Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

“Change your last name back to mine,” he said a few days after my eighteenth birthday. “You’re of legal age now where you don’t need both parents’ consent,” and I said “I can’t.” “Why not? Come on, please, change your name back and I’ll give you anything you want within reason.” I said “I wish I could, just because I know how happy it’d make you, but with the other kids keeping the name we have now, it wouldn’t be a good idea. I want to have the same last name as them, and they all want to keep the name they’ve had for almost fifteen years.” He said “Look, what am I asking for? Just for one of my sons to carry my name — the two older girls will marry and get new ones — and I’d pay for all the legal costs involved,” and I said “Honestly, it’s just been too long.” “Ah,” he said, “you were always such a weak jerk. Get out of my sight.”

“You know, it sort of looks like spit in a way.”

“My God,” she said, “what does?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I was just thinking out loud.”

“No, really, what? I wasn’t being cynical. I’m interested.”

The rain driveling off the arch there. Also the way it smacks against the sidewalk.”

She looked at both places. The rain didn’t look like spit or anything close to it. But if he insisted…

“You’re right. It does resemble it.”

“Resemble what?”

“Oh, come off it, Peter — like what you said. Like spit, then, I suppose.”

“You couldn’t quite get the word out for a moment, could you.” He laughed in that ridiculing way he knew she disliked, half to himself and half aloud. But she wouldn’t let it upset her, since that was what he wanted. Then he’d have excuses.

“Well,” she said, “it’s never been one of my pet words. But I will go along with your description.”

He turned away and looked at the doorway’s granite arch, which had been shielding them from the rain the last five minutes.

Then, without meeting her eyes, he shifted his blank stare past her to a row of Georgian townhouses across the street, the slicing rain looking more now like snow or sleet than anything else. She wondered what he was thinking.

“What are you thinking, dear?” she said.

“Nothing much.”

“I hope you’re not angry with my remarks before, I was only trying to be accommodating.”

“And my most profound humble thanks to you, m’lady,” and he swept his arm in front of him and bowed low to her in mock gallantry. Straightening up, he said “Now what do you say we drop the subject and walk?”

“It’s still raining.”

“Just a ways — I promise. Then we’ll duck in someplace for coffee.”

“Now that’s the most intelligent idea you’ve had since you suggested lunch.”

He walked out from under the arch, and she followed him. The rain had let up a bit and the cloche hat she’d bought yesterday was all the protection she needed. But he was walking much too fast again — acting like a disgruntled schoolboy and not making any secret of wanting to lose her, though she wouldn’t let on she knew. She’d play his little games, have coffee and tolerate his moody silence and get him back to the hotel for a nap and later some cocktails and dinner and a show, and maybe by tomorrow, or the day after, she’d have convinced him he’d already tied up half the pewter imports to American so didn’t he think it was time they headed back to their children and home in New York?

“You don’t feel you’re walking too fast?” she said.

“Maybe it’s you who’s walking too slow.”

Then how about if we compromise? You go a little slower and I’ll do my best to stay even with you. I’m sure we can work out a delightful walking arrangement that way.”

He continued to walk fast.

“Now you’re not fooling anyone,” she said from behind. “I know you’re only doing it so you can get way from me.”

“Oh geez. So I’ll stop if you want,” and he stopped, giving her only enough time to get beside him before he set out again, this time walking so slowly that she was always a step or two in front of him.

There’s no end to your playful games today, is there?” she said, slowing down herself.

“No games. I just don’t like dragging my behind. I don’t know, for some reason I feel extremely energetic,” and he widened his stride till he was a good ten feet in front. She ran after him and tugged his arm till he stopped. “What?”

“If you don’t want me with you today, fine. But at least have the balls to tell me.”

“I certainly appreciate you’re harping on that again.”

“But you would rather be alone — I mean: right?”

“If that’s what you want me to say, okay.”

“You’d rather be with that woman friend you met on your last buying trip — isn’t that true too?”

“Again, if that’s what you want me to say, okay.”

“Stop mimicking yourself. You sound simpleminded.”

Then stop being a pain in the ass. Stop bugging me.”

“All I want is for you to say if you want to be alone. An honest yes or no. I’ll find something to do without you.”

“You really expect an answer to that? Because all your suspicions and assertions have been groundless since you first started up about this fictional beauty.”

“Sure they have. But ever since we landed in Ireland you’ve been beating the drums to get to London like some breathless Romeo.”

“Oh yeah, I can really see myself doing that.”

“Who is she, Peter?”

He stuck his palm out and squinted at the sky. “It’s stopped raining.”

Thank you for the weather report, but all right, when did you first meet her?”

“Who?”

“Just tell me. I’m no kid anymore. And I’d never ask if I felt I couldn’t accept the answer. I’ve been half expecting it for a couple of years.”

“Make sense: expecting what?”

“Hey. Why don’t we just separate for the afternoon right here? You could then do whatever you want without me and I could finish my shopping.”

“Knock it off, Cyn, I’m tired of it.”

“It’s for your benefit I’m making the suggestion.”

“And again, I appreciate it to no end. Your considerateness is an absolute wonder to me.”

“Yes,” she said, eyeing his composure and not as sure now. “Let’s see then.” She placed her hand on her chin. “You know, I really don’t know how many hours I should give you — for the truth now: how long does a man need to make love to a woman he hasn’t seen in four months.”

“Four months.”

“With me you hardly take four minutes these days.”

“I do my best.”

“Your best — but never mind. Tell me, did you drag us around this wet neighborhood because she happens to live here? I’m not complaining about the choice, mind you, because it’s a lovely part. London can be so pretty, and so clean.”

He looked away from her to a few cars passing.

“Well, then is her apartment done up Modern? Neo-Victorian? Old Depression? No furniture at all? Poor dear, and quite an inconvenience for the two of you, but maybe you can fix that. All right, if the topic fails to interest you, then just tell me what color hair she has. Women are curious about such things. It’s probably a well-brushed mousy brown, although you’ve always preferred real blond — long and artsy-like and casually billowing over the shoulders like those California college girls you said you used to flip over so much and who never gave you a tumble.”

He continued to look at the street, then at his shoes, then at her new suede walking shoes, the soles caked with mud because the storm had opened up on them while they sat reading in a little park nearby.