Stephen Dixon - Gould

So it could have been that small thin bony body that had as much to do as anything in keeping them together, that’s what he now thinks. Ninety-six pounds, sometimes up to ninety-eight, but evenly distributed, nicely proportioned, and muscular from the waist down. That he could lift her body up as he would a kid’s, hold it in the air by the buttocks and thighs and set it down on top of him, the few times she let them do it in that position, turn it around even when he was on his back and she was completely off the ground, lift it up and down on him repeatedly and without her moving on her own once till they came and if she did first, then still bob her up and down till he came, and if he did first, then he couldn’t go on and she bounced up and down on him but it didn’t work and after he flopped out she complained, but his arms hardly getting tired during any of it, and it wasn’t that he was a strong guy, though his shoulders were pretty big. Also that her body was so limber, hard and quick. Meaning, what he liked about it. And what she wore in the bedroom sometimes — he’s saying what also got him excited: sheerest of outfits, tiniest of briefs, rarely any socks, stockings or bra and never a watch, and all he had to do was see the small line of pubic hair on top — was she lying when she said she never razored it to get it that way? He didn’t think so, since she also said she wished it was bushier so at least in that area she didn’t look like a pubey girl — and he’d make a move. He also liked picking her up, cradling her in his arms and carrying her to bed that way or to a chair or wherever they’d do it, once on a covered toilet seat, she sitting facing him and flushing the toilet when she started making noises or before she sat on him would turn the sink faucet on and let it run, because her son was playing in his room down the hall. And he never had to suggest twice that they make love. He’d raise an eyebrow a certain way — cock it like a fop; she knew the signal — or would only have to say “So, what do you say?” or give a particular smile, more like a dumb grin, that only meant one thing to them and she usually said “Sure, I’m game, give me a minute,” or “I’m ready, are you?” for he mostly said it or gave these signs when he thought she’d be interested, since she often gave little hints herself: smile more seductive than her others, brushing past him making sure their hips touched when it was obvious she could have more easily gone around — and she’d whip all her clothes off, sometimes letting the underpants dangle on the end of her raised foot before she flipped it into the air and caught it, get under the covers and pull them down on his side, maybe plump his pillow in the middle, say “How much time we have?” if it was before he was going to work or they had people coming over or one of them had to pick up her son at nursery or he was returning from school on the bus or expected back soon from a friend’s home.

She used to say that most of the jokes he made were coarse, foolish and old or just made no sense but certainly weren’t funny except perhaps to an immature twelve-year-old boy who also wasn’t too bright, which was why she seldom laughed at them. That most of the books he read were written not to be read but only to be written about they were so obscure, pedantic, longwinded and dull. That all his tedious hard work at the typewriter was going to go for nothing because he wrote about people he hadn’t the clearest idea of, like what went on in their heads or how they felt or what their jobs or home life or history were about, besides that she was sick of him stinking up her sewing room all day with his body sweat when he typed. That almost all the so-called suggestions and advice he gave her son were the opposite of what she wanted the boy to know or do. That he was the worst driver she’d ever seen and every time she got in a car with him she took her life in her hands as well as her son’s if she was dumb or desperate enough to bring him with them. That he ought to grow a mustache to make his bland face more interesting, and when he did, that he should grow a beard to wipe out the devastating effects of the mustache, because he now looked a little like Hitler or Groucho Marx or someone else she didn’t like — anyway, awful, much worse than before and she was sorry she first encouraged him to grow it and now that he’d got to like that bush. That he was getting a big pot belly and also seemed out of breath half the time and he ought to run or exercise more and also dance a lot if he didn’t want to keep looking ten years older than he was and ridiculous in pants and shirts that were now four sizes too small for him. That he had to find a better-paying job or just two of the same-paying ones if he wanted to continue living with them, because she just couldn’t take any more, always being so close to broke. That the only thing he was really good for now was sex and more sex and that for sure wasn’t enough for what she wanted in a man and in fact was probably the easiest thing for her to find. That she did appreciate that he’d been there for her son at a time when he most needed a man and for the music he listened to sometimes that she occasionally liked and the dishes he’d concocted and introduced her to, like a simple vinaigrette dressing and slicing up raw mushrooms into the salad and beef Strogonoff and that vegetable curry with all the extras, things she never knew existed not that she couldn’t have lived without them. That he was a terrible baby sometimes, jumping back when a mouse darted across the room and being too afraid to chase after it with a broom, not jogging through certain streets because dogs there once ran after him and snarled. That he drank too much, talked too much and was so damn opinionated, as if nobody on the West Coast ever had a brainy idea but him or did anything with any taste, and he wore clothes that were completely wrong for this area and climate, railed against petty things that other people would just say “That’s life, what can you do?” to and swallow. Talked and made noises in his sleep to the point where she wanted to wear earplugs when she went to bed, but if she did who’d hear Brons if there was some kind of emergency and he needed them, since he also slept as if nothing in the world could awake him. His voice and choice of phrases and words sometimes were so vedy English that he sounded like the classic closet pansy. All the coffee he spilled on her rugs that he’d never in a year have the money to get professionally cleaned. His smelly bowel movements, the urine drops he left on the toilet seat, his body and head hair all over the bathroom floor and stuck in the shower soap. Why’d he stay with her for years? he thought. Why didn’t he leave after a few months or go those times she asked him to rather than cajole her to let him stay? She was right, a little into their relationship, when she said he only continued to live with her and claim he loved her and wanted to marry her because of her son. He took Brons to nursery most times, picked him up whenever he could too, had snacks with him after, made him lunch every day for school, got him up for school and made him breakfast while she slept and stayed with him at the corner till the school bus came, helped him with his spelling words for the weekly first-grade spelling tests, read books or told stories to him almost every night, played board games or cards with him when he was too tired to and wanted only to lie on his bed and read a book or had important other work to do but just because the boy asked him to. Did whatever he could for Brons. It was true the kid had him around his little finger, as Evangeline liked to say, but he didn’t think he ever did anything that was wrong or bad for him. Spoiled him, Evangeline said, but so much that Brons might never be the same after Gould finally left, because no one would ever give in to him that way again. Sat with him and the humidifier under a makeshift tent on the bed when Brons had a bad respiratory infection and trouble breathing. Spent the night on a mattress on the floor in Brons’s hospital room when he had his tonsils removed. Hoisted him onto his shoulders, hoisted him onto his back, ran or bounced around with him like that, the two of them pretending they were all sorts of things, cowboy on a bucking bronco, desert warrior on a camel, Bellerophon on Pegasus when he killed the Chimera, but mostly knight errant on his obedient horse, till they both dropped. Stayed by his bed most nights till Brons was very sleepy or asleep and a couple of times said to him because he liked to hear the answer to it—“Tell me,” “Tell you what?” “You know, what I am to you,” “You’re in my head forever and wherever and ever, so help my heart.”