Stephen Dixon - Long Made Short

She looked around. “I think we should build a staircase inside the house to the cellar. Then you could go up and down with ease, even evenings if you’d like, for there’d be a railing and light. And also not get wet in the rain if it’s raining when you want to come here, or have to put boots on if it’s snowing. And I wouldn’t be searching franticly for you. I’d open the door to the cellar in the kitchen, let’s say, and know by the sounds or the light on that you’re down there.” “Then we’d call the cellar a basement. I never want to have a basement in this house. Then we’d fix it up, put in a convertible couch and lamps and fixtures on the walls for more lamps and insulate it so guests would come, or for when they came, and a place to dump the grandkids when they were being too restless or loud. And fancy windows and then bars on the windows to protect our valuable lamps and grandkids from vandals and thieves. And the walls would have to be plastered smooth and then painted bright to cheer up the room, and the furnace would have to be concealed because it’s an eyesore. And a drop ceiling to make believe we have no overhead pipes, and pictures in frames and so on. A mirror. A dehumidifier. A wine rack instead of the boxes the wine comes in I now use. Never. My parents had that, right down to the bar with two stools and a carbonated water tap, and it was disgusting. They had to clean it every other week. The floor — I forgot the floor — was linoleum, and when we left scuff marks on it we got reprimanded for it. I like the way it is. I open the cellar doors — clement or inclement weather, who cares? Climb down, do my work, single bulb dangling over the table, furnace like a furnace, no electrical outlets but the extension socket the light bulb’s in, my sweater or vest or both if it’s damp or cold, and once a year I use the old broom to brush away the spiders and spiderwebs and cobwebs.” “But I get worried for you.” “Then I’ll tell you what, ask yourself why you do.” “Because if I can’t see or hear you I sometimes think something awful’s happened to you.” “Ask yourself this then: What could happen to me? I’m healthy. A heart attack? Hell, I could have got one when I was forty or fifty, and statistics say there was a better chance then, or is that just with a stroke? And I know my way around and don’t risk injuries and accidents. If I got pains someplace that might seem unusual, and I know where those places are, I’d recognize the signs. So from now on, if you want me, look for me further. Upstairs, downstairs, outside, in. That’s not much looking. Down the cellar — now that’s looking, or down the road.” “But you weren’t down the road.” “I was, this morning, for the mail.” “Was there any?” she said. “Nothing useful. Ton of junk mail as usual. And a letter from Nina. I read it and tore it up.” “You didn’t.” “I didn’t,” and pulled it from his back pocket and gave it to her. “That was unfair, holding it from me this long.” “I got disoriented. Distracted, I mean, or involved in something — that’s it. Came back, had read it on the way back — there’s absolutely nothing new in it, by the way. Jeremy Junior’s fine, hiccuping more often, that’s all. Jeremy’s busy at work and thought he was getting the flu. Sunny weather, stormy weather, a film dealing with values and serious moral questions that we also might want to see on VCR, and her book’s going well. But then I saw the cellar doors, opened them because I thought of painting the chair. Now I’m finished,” and put the brush down. “One thing we can use down here is running water so I can clean my brushes and hands, though not at the expense of converting this dungeon into a shaped-up basement. Bringing down a pail of water and leaving the liquid soap here does the trick just as well.” He cleaned the brush, then his hands, dried everything on his pants. “Maybe a paper-towel roll would help too, but not a rack for it please. The pail was from a few days ago, if you’re wondering.” “I’m not,” she said, reading the letter. “Is what she says in it any different than what I said? I tend to miss things, and not read between lines. Oh, this is getting us nowhere. Let’s go upstairs.” “What’s getting us nowhere?” she said. “I don’t know. I just said it to get us out of here,” and he shut the light.

He grabbed her elbow and moved her to the steps. They went up them, she holding onto his arm till she was able to grab the edge of one of the folded-up cellar doors. When they reached the top, a bird swooped down on them. “Duck,” he said, pushing her head down till she was on her knees with him. The bird came a few inches from hitting them. “That crow was aiming at us,” he said. “Where’s my gun?” “You have no gun,” she said. “I don’t, huh?” He pointed his finger at the crow, which was circling about fifty feet up, followed its movements with his finger for a while, then said “Bang-bang, you’re dead, you bum.” The crow’s wings collapsed, and it dropped to the ground some twenty feet from them. “I don’t believe it. Did you see that?” “I saw it,” she said, “and I don’t believe it either.” “With this gun,” holding up his finger. “Do you think if I pointed it your way and said bang-bang, I’d knock you off too?” “Why, you want to? Anyway, don’t try.” “But it’s ridiculous. Just by going bang-bang, I killed that bird. And I had a bead on him too. ‘Bead’ is the word they use for it — out West or in criminal or law-enforcement circles — right?” “You’re asking me?” “Bead, a bead, or maybe it’s ‘draw a bead,’ but like you’re aiming.” “The beads I know are little stones and ornaments around the neck and droplets and so on. Of sweat. I still can’t believe what you did though.” “Neither can I. I aimed my finger at it — like this,” and he pointed his finger at her, “and then when it seemed to be closest to me and my hand wasn’t shaking so much, I fired. Bang-bang. I didn’t pull any trigger, though, meaning, use another finger as if I were pulling one.” He still had his finger on her. “Maybe I should move it away from you just to be safe.” “Don’t be silly. We both are. It was a coincidence. The crow died of a heart attack, but not one brought on by you, or something like that when you pretended to shoot it. Pull it if you want. Shoot it. Go bang-bang, even bang-bang-bang. Three shots for the price of two. Suddenly today I’m feeling very brave.” “Bang-bang,” he said. Her face got distorted, hands sort of stiffened into claws, and she fell to the ground. “Darling,” he said and got on his knees. Her eyes were closed. She was on her side, and he put his ear to her chest, moved it around above her breasts, her back about where he thought her heart would be behind, then her nose and mouth. He didn’t hear or feel anything. He did it again: chest, back, nose and mouth, and then put his mouth on hers, kept her mouth open with his hands, and breathed into it, took his mouth away, took in a mouthful of air, breathed into her again, pulled away. “Oh Christ, what have I done? What have I done, goddamnit?” he screamed out. He stood, forced his fist into his palm, screamed “What the hell have I done? I’ve killed my wife. It can’t be so.” Got on the ground, listened to her chest, mouth, put his hand on her neck where he thought her pulse might be, was none, felt around her neck and temples, didn’t try her wrist because he was never able to find it there, turned her over on her stomach, straddled her, did what he thought was the thing to do to get someone breathing again. Pushed down with his hands, sat up, pushed, sat up. Lay down next to her and put his ear to her mouth; turned her over and put his ear where he thought her heart was. Nothing. He pointed his finger and pressed it into his forehead. “Bang-bang,” he said. “Bang-bang. Bang-bang.” I’m not shot, he thought. Not even hurt. “Come on, sweetheart, you got to be kidding.” He sat her up, held her while he listened to where he thought her heart was. Thought he heard something. Touched her neck. He felt something. Forced her eyes open. They looked alive. She smiled. “You,” he said, “you nearly gave me a heart attack there.” “You’d kill yourself for me? I peeked. Oh my dearest,” and she hugged him. “Yes I would,” he said. “I was so full of guilt and everything else. Sadness. I suddenly believed…well, who wouldn’t after he shot that bird down? The bird,” and he stood up, helped her up and ran to where the crow had landed.