Stephen Dixon: Long Made Short

I go into the living room and say “Excuse me, can I butt in on your work a minute?” and she says “What, your call?” and I say “You wouldn’t believe who it was,” and she says “Ramona Bauer, woman you almost married, one of your three or four great loves and first one of your adult life — I heard you shout her name out,” and I say “It’s been what?” and count back in my head. “Twenty-two years — I remember because to see her I borrowed a car from the other associate editor of the two dick magazines I worked for then, and I only worked there a few months before I got the radio news job. She was living with her boyfriend — now he’s her husband, though they’re divorcing,” and she says “That’s interesting, because you’ve said she called you a number of times like that when she was divorcing or breaking up after a long relationship.” “I didn’t know I told you that,” and she says “Everything, you’ve told me everything, or at least you said you have, about all your old flames.” “What else I tell you about her?” and she says “What else is there? Everything is everything. First one to get on top of you, second or third female to break your heart. That she was reading Dear Theo when you met her. She taught you how to smoke a pipe and then told you your breath stunk from it, so you stopped and never smoked anything again. Her artist father, actor brother, playwright mother.” “That’s right, they were — the parents. Very glamorous sophisticated people,” and she says “You told me that too. How they opened you to things you’d never experienced before — way of life, way to live, martinis, fireplaces, roasted whole duck. Did she ask about me?” “Come to think of it, nothing particular — mostly friends we both knew, and my mother and brothers and sisters. But she said I seemed very happily married and asked your name and I think what you did. And the kids.” “Why do you think she called?” and I say “To renew our friendship, she said, because you know, besides being lovers we were good friends.” “Also, to see if you were still married, I’d say, or had ever got married, really,” and I say “No, she knew — she spoke to someone who told her of my teaching, so he must have mentioned my marriage.” “How long ago?” and I say “A few years, I think.” “Then maybe she thought you could be divorced, as I said, or in the process of getting one. Just, in other words, finding out where you were on those — if you were content in your marriage, even, for all we know.” “What do you mean?” and she says “After everything you’ve said about her, she could be a little sly one, and she might have recently been thinking of you. Because you were always in good shape, thought you might still be in good shape. Remembered your ardor, shall we say? your intellect, that you were good-looking and always loved kids and now have a secure job — tenure, she might have heard — and she has them, right, kids?” and I say “Two, teens,” and she says “Well then, that’s important, your loving kids, but could be I’m stretching things too far. But are you very happily married, as she said?” and I say “Don’t be silly, you know I am. Very. Mostly. Sure. What are you going on for?” “I don’t know. Sly old lover calls out of the blue after twenty-two years?” “No, she’s more sincere than that.” “Then sincere old lover calls, but probably a little bit wily too. I bet she doesn’t call you again — you make plans to meet?” “No, but she said something about getting together in a couple of weeks. She’s busy, something. She’d come down from New Haven — I told her I couldn’t go up.” “How’d you do that?” and I say “Young kids in school, I like to pick them up, and you’re very involved on your project, and I’ve lots of work to do too. And she wouldn’t come down just to see me but because she comes down periodically, on business — she owns, with some women, a pottery studio or shop. Teaches it, sells, probably exhibits — it’s what she was also interested in, besides acting.” “Well, I bet she never calls and I bet if you called her in two weeks she’d say she’s tied up and she’ll get back to you and never would and would hope you got the message. You’re not free; you’re not a possibility.” “One good thing to say about that is she’s not trying to steal me away from you.” “If she thought things weren’t going well with us, who knows? But let her. I wouldn’t do anything to stop it.” “You wouldn’t at least cry, for that sure as hell would get me running back? Or say to me if I walk out once I’m gone for good as far as you’re concerned?” “But that wouldn’t be the case. I’d put up with your leaving once, doing it to someone behind my back, having a sneaky sloppy affair while still living here. Twice, I don’t think so. But once, I’d probably let you back if someone didn’t come into my life in the meantime, not that there’d be much chance with two kids growing up and so many totally free much younger women around.” “A lot of men would like a mature beautiful woman with kids,” and she says “Beautiful mature twenty-three and beautiful mature forty-three are very different things. So, given the choice, who would — you?” “I did, though admittedly they were twenty-eight, thirty, thirty-three or so, but no older. And, true too, they each only had one kid. But two I don’t think would stop most men — I doubt it would have stopped me — and you look young and your body and mind are youthful.” “Even with the ones you lived with, young as they were, you didn’t stay with them long, and the one you did, you didn’t marry. You in fact told me a short time after we met that one of my attractions was that I was single and childless and of childbearing age.” “It had nothing to do with the children, I don’t think, why these women and I broke up. I wanted to change the pattern with you, as if my luck would change if I did. It was actually hard leaving these women, because of their kids. I ended up loving the children much more than I ever did them. Anyway, she’s not out after me — or wasn’t, before she called. She’s smart and knows that some of whatever it was that kept us from sticking together the first two rounds probably still exists. Our backgrounds, what we both think serious and so on. Too many differences, intellectual and otherwise. Acting. I mean, how could I have thought I could live the rest of my life with an actress, and she with a hermit who likes to work in a hole? She needed someone to really laugh and joke and go to a lot of movies and plays and socialize with, nothing I liked doing and apparently her last husband didn’t either, and she still seems that way. She’d be bored with me and I probably would in ways with her. The initial fleshy and bubbly attraction might still be there but that might be all. Maybe I’m wrong. Besides that, if I took up with someone now, though of course it’s never going to happen, I’d want to have a child by her, since I’m sure you’d take ours. I know, I know. I could see them almost every weekend and month in the summer and so on — holidays for a couple days and probably when it was more convenient to you than me — but it wouldn’t be enough. I’d want one around all the time.” “So, we’re not going to split up — okay. And you had a good conversation with her?” and I say “Very much. You know me, I’m terrible on the phone, almost afraid of it, and this one was easy and what I like best from it — plenty of info, several short bios, some laughs, lots of filling in. Except maybe it was an oversight on her part or some minor quirk not to ask more about you. I admit that. But now and then we all forget what we’re supposed to do in certain situations, even things we want to and have prepared ourselves for. The mind slips. I wouldn’t make anything more of it.”