Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

“But you won’t be getting in till four or five in the morning,” she said. That’s why I’m concerned.”

That’s not so late for me. Sometimes when I get through cleaning and setting up at the deli and then having breakfast someplace with the other waiters, I also don’t get home till four or five. By the way, you must be tired, sweetheart, so I think we better go before they kick us out.” He opened the closet door to get his coat. Sylvia, with one eye on her father, mouthed to Hank that the least he could do was have a celebration drink with him before going to dinner, but Hank pointed to his watch, flapped his hand to tell her to forget the matter, then sliced the hand sideways through the air to say the incident was closed.

When Mr. Hyman had put on his heavy overcoat, he said “You know, I didn’t sleep coming here on the bus I was so excited, but going back? Like a log I’ll sleep.”

“You’re lucky,” Hank said. “I could never do that.”

“It’s something you almost got to be born with, I think. He kissed Sylvia’s forehead, patted her hand as he told her how happy she had made him today, and said to Hank “I’ll go downstairs and wait for you in the coffee shop, okay?”

“I won’t have time for a coffee, Dad — I’m sorry. I’m much too late as it is.”

“One coffee, what’s that? It’s the least I can do for you.”

“Have a good trip back,” Sylvia said. “And remember. Soon as we set things up in the apartment with the baby, we’ll have you down for a weekend, all right?”

“And I’ll bring him a little something that’ll knock your eyes out when I come. Something just beautiful,” and he blew a kiss to her and left the room. He walked down the corridor, feeling tired for the first time since he got to Washington, and stopped at the nursery. All the shades were down. Without bending down, he tried looking under the shade of the window his grandson was behind, but couldn’t see anything but a small section of the floor. Then he saw a woman’s white shoes, another pair of shoes and white stockings, and for a moment the bottom of a white uniform when the first woman came nearer. He tapped the window, thinking maybe they’d raise the shade so he could have a last quick look at his grandson, but neither of them did.

“For a moment there I really thought I was lost,” Hank said.

The least you could’ve agreed to was a coffee with him,” Sylvia said. “After all.”

“He’s down there now waiting for me, so I still have that problem to contend with.”

“But coffee, Hank. Because how long would that take?”

“Too long. You know your old man’s not one to let go with just one coffee. But that’s still not my reason. If I had the time, I’d do it.”

“Oh, well,” she said, brightening up. “Tell Lucille all about everything, and that tomorrow’s my last full day here and I’ll be able to get calls and have as many visitors as I want. Did she say what she’s serving tonight?”

“Whatever it is, you can be sure it’ll be cold.”

“Not Lucille.” She took a candy out of the box. “You know,” waving it in front of her, “you really get to miss these things when you know you can’t have them.”

“Candy never made that much difference to me.”

“Me, neither. That’s what I mean.”

He motioned with his head to the other bed, which had a rolled-up mattress on it. “When they going to fill up that thing?”

“Tomorrow, they tell me.”

“It’s nice here like it is. Like a private room, almost, though without paying for one.”

“But there’s enough noise on this floor for an entire girls’ dorm. I think I’m going to hate it here by tomorrow.”

“You’ll be home in two days, so don’t worry.” He leaned over and kissed her lips. When he started to raise his head, her arm, still wrapped around his neck, drew him down again.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she said, pecking his mouth.

“It sure is.”

“I mean, the whole thing, Hank. Everything.”

“I’m telling you, honey, if you were a man I’d give you a cigar. And the best too — not those cheap things other new fathers give out — because that’s how happy I feel. Practically every guy I met got one. Gave out almost a box today.”

“Do you like the name Gavin?”

“We picked it out, didn’t we? Goes well: Gavin Riner.”

“Have you thought more about a middle name?”

“Maybe he shouldn’t have one — not every kid does. Maybe we should just give him a middle initial and leave it at that.”

Then everybody would ask what it stood for. No. Besides which, I never heard it done that way.”

“I was only kidding, Syl. Just a joke.”

“Oh.” She smiled. “But think of a few tonight, okay? And I will too.”

“Right — and now I think I better go.” He reached for his coat in the closet. “Christ, I bet Lucille and Dave will be fuming.”

“Not on your life, they won’t.” When he looked as if he didn’t understand her, she pointed to her belly: The baby, dummy, the baby.”

He leaned across the bed while inserting his arms in the coat sleeves and kissed her on the lips with a sticky smack. Then he drum-tapped his fingers along the table till they reached the candy box, and moved his index finger across and down the chart. Finding what he wanted, he pulled out a chocolate and bit into it. She nudged him to show it to her, and he held up the part he hadn’t eaten. It was coconut filled.

“Dad?” Andy said. “Dad, you asleep?”

His father’s eyes opened. He weakly shook his head that he wasn’t asleep.

“How do you feel tonight? — Dad, you hear me? I’m asking how you feel.”

His father was on his side, cheek pressed against his shiny hands, which were clasped together on the pillow. Three other Parkinson’s patients shared the room. The one next to his father was completely bald and bony and looked cadaverous, his mouth hanging wide open and his hands grasping for imaginary hornets and other wasps above his head and on his face and pillow. “Get that one,” the man said. “Get that yellow jacket or I can’t sleep, I won’t.” Then he was quiet, his mouth — a hole — still open, eyes shut tight, his teeth in an uncapped paper coffee container on the side table.

“You shouldn’t be in this room,” Andy said to his father.

His father’s frozen stare moved slowly to a glass of flowers on his side table, which the hospital’s women volunteer group had brought over during the day with a get-well card.

They’re pretty, aren’t they,” Andy said.

His father nodded.

“I would’ve brought some myself, and much bigger ones also. But remember last time when they couldn’t find a vase in time and the damn things just died?”

His father tried to smile but gave up and shut his eyes.

“You want to sleep some more? That it? Well, you just sleep, go ahead, and I’ll get a chair here and relax a little while you’re napping. I don’t mind.”

“Every time…every time…every time…”

“Every time what?”

“My mind…my mind…my mind every time…every time…”

“I still don’t get it, Pop. You’ll have to make more sense.”

His father shook his head in disgust.

“Something about how you feel?”

He continued to shake his head.

“Maybe you want the nurse. Do you want the nurse? If you do, just say so and I’ll run straight out of here and get her for you.”

He shook his head, his expression even more disgusted.

“You don’t? Well, then maybe—”

“My mind…my mind…goddamnit, I’m incomprehensible, Andy.”

“Don’t worry about it. Because look at you, with your sudden rage and articulateness. You’re getting better, can’t you see? You’ll be back to your old grouchy self in no time. And ‘incomprehensible’? A word I never heard you use before, except to repeat it mockingly whenever I used it.”