Stephen Dixon - Long Made Short

She asks him to tell her a story that night. He does every night, or a continuation of one. Tonight he puts the chapter story on hold, he says, and starts a new one called “Two Sisters.” “Sadie and Sally,” he says. “Awful names,” she says. “Not ones I’d give.” “They’re like twins, though they don’t dress alike and are several years apart, maybe even nine. Once Sadie was born they started doing almost everything together, or when she started to walk and talk.” He gives examples. “Then a war came. Their parents had to fight in the army, so Sadie went with an uncle and Sally with an aunt.” He’s silent. “What happens next?” she says. “I don’t know. I’m trying to figure it out. The war goes on for five years. Their parents have disappeared. Nobody knows if they were killed in battle or taken prisoner and not returned or got lost somewhere and are in another terrible country trying to get out, or what.” “This is too sad to listen to before I go to sleep, even if everyone finds one another.” “They don’t find each other so fast. The separation goes on longer than the war. The uncle and aunt die of natural causes — heart disease, old age; they’re actually a great-uncle and great-aunt. The sisters live completely separate lives for more than ten years after the war. Their parents are dead.” “Oh Daddy, I’ll have nightmares now.” “I’m sorry. Erase the story.” “You can’t. I already heard it.” “Then I’ll change it.” “How? It already happened. The sisters could meet again but their parents are dead.” “I can change it if I want. I made a mistake. I got the wrong lives into my characters.” “You know you didn’t. Why’d you tell it if you knew it was going to be so scary and sad? Do you want me to have bad dreams?” “Of course not. I just didn’t know what I was telling you. Maybe I’m still suffering a little from some after-bang effects from that accident last week on my head. Or we were talking about you and your future sister, I started telling a story about two other sisters, and then I got carried away or didn’t know I was telling it.” “You had to know. You always do when you tell me a story.” “Sometimes things get in from somewhere deep in you that you’re not aware of. The unconscious, the subconscious — you know, we’ve talked of it. So maybe I did it, though I didn’t realize or intend it, because I want you to live with me till you go to college, and even in college if you want to go to the one I teach at or another one in the area. And I thought, or those deeper things in me I wasn’t aware of thought, that the story would make you stay with me more. Because I fear your mother will take you from me. Rather, that you’ll want to live with her more. That even if you’re legally mine — meaning, that I’ve legal custody of you till you’re of the age of consent…Is that it, age of consent? Till you’re of legal age to say where you want to live — even alone, if you want — and I couldn’t do anything about it, then I could…I could what? I lost my train of thought. You remember what I started out saying?” “No.” “I guess it was that your mother will make life very attractive for you living with her and Tim and the baby. Occasionally in Tahiti and mostly in California and all their trips abroad and with an attitude that’ll probably be more liberal than mine. And that you’ll want to live with them permanently, and I won’t be able to deny you because I’ll want you to be happy so long as it’s safe there and so on, which I’m sure it’ll be. And then I’ll only see you a few days during the regular year if they happen to fly to the East Coast and also a month in the summer, even two if you want, but not enough for me. And maybe you’ll say you’re so happy there, or they’re doing such great things summers, that you won’t want to come East to me, and then what would I do? Maybe I should get married again just to have another child in case you leave. Would you stay with me over your mother if I had another child, even if it was a boy?” “You can’t have a child.” “The woman I married, I mean, but you knew that. Anyway, it’s way off the point. I’ll tell you what I told your mother when she first said she was leaving me — maybe I shouldn’t say this to you.” “Don’t, Daddy, if you don’t think you should.” “No, it’s okay, it’s not bad, and I know what I’m saying here, it’s not coming from somewhere else. You ought to go if you feel you have to, that’s all I said. Oh damn,” because she looks sad, “by your face I can tell I shouldn’t have said it. Blame my poor head. Or just blame me. But don’t cry, okay? Just don’t cry.” “I won’t. I’m not feeling like it. But it’s nice she wants me to live with her after so long, isn’t it?” “Yes it is. Or at least if you think so. That’s the attitude I should take. That’s the one I will. Because it is good she wants you. It’s never too late to change, and you’ve got all those young years left. And now I’m looking for something to end this conversation with, all right, sweetheart?” “Good night, Daddy. I’m tired. See you in the morning.” “First kiss me good night and brush your teeth and go to bed. But you already brushed your teeth and are in bed. Good night, sweetheart,” and kisses her and leaves the room.

Later he thinks of his ex-wife. That scumbag, that wretch, she would , and goes into his daughter’s room, sits on the floor and leans his head on her bed and says “My darling, my dearest, I know you can’t hear me, I don’t know why I’m even talking like this, but please don’t leave me, not at least till you’re of age.” “Daddy, what’s wrong?” and he says “Oh, nothing, go back to sleep, dear. I only came in to see that you’re covered,” and pats her forehead and leaves.

He drinks a little, reads, takes off his clothes and starts exercising vigorously for the first time since he cut his head. The light’s on; he does the same ones he did that night. “So that’s why I didn’t see the chair I hit,” he says. “I close my eyes when I exercise.”

He calls every place he can think of and not one of them has it. He goes downtown and complains. “You don’t have it. How come, what’s wrong, why you holding it up?” They say “What are you talking about?” He says “You say you don’t know? Maybe you really don’t know, maybe that’s why it’s being held up. If that’s the case, case closed. I mean, if that’s the case, well, case closed. Meaning, well, if that’s the situation, that you haven’t got it because you don’t know what I’m talking about, then I shouldn’t bother about it anymore, wouldn’t you say, or is that overstating the case?”

They slam the door on him. First they edge him out of the store. Then past the door into the street. Then they slam the door on him, lock it. He knows they locked it because he tries opening the door and the knob won’t turn all the way. The door’s made of glass, and he knocks on it. Raps, really, raps. The man and woman behind the door pull the shade down so he can’t see through the glass. Or for another reason, or a slew of them, like the shade down is a sign to him to go away, or so that they can’t see him. But a shade, he thinks. Very old-fashioned. He remembers shades like this when he was a boy. Candy stores had them. Closed for the day, down went the shade. You didn’t have to have a Closed sign on the door, for the shade down meant the store was closed for the day or just temporarily; for instance, if the owner went out for lunch. No, then the owner, or manager, or just the only person working there would usually put an Out to Lunch sign on the door or Be Back At 1:30 or something, or even a cardboard clock on the door with the hands pointed to 1:3o and Be Back At above the clock on the same sign. He knocks some more, raps, but by now has already given up. Rapped for effect. He’d have been surprised, very, if one of them had opened the door or even let the shade up.