Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

Ray phoned his father a week later and said the two weeks were up.

“Yeah? So what do you want me to do?”

“Have Mrs. Longo pack your bags and drive you here so you can take over the bed.”

“Look, I don’t know if I’m ready to go there yet. Why don’t you fly back to California and let me work things out on my own.”

“If I leave now, I not only lose the deposit, which is a lot of money to me, but they’ll take the bed away from us also, and then where will we be? No place. It’ll take a month or two to find you another home or another place in this one. Believe me, if I had the strength, I’d come and get you and, if need be, carry you here myself.”

“You feeling sick?” his father said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Your voice. It’s weak. And this business about your strength.”

That was just a figure of speech. All I have is a little cold.”

“Give me another week. The extra time will do your cold good, and then I’ll be there to take over your bed.”

Ray didn’t tell him about Zysman and that he felt his death had in some way started the decline of his own health. He’d never seen a dead man before, not even in the army. He lost ten pounds in a week and, for unknown reasons to the staff and himself, wasn’t able to hold down any solids. And Mr. Lehman, the patient who now had Zysman’s bed, was screaming again, something he did half of every day and night, till Ray told himself he’d had it here for good. He threw off his covers, said “Let my dad find his own home if he wants, but I’m getting out,” and jumped off the bed, but crumpled to the floor. Nothing was going to stop him from leaving, though, and he stood up but his legs collapsed again, Spevack rang for an aide, who put Ray back to bed. At first Ray thought it was the flu. There was a bug going around the home, though he’d never heard of a flu that made his hands tremor and his up-till-then 20/20 vision so bad that he had to be fitted for thick corrective lenses. When the doctor made his rounds the next day, Ray asked if anything more serious than the flu could be making him feel so sick and weak.

“If you were forty years older,” the doctor said, “I’d tell you your illness was simply another common geriatric problem that someone your advanced age had to accept. But you’re 33, if your chart is correct. So all I can say is that your condition is caused by some minor, though unique fluke in your metabolism, and that it won’t be long before you’re feeling as healthy and vigorous as a man your age should.”

Few days later, the barber came around for the patients’ monthly haircuts. As he snipped Ray’s hair, he asked if he wanted any of the gray touched up.

“What gray hair? I’ve got as many as you’ve got fingers. Just finish the trim.”

“You patients here,” the barber said. “You’re all as vain as the high school Casanovas I cut,” and he held a mirror up to Ray’s hair. Not only was it partially gray on the sides and top, but it was thinning in spots and there were lines on his face that a fifty-year-old man didn’t have and his neck was beginning to sag. What the hell’s going on? he thought. Just a couple of months ago he was so youthful-looking that other teachers on the campus often mistook him for one of their students.

Every day after that, he studied the increasing changes in his face, hair and neck. And every day he phoned his father, who was less inclined than ever to go to the home.

“I’ve been getting these disappointing reports on you,” his father said, his voice more resonant than Ray had heard it in years. “From your Mr. Kramer, who says you’re an unruly patient and giving everyone there a hard time. That isn’t like you. Place getting you down?”

“I’ll say it is. Believe me, I’d be on the next plane to San Diego if it wasn’t for this damn flu.”

“Flu? Before it was just a cold. You got to take better care of yourself.”

“Flu, eye trouble, maybe the early signs of ulcers and a urological disorder — I’m not kidding you, Pop. But once I’m better, I’m getting the hell out of here, with or without my deposit, and then you’ll have to find your own nursing home.”

“Fine with me, because I’m feeling so good I think I might not need a home after all. Fact is, I’m feeling as good as I ever have in my life. Would you like me to visit you?”

“How? If you use up all your strength getting here, then make sure it’s when you’re coming to stay.”

His father came the next morning, looking better than Ray had seen him in ten years. He’d lost weight, his face was rugged and tan, he had an energetic gait, even his spirits seemed up, and with him was a very pretty young woman in her late twenties or so, whom he introduced to Ray as Ms. Amby Wonder.”

“Amby, meet Raymond.”

“How do you do?” she said, extending her hand. “Any friend of Barry’s is a friend of mine.”

“Friend? This is my son. Raymond Barrett — don’t you recall my saying?”

“Oh, yeah. Barry did mention you. So, pleased to meet you too, Raymond.”

“Who’s Barry?”

“Why, your Daddy, most certain. Barry for Barrett. Isn’t that what everyone calls him?”

“Who is this woman, Pop — your nurse?”

“You won’t believe this, Ray,” and he moved closer to the bed so Amby wouldn’t hear, “but she’s my girl.”

“You mean your daughter? Someone not from Momma?”

“Girl like in woman. You don’t understand?”

“I’ll tell you what I don’t understand? I’m looking at you and I almost don’t recognize you. You seem several inches taller than when I used to walk you to bed and tuck you in. You got a glow on your face you never had. And your clothes — right out of a stylish men’s shop. What’ve you been doing, taking rejuvenative pills?”

“Sure, why not? Great stuff, those — you want my doc to prescribe you some? Take two after rising and four before bedtime, and whoopee!” and he twirled around twice and squeezed Amby into his body.

“Pop, you’re embarrassing me,” Ray said, glancing at his roommates.

That’s one of your problems: too self-conscious. But listen, it’s not just the pills. It’s my new disposition. Mrs. Longo suggested I see a psychiatrist. I said ‘What, me, a shrink? — never.’ But she harped on it and to get her off my back I went, and in just five sessions he got me, straightened out fine. He said ‘Throw away your sadness and walker and get yourself a piece of ass,’ and that’s what I did. But you?”

“What about me?”

“Your scalp, for one thing.” He ran his hand through Ray’s hair.

“Even I got more than you.”

“It’s from the flu. But it’ll all grow back.”

“And that nice red color your hair used to have? That’ll grow back too?”

“I’ve been worrying a lot lately, and a little gray won’t kill me.”

“I still don’t like it. Ailments, balding, your face kind of sickly-looking. I think you should be in a real hospital. Want me to admit you into one?”

“I’ll be okay, I said. In a few days I’ll be up and out, and then it’s goodbye to New York forever.”

“I’m glad, because you can really use that warm California sun. As for Amby and me, we’ll be getting some sun also. In Antigua. If you’re really not feeling that sick, then we’ll be flying there tomorrow.”

“You crazy? Pills, psychiatrists or whatever therapies you’re on-they can’t keep you going forever. You’re committing suicide. You should take it easy — rest, like me.”

“Let him go to Antigua if he wants,” Amby said. “His doctors say he’s as healthy as a horse, and you should be happy to see him having fun.”

“Don’t give me that claptrap, young lady,” Ray said. “I don’t know how much dough you think he has and how much of it you’re planning to finagle out of him, but I think you should know first that he has a very serious heart condition.”