Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

This is what I’ve been thinking,” I say.

“Yes, what?”

“Give me a chance to say it. It isn’t so easy. This is what I’ve been thinking. Though most people might say six months is too late in the pregnancy to abort or induce a — to get rid of the fetus; why beautify the words? — maybe there’s a doctor who thinks otherwise and we should try to get him. Then”—she puts her hands over her ears—“listen to me. Then, in two to three years, let’s say — when I’m feeling more up to making the big plunge and also sharing you with someone else, is what I mostly mean — we can try again, this time for real.”

“You finished?”

“Yes.”

She takes her hands off her ears. “Please get out of this room,” she says very calmly. “In fact, do it immediately or I’ll scream so loud that the neighbors will be banging on the walls and calling the police. I mean it — now!”

I don’t know if she means it, but I do it. I shut the door. I hear her crying behind it. But really crying. Those are loud sobs, the kind I’ve maybe only heard three times from her and make me want to run in and throw my arms around her and say “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll never say anything like that again.” But I go into the kitchen and pour myself another couple of inches and drop in some cubes and start drinking it before it’s even cold. I drink it down in less than a minute. I’m starting to feel a buzz. Tears come. Alcohol tears; I recognize them. They come when they wouldn’t have without the drinking. I feel awful about what I’ve done. I want to apologize but know if I try to go in now she’ll tell me to stay out, no matter what nice words I use. She’s that hurt and mad. She’ll say she doesn’t want to look at me again or be married to me anymore, and I wouldn’t blame her for saying anything like that. I really did want to have a child. I was happy when she first told me she was pregnant. I excitedly told everyone that we were going to have a baby. I loved her body when it first changed. Not just the bigger breasts and stomach, but also her nipples when they popped out a little and the circles around them changed. I loved our lovemaking when she was two and three months pregnant — the freedom of it. And later, after the third month, that she most of the times had to be on top since, when I was on top her belly hurt when I pressed into her. I loved accompanying her when she bought maternity clothes and things for the baby. Loved being on the subway or bus with her when she was visibly pregnant and asking some young kid if he’d mind giving her his seat. Loved that her appetite grew to almost as large as mine. Loved that at times she looked like a fertility goddess. Loved being extra solicitous to her and how appreciative she was. Loved thinking up names for the kid with her and talking about how we’d raise the child. How different we’d be than our folks were with us. All that — loved it, loved it — so why the change? Why not tell her once and for all that I want to go through with it and I won’t change my mind again? It’ll be nice having a child, I can say — nice, and fun. I’ll see so many new things about life, or at least remember lots of the old ones. I’ll have so many new things to talk about with her. Holding a child will be fun and nice. Playing with it — even feeding it — even cleaning it, though not fun, could be nice. Why shouldn’t it, once I get used to it, since it’ll bring such relief to the kid? So what if it’ll cost more than we can probably afford now to have a child and bring it up? So I won’t get all the work done that I want to because of the child. There’ll be all those other things and more to make up for it. And it’s wrong to back out now. So go in there and tell her just how wrong you know you’ve been. Tell her. Go on — go in.

I knock on the bedroom door. She doesn’t answer.

“Beth, please, it’s me, can I come in?” Doesn’t answer.

“Beth, you asleep? Listen, I’ve been thinking about the way I acted before and I’ve finally begun to understand some things about it and I want to talk about it with you.” No answer. “I’m going to open the door, then, and come in, okay? I won’t if you don’t want me to, but really have a good reason for it, because that’s how much I want to talk about it with you. Beth?” Nothing. “Okay, then I’m going to come in. After all, something could be wrong that you’re not answering, so I’m also coming in for that: to see that you’re all right.” No answer. “Okay, I’m coming in.”

I try the door. It’s locked. “Beth, you can’t lock the door on me.” No answer. “All right, I’ll give you time to think about what you’re doing, but think about this too. I’m very, very sorry. Put even another very on that. Sorry for making you cry and disappointing you in all sorts of ways. But most of all sorry for telling you I didn’t want the baby and wanted to quote unquote get rid of it. I want the baby now. I know how unfair I’ve been. It was unbelievably wrong of me, unbelievably, to first get excited over having it and then not wanting it for my own selfish reasons, which were stupid reasons too. I want it very much now and want us to be a wonderful family. You don’t have to answer any of that right away. I’m going to the kitchen, to make myself a little drink, so take your time in thinking about what I said.”

I go into the kitchen. I’m really feeling a buzz now. I should eat something or soon I’ll be spinning. I get cheese out of the refrigerator, also ice for my glass. I put some cheese on a piece of bread and eat it while I pour myself a couple more inches. I sip it, finish the cheese and bread, then drain the glass. I pour another. It’s stupid to drink like this. When I do, I just get sentimental. I’ll get so sentimental that I’ll tell her I want even more kids than one. Two more, even; three, tops. So what? Important thing now isn’t how much I believe what I say but to make her happy. To undo what I did. She won’t throw me out. She’ll accept my apology even if it’s a bit flawed. She almost has to. It’s to her advantage. She’ll be mad at me for days. Maybe one day. She’s good in that way. Then she’ll begin believing what I say, and that crisis in my life will be over. I know I’ll get to like having a kid. It’s natural, this worry over it. It could even end up with my loving it more than anything I’ve ever loved in my life. That’s what I should maybe tell her: “I know I’ll end up loving the kid more than anything in my life, or as much as I love you, but in a different way, of course.” That’s what she’ll like hearing. I even believe it, or at least feel I could. But I should tell her that before the booze makes me forget it. Through the door if I have to and extra loud to make sure she hears.

I finish the drink and am really feeling a buzz. I also feel sexy. I’d love for her to get on her knees so I can do it to her that way. That way, of all ways, seems to be the easiest for her, and it’s certainly a good way for me. I want to first hold her face to face. To tell her my thoughts about love and the baby and her and then I want to kiss her and have sex with her the way I want to.

I go back to the bedroom door. “Beth?” No answer. I knock. “Oh, just come in,” she says. “Door’s unlocked.”

“Beth, honey,” I say, opening the door. She’s sitting at the desk with a sheet of paper in front of her and pen in her hand, “I have something I think very important to tell you.”

“First I want to read you the poem I just wrote about us, you mind?”

“Sure, please do. Okay if I lie on the bed while you read?”

“Do what you want.” She holds the sheet of paper and reads.

“‘Night is a misfortune sometimes, day is a lifesaver sometimes, night he comes and lies, day he goes away, night is when I have to sleep next to him, day I can rest alone with the child, night is when he talks about death, day is when I sense my baby’s breath, night is gruesome, day is toothsome—’ What does toothsome mean? I wrote it down because it sounded right and sort of rhymed. I can always change it later.”