Stephen Dixon: What Is All This?: Uncollected Stories

“You know this creep Edith is supposedly in love with?”

“I am in love with him, no supposedly,” Edith says.

“Edith, let me talk to Walt. You’re in business, Walt. You know that a lawyer, even in court under oath, can’t divulge what a client’s told her. Especially not to the client’s contestant.”

“Her client, his contestant, party of the first tart, the second fart. Bull. Divulge. Bulge. Bilge. Reveal. God, you people are creeps. You ought to be her lover, not lawyer.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean? Little more of it and you’ll be hauled into court by me.”

“It was nothing. Silliness. Senselessness. Man in distress. You were about to suggest? Perhaps that I leave this house for a hotel, agree to the divorce proceedings and give in to everything and make your work easier than pie-eating, yes? Okay, I will. I did I do and now I will. But no big settlement in her favor, you hear? I’ll pay half the divorce costs and that’s it. Two kids in college and I’ll do my best to keep them there, but to only pay half. My share of the house and all its belongings I’ll give free and clear to the three of them, but let the kids work for the rest of their college costs if Edith can’t come up with it. It’ll do them good. You worked. I worked. Edith didn’t much but she’ll have to now.”

“Times have changed, Walt,” Miriam says.

“Why? Because schools are much more expensive now? So pay is a lot more also than in your day or mine.”

There aren’t that many available jobs for college students. That’s why they do unpaid internships.”

“Manure. Kids can always find work. Picking dead tree leaves out of pachysandra bushes or whatever pachysandra is. A ground covering. An herb. A friend of mine has a son who did that last month for four bucks an hour, imagine that?”

“Walt, I’m very busy. Appointments and meetings. We’ll talk about leaves and manure another time.”

“But I’m divulging the dog-eared ruth, Miriam, the ragtagged forsooth.”

“You are what?”

“Nothing. I’m crazy. Rather, feeling rather crazy today. Where’s the nearest lamp? There’s still one front window to blow out.”

“Walt?”

“He’s left the phone, Miriam. I think he went looking for a lamp. Here he is, unplugging one now. No, ripping it out of the wall. Hold it. I’ve got to stop him.”

She tries to stop me. I shove her to the floor. She jumps up and grabs the lamp by the cord while I hold it by the top. Tug, pull. “Walt, Edith,” I hear Miriam on the phone. Edith now has the lamp by the base. I drag the lamp to the phone with Edith pulling back at her end and say into the receiver “You don’t think I should do it, Miriam?”

“If you mean throw the lamp through the window, of course not.”

“Strangle Edith with the lamp cord, I mean.”

“Miriam, will you get someone here to restrain him?” Edith yells a few feet from the phone.

“Walt, I’m hanging up now and calling the police to get over there right away. Maybe Edith didn’t tell them how serious it is.”

“Too late. They’re here.” I hang up. The doorbell rings. “Go answer it, please. I’m bushed, and you invited them.”

“Only when you put the lamp down and promise to back off.”

“I promise.” I put it down. She goes to the door. I throw the lamp through the one front window left. Two cops come in with drawn guns. “Welcome, strangers.”

“He’s tearing up the house,” Edith says.

“We can see,” one of them says. “You want to relax a second, Mr. Wilkerson?”

“And your names, my friendly police?”

“I said to relax; now cool it.”

“I think I’m allowed to have your names. You’re in fact both supposed to be wearing name tags above your badges.”

That’s in the city, not here in the county.” They’ve put away their guns.

“You want me to relax and cool it, I want your names.”

“As you say. Allen and John.”

“You were born and went through life without cognomens?”

Those are our last. I’m Jim and he’s Russell.”

“Howdy, fellas. I’m Walt Wilkerson. I live here. I broke those three windows, as you must’ve heard. You at least heard the third being broke. Or created those three holes. No, the panes will have to be replaced, so they’ve more than holes; they’re broken for life. This is my wife, Edith. Show them the sunny side of your teeth, Edie. We were married twenty-one years ago, or are about a week shy of that anniversary date. Or maybe just I’m shy, but she’s not, for lately she’s had many dates and this month she’s taken up seriously with another man. Before then, just dates with others. Maybe six altogether. I can’t say she’s had those six altogether, though I’m sure in pairs and maybe even one as a trio they’ve been in the altogether. As you can see I’ve become quite torn up about it, which I’ve begun demonstrating by tearing up this house. But they were nothing-much affairs, the previous six. A night. Maybe two. A morning or three. A couple of summer weeks when she met them on the beach and. I could only come out weekends because I worked. We have two children who used to vacation with us when they were younger, Sue and Chuck. You can chuck Chuck and though I don’t think Suzie’s thinking of suing me, I’m sure her mother and brother are. Insufferable kid, Chuck, but Sue’s okay. Both are away in college and spending plenty of money and getting so-so grades. Neither thinks much of me and my work or have much to speak about with me, and though the feeling wasn’t mutual, it’s become so the last year. I’m naturally mad at what’s happened to me, or if you listen to my wife, just mad naturally. Mostly because she told me last night about the quick six and this recent heartthrob and that he’s the main reason she instituted the divorce. Now she’s going to try to institutionalize me. Hot flash: fat chance. Edith, dear, could you get these men coffee and cake while we talk?”

“I wish they’d just take you away.”

“I think I’ve a better solution,” Jim says. “How about if we try to settle the dispute without your having to press charges or our booking him at the station house and both of you going through the whole court scene?”

“I’m sorry, fellas. If pressing charges is the single best way of getting him out of here, that’s what I want to do.”

“I won’t go without a row,” I say.

“Don’t tempt us,” Russell says. “So far we’ve let you run off at the mouth and scare the daylights out of us with your third broken window there, and now we’re having a nice discussion. But don’t speak about making tough.”

“I know judo and other martial arts.”

“No, he doesn’t,” she says, “or never showed it. It’s true he was in the navy during some Asian war, although I thought it was the marines. An ensign.”

“Long time ago. Garbage barge. Skippered it around the bigger ships and smaller destroyers. But I was a lousy sailor. Bad sea legs. I also can’t stand to fight. The judo and stuff was just for mental discipline and body tone. I’m really a peaceful man experiencing a painful crisis. But if your wife suddenly told you she’s slept with six other men in the last year and in the last few months with one in particular and that she hates your guts and sight and said all this in the dark of your bedroom moments after you told her how much you still adore her and long to make love with her, I doubt either of you would have taken it any better than I.”

“I never married,” Russell says.

Then you, Jim.”

“I was. To be honest, splitting up was the next best thing that ever happened to my wife and me, the first being our brood.”

“You see, Walt?” she says. “If the marriage isn’t working out, why postpone the divorce?”