Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

That’s nothing unusual,” the woman says.

“At least we’re safe here. From the rain and muggers.”

“You’d be surprised. Only last week my purse was snatched on these steps. Fortunately, I don’t carry anything but duplicate cards anymore and a ten-dollar bill if they demand money. But right here. I yelled for Frank. But he was working the elevator because our regular man was in the men’s room.”

“One of those coincidences.”

That my purse was snatched and not some other tenant’s?”

That the elevator man was away and Frank wasn’t here to protect you.”

“My next-door neighbor, Mrs. Reeves, was threatened with a broken bottle right in front of Frank’s eyes.”

“No,” Jane says.

“She says no. A few months ago. He was on duty then. But this young girl slipped around him while he was tying his shoelaces and threatened her in the lobby.”

“A young girl?”

“No more than twelve, Mrs. Reeves said.”

“Twelve is the age I told her it can start,” I say.

“Twelve? Dr. Melnick — the professional office off the lobby? Three boys of about ten or so rang his bell and walked in and terrorized everyone in the waiting room and the doctor himself. They got in through the service entrance when no one was looking and snuck upstairs. Ten-year-olds. Kids.”

“Ten sounds pretty young for it,” I say. They were probably older.”

“Nobody bothered to ask them for their birth certificates. But the doctor’s an obstetrician, and he said one of them could even have been eight.”

“Not eight,” Jane says.

“Got your cab, Mrs. Fain,” Frank yells from the street. “Son of a B,” when it’s grabbed by someone else.

“You’re not fast enough,” she says. “But that was Dr. Melnick. They took a satchel of drugs, which turned out to be emetics. Much as I pity and think I understand the poor thieves, I hope they swallowed them all. And of course everyone’s money and wallets when they announced they had guns. Even a little girl’s purse with only buttons inside. And then raced past the doorman. But those are the youngest I know.”

“I thought around eleven would be the youngest,” I say.

“And remember, this is only in one building. And we usually have a doorman on duty. And the elevator man, porters, the super, the handyman — all kinds.”

“We only have two locks and a front door into the brownstone almost anyone can get in,” Jane says.

“That’s all? But there’s my cab. Nice talking.” She gets under Frank’s umbrella and he takes her to the cab.

“It’s let up a little,” I say. “Want to make a run for it?” I fold up the stroller, lift Jim, hold the stroller in my other hand, and we run home.

“It’s terrible,” Jane says, putting dry clothes on Jim. “But now that I’m here I can’t get that groan in the park out of my mind.”

“Well, stop about it. Because you were the one—”

“I know. And I know I stopped you from looking into it. I only hope that if a man really did groan, he’s safe in his home now and all right.”

I get her umbrella and put on my raincoat. “Don’t forget the water’s on.”

“Where are you going?”

“Ba-ba, da, ow?”

“You won’t forget the water? I don’t want it boiling over with the gas still on.”

The window’s open. You going to the park?”

“For a quick look. I’ll be very careful. I’ll take a hammer with me.”

“Fine. Show it to the mugger and he’ll be sure to use his own hammer or rock on you. That happens. Weapons are supposed to touch off corresponding weapons. That’s why the London bobbies — don’t go.”

Coat buttoned to the top. Galoshes, rainhat. “Have a hot toddy waiting for me.”

“You stupido.”

This may be the last time you’ll see me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means do you want those last words of yours to be your last to me?”

“Now you’re really talking stupid.”

“Right. Bye, sweethearts.” I kiss her cheek and feel Jim’s forehead.

“His cough’s worse but his nose is dry now.” She carries him into the kitchen. “Goodbye.” She doesn’t answer. I leave the apartment and walk to the park. I close the umbrella when I get to the park entrance, as it’s keeping me from walking fast. But why walk fast and lose my breath, if there is someone to run from? I open the umbrella.

I reach the part of the path where I heard the groan. Nobody’s around. It’s still pouring. “Hey, anybody in there who needs help? We were by here before and heard some noises. Hello?”

I close the umbrella and hold it by the spike. But if I have to swing it, it’ll probably open and throw me around, and it hasn’t the weight to come down hard. I leave it by the path and pick up a stick. It’s so rotted that half of it stays on the ground. A rock, then. But if I throw it I’ll miss, and carrying it I’m more likely to get a stick over my own head before I get close enough. I need something to knock something out of someone’s hand. If he’s got a gun, forget it. I’ll just drop what I have and run. A stick, a stick, but would I use it if forced? I’d have to, even if my built-in drawback is I’m not a natural attacker and never whacked any adult’s head with even an open hand. I find one. Two inches across. I break it with my foot to about three feet long, peel off the twigs and swing it around. Good size, right weight. I walk through the bushes. No one. I’ll check behind the bigger bushes and rocks. Only then I’ll be satisfied.

A man. Face down on the ground and hat flattened over his head. Pants pockets hanging out. Shoe off and sock rolled down that foot. I touch him, listen to his back. No sound or response. I don’t want to turn him over and possibly see his face smashed, body or face knifed. But how else will I know if he’s alive? And if he is? First yell for the police or help, and if nobody, then over-the-shoulder fireman’s carry, best way I know how. I shake his foot. “Hey, you, can you hear? I’m here to help.” I take his hat off. Left side’s okay. Eye is closed and lips are warm, but I can’t feel or hear his breath. “Listen. We’ll both take it slow. But I want you to know I’m not the person who did this to you, if that’s what’s keeping you so quiet.”

I’m trying to turn him over when I hear a noise behind me. It’s a man, leaning against a rock, opening an umbrella, foot on my stick. “You do that?”

“Him? I heard his groan before and came back. That’s my umbrella. What do you want?”

“Why do you say what do I want?”

“Because you’re just standing there. And this man could be dead. So if you’re fixed on robbing me as you might have done him, fine. I’d give what I have except I left my wallet home.”

“I didn’t rob him. Never saw him before. For all you know, he could be the one who did the man you heard groan.”

Then where’s the man who groaned?”

“Maybe in the lake. You look all over? The big tree over there? But enough. Give it here.”

“What?”

“‘What? What?’ Yours and the man’s wallet. Quick.”

“I told you.”

He flips the umbrella behind him and from somewhere produces a knife.

That’s great. For something I don’t have?”

“Quit stalling.”

He’s waving at me to give. I’ll jump backwards and run. I jump backwards and trip. He moves for me. I throw a rock at him and miss. Stupid thing to do.

A boulder’s behind my back. He lunges at me as I stand up. I feint right and he slits my coat and I think nicks my arm. I grab the hand holding the knife and wrestle with it. We kick, claw, knee, elbow and hook a foot around each other’s leg and fall over the man, who says “Huh?” On the ground I bite the guy’s ear but don’t want to bite through it as I should, when the lobe pops and he’s screaming and the knife drops. I’m spitting out his blood when I kick the knife away and go for the stick. He goes for the knife. I say “Don’t move.” “Eat it,” he says, and moves and sees my stick coming down and swats at it, and the stick breaks his wrist, or something breaks. He howls but still reaches for the knife. I swing at his head, but at the last instant, his shoulder or neck. He falls on his back and is moaning. I pick up the knife, try closing it, but there must be some trick to it, and I throw it into the woods. “Move once more and I’ll break your head in.”