Stephen Dixon - Long Made Short

He’s in his chair, the man, wishing he’d made himself coffee or tea. Something hot to drink. He can think better with it. Son plays, wife reads. They’ll probably make love tonight, he thinks. He’s been nice all day, no arguments, she’s smiled lovingly at him several times the last few hours. Kissed her when he got home, and she said “Ooh, that’s some kiss; I love it.” He can’t wait. He’s sure she’ll come to bed ready. If she doesn’t — well, how will he know? He can go to the bathroom and shake the case. Sometimes he can smell it on her too. The cream. Anyway, he can say — he’s usually first in bed, usually reading—“I hope you’re ready, I know I am.” “Sure,” she’ll say if she isn’t ready and go back to the bathroom. He loves her. They have their fights and disputes and sometimes he tells himself he hates her and doesn’t want to live another second with her, but he really loves her. He should remember that. So beautiful. Still a very beautiful face. Her body still excites him. She’s so smart, so good. He’s lucky, particularly when he’s so often a son of a bitch and fool. He should remember all that. He should call his mother now. Doesn’t want to budge. Just wants to sit here remembering, digesting — something — the thoughts he just had about her. That he loves her. That no matter what, he loves her. “Time for bed,” she says to their son. “Oh, I don’t want to go yet,” the boy says. “Do what your mother tells you,” he says. “Okay,” the boy says, “okay, but you don’t have to talk rough.” “I wasn’t. And please clean up your puzzle. Nah, just forget it, it’s late and you’re going to bed; I’ll do it.” He looks at her. She’s standing, her manuscripts are on the couch. Smiles at her. She smiles at him, he smiles back. The boy gets up and heads for the stairs. “Look,” he says to her, “he’s really going to bed without a fuss. What a kid.” “I’ll run his bath,” she says, “you’ll tell him a story after?” “I don’t need anyone for that,” the boy says. “I can fill my own tub — I know how much to — and I want to read by myself before I go to sleep.” “You read?” the man says. “He reads?” to her. “Since when? I don’t want him to. Soon I won’t be able to do anything for him. He’ll be brushing his own hair, combing his own teeth.” “Daddy, you got those wrong. And I’ve been doing them a long time.” “That’s what I’m saying,” he says. “Next you’ll be cooking your own shoelaces, tying your own food. Go, go, don’t let me stop you, big man,” and blows a kiss at him. He didn’t mean those first two to be switched around, but it turned out to be a good joke.

The boy runs upstairs. He gets on the floor, puts the — what do you call them? isolated, or incomplete, or unassembled or just-not-put-in-the-puzzle-yet — pieces in their box, doesn’t know what to do with the partly completed puzzle, carefully slides it against the wall. Hears water running in the tub, lots of padding back and forth on the ceiling. “He’s growing up so much,” he says. “You haven’t noticed before?” she says. “Of course, but the way he phrases things, and just now — no remonstrating.” He sits beside her. “Mind?” “Go on.” Puts his arm around her shoulder, pulls her to him. She looks at him. “Yes?” “This is the life,” he says, “everything but the kid asleep.” “Yes, it’s very nice,” and kisses his lips and goes back to reading. He continues looking at her. Wants to say “You’re beautiful, you know; beautiful.” Takes his arm away, for he feels it might be bothering her. She wants to concentrate. Good, she should. He leans his head back on the couch, looks at the ceiling. I go upstairs, he thinks. My son’s in bed reading. He smells washed, his room’s neat, he tidied it up without anyone asking. “All done for now?” I say. He puts the book on the floor and says “Forty-six; please remember the page for me?” “Will do. Goodnight, my sweet wonderful child,” I say and kiss his lips, make sure the covers are over his shoulders. “Pillows all comfortable?” and he says “You could get them right, I don’t mind.” I fix the pillows, rest his head on them, turn the light off and go downstairs. “Like a beer or glass of wine?” I say. “If you’ll share a bottle of beer with me,” she says. We do. “I’m tired,” I say. “Let’s go to bed then,” she says. We do. I’m in bed, naked, clothes piled beside me on the floor, glasses and book on my night table. She’s still in — she’s sitting on the other side of the bed, taking her clothes off. She was just in the bathroom a few minutes. “Dear,” I say. “Not to worry,” she says, “it’s all taken care of. What’s on your mind’s on mine.” All her clothes are off. I breathe deeply to see if I can smell her. I can: a little fresh cologne, cream she put in, something from her underarms. Or mine. I smell one when she’s looking away. Nothing. “Can I shut off the light?” I say. “Please, I’m finished.” I shut it off. She gets under the covers with me. We hug, kiss, rub each other very hard. She grabs me and I grab her. Something tells me it’s going to be one of the best for me.

“Like a glass of wine, some beer?” he asks. “I don’t want to get too sleepy,” she says. “Maybe I can read a couple of more papers than I thought I could, so I won’t have to do too many tomorrow.” “Dad?” his son shouts from upstairs. “We’re all out of toilet paper up here.” “You checked the bathroom closet, the cabinet under the sink?” “Everyplace.” “To the rescue.” And he gets a roll out of the downstairs bathroom, runs upstairs, puts the roll in. He goes into his son’s room. The boy’s drawing at his desk, and he says “Don’t you have to use the toilet?” “I did, but I was thinking of you and Mom.” “That’s very thoughtful, very. Come on now, though, you have to go to bed.” The boy gets into bed. “Teeth all combed?” “Everything,” the boy says. “You don’t want the night light on?” “I don’t need it anymore.” “Good, that’s fine, but if you change your mind, okay too. Good night, my sweet wonderful kid,” and he bends down and kisses him on the lips, turns the light off.

He undresses, brushes his teeth, flosses, washes his face, washes his penis and behind with a washrag, washes the washrag with soap and hangs it on the shower rod, walks a few steps downstairs and says softly “Sweetheart, I’m going to bed now, to read — you coming up soon?” “No. And don’t wait up for me. I’m thinking now I’ll just do the whole bunch of them, no matter how long it takes. Good night.” “Good night.” He gets into bed, opens a book, reads, feels sleepy, puts the book down, looks at her side of the bed and thinks “Remember what you promised to think about before? What was it? Bet you forgot.” Thinks. “Ah,” he says when he remembers what it was. “It’s true,” he thinks, “I really love her.” “You hear that, dear,” he says low, “do you hear that? I can’t wait till you get into bed so I can hold ya.” He puts the book and glasses on the night table, shuts off the light, lies on his back to see if anything else comes into his head, shuts his eyes, turns over on his side, falls asleep.

She went outside, came back in, pounded her head with her knuckles several times, went outside again, looked and looked, nowhere to be seen, couldn’t imagine what had happened, yelled “Henry,” and he appeared, his voice did, from the cellar. “Yes, what’s up? I’m down here.” “Thank God,” she said and held onto the doors folded over and then the walls as she went down the stone steps. “Don’t leave me like that anymore, please.” “Leave you how?” he said. “Like that, like that,” pointing upstairs. “Like what, like what?” he said, painting a lawn chair, looking up at her for a second. “Like leaving me. Tell me next time. You know how I am.” “No, I really don’t, or not exactly. How are you? You’re fine, I can see. But you were worried. Don’t be.” “I was worried. When I call for you, look for you, go up and downstairs and outside and down the road and around the house for you? Well, I only called that one time and I didn’t go down the road looking for you, but I almost did.” “Did you by chance ever think to call for me earlier or to look down here? When you see the cellar doors open, assume I’m down it.” “You could have been elsewhere while airing the cellar out.” “That’s true,” he said, painting, “you’re right. I forgot that’s what I do and it’s just the kind of day for that.”