s go for twelve. At least yours is a little better story than the next wino’s, though you’re in a lot worse shape than most,” and calls for an ambulance.

In the hospital I tell the police I’m no drunk and never was. “The doctors can vouch there’s not a drop of alcohol in my blood or on my breath, and if you phone my best friend, if he’s still alive, he’ll tell you how I all of a sudden disappeared from this city eight years ago today.”

The police call Ben and he comes right over with his wife. At first they don’t recognize me and Ben says “This guy isn’t Charles Kenna. Did he have any papers on him?” and the policeman says “Not one.”

“Ben,” I say, “remember the fountain pen complete with ink in it no less that I gave you for your thirteenth birthday? And Jill, you can’t forget the swanky dinner I treated you both to on your fifth wedding anniversary and the pram blanket I gave for Tippy the day she was born.”

After they finish hugging me I say “Now tell the police if I was ever a liar or drunk in my life.”

“One glass of wine at dinner,” Ben says, “and one only. He always said he had to have a clear head and settled stomach for the next morning if he was to do his best at work, which he also took home weekends.”

“And his word?” Jill says. “He never uttered anything but the absolute truth, just like his actions: a moralist not to be believed. He used to make me ashamed of myself just for breathing, till I realized what a burden of unexamined guilt he must be carrying on his head, and then I began feeling a bit sorry for him.”

The police go see Ivy and Roz. They deny everything, I’m told. “Charles Kenna? We’ve never known a Kenna or Kennan or any kind of name like that in our lives. And the only male to enter our apartment in thirty years was the super and he only to fix things.”

The police tell me there’s no proof I was ever in their apartment. “The sisters are known as eccentrics in the neighborhood, mostly because they keep so much to themselves, but they’ve never been in trouble with us or the city or anyone. Far as visitors go, they said nobody but that super and a lonely spinster friend from childhood who came twice a year for tea till she died recently and a few times the upstairs neighbor who they said came to the door for this or that, but no one else.”

“I don’t remember the friend at all. As for the neighbor and super, when she was at the door, I was bound and gagged behind it, and when he came inside, I was locked in the bedroom.”

The police won’t investigate further till I come up with more evidence for them. My lawyer tells me if I take the sisters to court I’ll not only lose the case but be countersued for slander and in both cases I’ll have to pay their legal fees.

So I don’t pursue it. I never had much savings, so have to borrow from Ben and Jill to move into a hotel, get my teeth fixed and keep myself going till I get back my health and buy some clothes and find a job in my old field. All my belongings were put on the street eight years ago after I didn’t pay my rent for three months.

A month after I’m released and when I’m still recuperating, I get a phone call in my hotel room.

“Surprise, it’s me,” Roz says. “We only today got a telephone put in after all these years and I wanted you to be my first personal call.”

“Oh boy, thanks loads, but how’d you find me?”

“There are only so many Charles Kennas in hotels, you know. How are you?”

“I’ll tell you how I am, you witch. I’m getting stronger every day, so don’t try to mess with me again, you understand? If I didn’t think you had a lethal weapon of some kind or I’d get in serious trouble for it or at least could do it in a way where the police would never know, I’d club you both over the head till you woke up in hell.”

“For what, dear?”

“For what? Hey, I know you’re both out of your skulls, but this much?”

“Who you speaking to, love?” Ivy says, picking up what I suppose is the extension.

“Oh, some nice wrong number I got by mistake when I dialed the hardware store.”

“If he’s that nice ask him to come over for lunch and a chat. That’s the main reason we got this contraption for, isn’t it: to widen our social life?”

“I already did. He said no.”

“I didn’t hear you ask him.”

“You were in the other room.”

“But I was listening at the door.”

“All right, maybe I didn’t. My mind might be slipping, just like yours. Excuse me, sir, but could you? My sister and I are two extremely lonely though I think reasonably intelligent and interesting elderly ladies and would love to have male company for a change. We’re quite honestly bored with each other and ourselves, which you must have picked up during our harmless hostile exchange just now.”

“Maybe another day,” I say. “But Ivy, you know damn well who this is, so how about an explanation from you or Roz as to why you put me through so much for eight years?”

“Explanation?” She laughs. “Oh you poor love. We thought it was obvious to you. And this is who I suggested we invite for lunch?”

“It wasn’t obvious,” I say. “Maybe my mind suffered some irreversible comprehensive damage or psychological breakdown or whatever it was while I was with you two, so explain to me slowly and clearly so I can once and for all understand rather than just rack my brains and guess.”

“Explain what?” Roz says. “Why I dialed the wrong number? People make mistakes, that’s all,” and they hang up.

After that they phone me once a week at the hotel, always asking if this is that nice man they got by mistake a week ago … a couple of weeks ago … a month ago and so forth, and each time I say no and hang up. Then my health is back to normal. I find a job, rent an apartment, get an unlisted phone and stay away from their neighborhood and never hear from them again.

He said, she said.

She left the room, he followed her.

He said, she said.

She locked herself in the bathroom, he slammed the door with his fists.

He said.

She said nothing.

He said.

He slammed the door with his fists, kicked the door bottom.

She said, he said, she said.

He batted the door with his shoulder, went into the kitchen, got a screwdriver, returned and started unscrewing the bathroom doorknob.

She said.

He said nothing, unscrewed the doorknob, pulled the doorknob out of the door, but the door stayed locked. He threw the doorknob against the door, picked it up and threw it down the hall, banged the door with the screwdriver handle, wedged the screwdriver blade between the door and jamb and tried forcing the door open. The blade broke, the door stayed locked.

He said, she said, he said.