Stephen Dixon: Long Made Short

“Yes,” he says, “he does have teeth, or did the last time I remember seeing him — all of them, and he is a senior, though why it’s not in the phone book that way I don’t know; maybe it’s a phone company mistake. Anyway, that’s what I was looking for all along — not a thing but a he, a man, my dad, husband of my mother, who’s also alive and what I’ve been looking for, though she’s lost just about all her teeth and mostly wore plates. Did he mention anything about her? No, I know he didn’t, at least in that last call, for I heard every word he said. But great, I came to the right place, all right, though how you knew I don’t know, for I was never specific to you about what I wanted,” and she says “Oh, I knew when you came in so unspecifically that it was something we could do for you. For you see, people deal with their fears of dentists in all kinds of ways, and one of them is through complete amnesia: ‘Who are you? What am I doing here?’—that sort of thing. Or to say something like, when they first see me as they come in, ‘I’ll have a frank with plenty of mustard and sauerkraut’—anything to deceive themselves they’re not here to have their teeth fixed or extracted or even cleaned, for even that can hurt. Let’s face it, we all, so to speak, meet our maker or destroyer in different ways, though some of us, like me, prefer to meet him or her straight on.”

“Well thank you, thank you,” he says, “and I don’t think I’ll be needing this now,” giving her back the questionnaire and clipboard it’s on, and she says “The pen,” and he says “Right,” and takes it out of his pocket—“You can’t believe how many pencils and pens I’ve accumulated this way”—and she says “Not from this office, you don’t,” and he says “Right, I can see that,” and leaves, takes the bus downtown, walks across the bridge, walks another two miles to get to the address he saw by his father’s name in the phone book.

“Yes?” his father says on the intercom, and he says “It’s me, Junior,” and his father says “God, you’ve been gone a long time. Do you really think it’s worth it for me to come down to see what you look like?” and he says “How’s Mom?” and his father says “Your mother? My dear boy, she’s been gone a long long time.” “Gone where?” and his father says “Gone to rest, my son, to rest,” and he says “Not dead,” and his father says “Dead, my dear son, dead.” “Dad, please come down and help me, I don’t think I’m ready to face this yet. I’m not. I’ll never be,” and his father says “Nobody is, my dear son, nobody, and neither was I, but I was only her lover and husband and closest friend and father of her children and then of her only surviving child, not her flesh and blood. I’ll be right down.”

He waits there. Day becomes night; warmth, cold. He’s not dressed for it, he thinks, and rings the bell. Nobody answers. Rings and rings and nobody answers. If this were an apartment house, he thinks, he’d ring several bells to get in. But it’s a private home, and he just sits on the steps, hoping his father will come down.

A police car stops in the street, the policewoman says through the car window “Is there a good reason you’re sitting there, sir?” and he says “No, officer, there isn’t, and I’ll be on my way,” and gets up and goes. When he’s at the corner he looks back, thinking if the officer’s gone he’ll go back and ring some more and maybe even make a commotion under the windows, but she’s sitting in the car, now peeling and eating what looks to be an orange or tangerine. Then she looks his way, points her stick out the window at him, and he turns the corner.

He’s called at his office. Something unspeakable’s happened. “What is it?” Come home quick, the caller says, his wife needs him. “Why, what’s wrong, something with her?” His daughter. “What, what is it?” Come home now. “Just tell me, then I’ll be right home. Is she hurt? Was she hit by a car? Is she dead?” She was on her way home from school—“A car? Is she alive?” She’s dead. A fight started between several boys and girls a block from school. Someone pulled out a gun — a kid, they don’t know if it was a boy or girl. They don’t even think this kid was one of the ones fighting. Everything happened so fast. Some shots were fired. One went into her head.

After it’s all over — the medical inquest, funeral, reporters at his door — weeks later, he tries to go back to work. Before then, he couldn’t leave the apartment. He and his wife stayed in their bedroom most of the time, sleeping, staring, talking very little. People came every day — friends, relatives — shopped and cooked for them, cleaned the place, answered the phone. Then his wife said one morning “I guess it’s time to face life; what do you think?” He said “You face it, I’m not going anywhere yet; who knows when I’ll be ready.” She started cooking, shopping, continued with her translating work, even returned some overdue books to the library and paid the fines, checked out a few, resumed reading, though still didn’t want to look at a newspaper. He stayed in the bedroom. A week later he came out, ran around the block once, and a few days later headed for work.

It’s awful for him on the street going to the subway. There are little girls his daughter’s age going to school in groups or with a parent or nanny. Awful on the subway. Girls, boys, a few years older than his daughter, some reading, studying, others playful, a few looking like killers, or ones who want to be. She loved to read, was a terrific student, liked being playful with him, as he did with her. He got off after a few stops and cabbed home. Stayed in the apartment a few more days, helped his wife with things like cooking and cleaning, read her translations for corrections. Then he went back to work.

People there: “We’re sorry,” “I’m sorry,” “We’re all tremendously sorry, words can’t express it.” He says “Please, I don’t want to hear of it, I don’t want to discuss it, and I especially don’t want any sympathies or condolences or regrets or things like that. I just want to forget, I just want to forget, I just want to forget, so please don’t.” But every so often someone says something that makes him burst out crying in front of the person or run into one of the bathroom stalls to do it. “My kid’s suddenly doing lousy at school, and we don’t know what to do about it. Oops, forgive me.” “I gotta be home early tonight — it’s my girl’s birthday, and all this when I’ve a ton of work here to do, but my wife says I have to. Oh, jeez, I forgot, excuse me.”

“I can’t face the world, I can’t live with myself, I can’t forget her, I don’t know what to do, I want her back, I want her here now, I can’t sleep nights, I walk around in a daze most of the day, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to lie in bed or be out of it with my mind on anything but her, I can’t live in this apartment, I see her room, I see the dinner table, the silverware, sink she dumped the dishes in, goddamn pot she shit in, streets she ran and skated on up and down, kids she played with or who look like the ones she did, elevator she rode up on, doormen she spoke to, shop windows she looked at, reflection of herself she caught or caught me catching her admiring herself, you name it, it’s there, the works.” All this to his wife. She says “Don’t you think I feel the same? But what am I supposed to do, get sick and crack up or die over it and not be there for you?” “Of course, I’m sorry,” he says, “I know you think of her as much if not more than I. Certainly at least as much. But it’s become so individual though. For all the reasons that it would.”