Stephen Dixon: Long Made Short

We left the ocean and we were over cliffs and then the wind shifted and we were being carried north along the coast. We’d been up at almost the same distance from water and land for a long time and I still had no idea how to get down. Then along the coastal road I saw my wife driving our car. Daniel was in the front seat, his hand sticking out the window to feel the breeze. The plane must have reported in about the two people sucked out of the plane, and when Sylvia heard about it she immediately got in the car and started looking for us, thinking I’d be able to take care of things in the air and that the wind would carry us east.

“Look at them, sweetheart, Mommy and Daniel. He should stick his arm in; what he’s doing is dangerous.” She said “There aren’t any other cars around, so it can’t hurt him.” “But it should be a rule he always observes, just in case he forgets and sticks it out on a crowded highway. And a car could suddenly come the other way. People drive like maniacs on these deserted roads and if one got too close to him his arm could be torn off.” “But the car would be going the other way — wouldn’t it? — so on Mommy’s side, not his,” and I said “Well, the driver of another car going their way could suddenly lose his head and try and pass on the right and get too close to Daniel’s arm — Daniel,” I screamed, “put your arm back right now. This is Daddy talking.” His arm went back in. Sylvia stopped the car, got out and looked up and yelled “So there you are. Come back now, my darlings; you’ll get yourselves killed.” “Look at her worrying about us, Judith — that’s nice, right? — Don’t worry, Sylvia,” I screamed, “we’re doing just fine, flying. There’s no feeling like it in the world, we’re both quite safe, and once I figure out a way to get us down, we will. If we have to crash-land doing it, don’t worry about Judith — I’ll hold her up and take the whole brunt of it myself. But I think it’s going to be some distance from here, inland or on the coast, so you just go home now and maybe we’ll see you in time for dinner. But you’ll never be able to keep up with us the way this wind’s blowing, and I don’t know how to make us go slower.” “You sure you’ll be all right?” she yelled, and I said “I can hardly hear you anymore, but yes, I think I got everything under control.”

We flew on, I held her in my arm, kissed her head repeatedly, thinking if anything would stop her from worrying, that would. “You sure there’s nothing to worry about, Daddy? I mean about what you said to Mommy,” and I said “What are you doing, reading my mind? Yes, everything’s okay, I’m positive.” We continued flying, each with an arm out, and by the time night came we were still no closer to or farther away from the ground.

They’re sitting. “It’s wrong,” she says. He says “I know.” She stands, he does right after her. “It’s all wrong,” she says. “I know,” he says, “but what are we going to do about it?” She goes into the kitchen, he follows her. “It almost couldn’t be worse,” she says. “Between us — how could it be? I don’t see how.” “I agree,” he says, “and I’d like to change it from bad to better but I don’t know what to do.” She pours them coffee. She puts on water for coffee. She fills the kettle with water. She gets the kettle off the stove, shakes it, looks inside and sees there’s only a little water in it, turns on the faucet and fills the kettle halfway and then. And then? “Do you want milk, sugar?” she says. This after the water’s dripped through the grounds in the coffee maker, long after she said “I’m making myself coffee, you want some too?” He nodded. Now he says “You don’t know how I like it by now?” “Black,” she says. “Black as soot, black as ice. Black as the ace of spades, as the sky, a pearl, black as diamonds.” “Whatever,” he says, “whatever are you talking about?” “Just repeating something you once said. How you like your coffee.” “I said that? Those, I mean — I said any of them? Never. You know me. I don’t say stupid or foolish things, I try not to talk in clichés, I particularly dislike similes in my speech, and if I’m going to make a joke, I know beforehand it’s going to get a laugh. But to get back to the problem.” “The problem is this,” she says. “We’re two people, in one house, with only one child, and I’m not pregnant with a second. We have a master bedroom and one other bedroom, so one for us and one for the child. We have no room for guests. We have no guest room. The sofa’s not comfortable enough to sleep on and doesn’t pull out into a bed. We have no sleeping bag for one of us to sleep on the floor. I don’t want our boy to sleep in the master bed with one of us while the other sleeps in his bed. One of us has to go, is what I’m saying.” “I understand you,” he says. “The problem’s probably what you said. It is, let’s face it. One of us has to go because both of us can’t stay, and traditionally it’s been the man. But I don’t want to go, I’d hate it. Not so much to leave you but him. Not at all to leave you. I’m being honest. Don’t strike out against me for it, since it’s not something I’m saying just to hurt you.” “I wouldn’t,” she says. “I like honesty. And the feeling’s mutual, which I’m also not saying just to get back at you for what you said. But I’m not leaving the boy and traditionally the man is, in situations like this, supposed to, or simply has. We’ve seen it. Our friends, and friends of friends we’ve heard of, who have split up. The child traditionally stays with the woman. And it’s easier, isn’t it, for the one without the child to leave than the one who stays with it, and also ends up being a lot easier on the child. So I hope that’s the way it’ll turn out. I think we both agree on that or have at least agreed on it in our conversation just now.” “Our conversation, which is continuing,” he says. “Our conversation, which should conclude. It wouldn’t take you too long to pack, would it?” “You know me,” he says, “I never acquired much. Couple of dress shirts, two T-shirts, three pairs of socks, not counting the pair I’m wearing, three or four handkerchiefs, a tie. Two undershorts, including the one on me, pair of work pants in addition to the good pants I’ve on. Sports jacket to match the good pants, work jacket and coat, hat, muffler, boots, sneakers, the shoes I’m wearing, and that should be it. Belt, of course. Bathing suit and running shorts. Anything I leave behind — some books except the one I’m reading and will take — I can pick up some other time. The tie, in fact, I can probably leave here; I never use it.” “You might,” she says. “Anyway, it’s small enough to take and not use. Take everything so you’ll be done with it. So you’re off then? Need any help packing?” “For that amount of stuff? Nah. But one last time?” “What, one last time?” she says. “A kiss, a smooch, a feel, a hug, a little bit of pressing the old family flesh together, okay?” “You want to make me laugh? I’ll laugh. Cry? I’ll do that too. Which do you want me to do?” “Okey-doke, I got the message and was only kidding.” “Oh yes, for sure, only kidding, you.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” he says. “Oh you don’t know, for sure, oh yes, you bet.” “If you’re referring to that smooch talk, what I meant was I’d like to be with my child for a few minutes before I go. To hug, squeeze, kiss and explain that I’m not leaving him but you. That I’ll see him periodically, or really as much as I can — every other day if you’ll let me. You will let me, right?” “For the sake of him, of course, periodically. More coffee?” “No thanks,” he says. “Then may I go to my room while you have this final get-together with him? Not final; while you say good-by for now?” “Go on. I won’t steal him.”