Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

“I think it means ‘pleasing.’”

Then I was right. ‘Night is toothsome—’ I mean ‘day is toothsome,” looking back at the paper, ‘night is when I feel bloated because of the presence of him, day when I feel so light, airy and thin, day because he’s away, night because we fight, day because I fly, night because I cry, day and night, night and day and night, but I will have my baby despite him, I will love it every night, every day, come what may as the poets say, so good day, night; good morning, noon and night, day.’ You have the picture?”

“It’s a good poem. For a first draft, which it’d have to be, one of your best and maybe could even get published.”

“Don’t try to flatter me. The picture. You have it?”

“I do. But don’t say good night to me till after we make love.”

That’s both dumb, callous and horrible.”

“I said it wrong. What I was doing was taking off from your poem with that day and night business. And I wasn’t kidding and flattering you when I said it was a good poem. I meant it sincerely. I loved it. It expressed so much. It had feeling in it. Feeling which I haven’t been able to express in anything I’ve done or think or feel or whatever in weeks…in months. It had feeling, anyway. And that’s good.”

“What did you want to say?”

“Can we talk like a married couple who possibly still feel something for each other or at least where each is willing to listen to the other for a minute? Because I want to tell you something that’s even more than very important.”

“What?”

“Could you come over here and sit with me?”

“No, talk from there. What is it?”

“I want to have the baby. I was confused about it before. I thought it would complicate my life and ours together I didn’t know how much. It took some getting used to. Now I’m used to it. Please forgive me. I want us to be a great big beautiful family, okay?”

She’s been looking down, now she looks up at me. “Took a bit of drinking for you to say and feel all that.”

“Yes it did. Couple of inches.”

“Probably more than a couple. Probably a quarter of a bottle.”

“No, not that much, but I’m not drunk. I’m buzzing but not drunk. The feeling’s real, though. Will you please believe me?”

“Is it all right if I take a day or so to even start believing you?”

“Take all you want. Just don’t turn me out.”

“You’d have to leave on your own — I wouldn’t force you. I kind of need you to help me the next two and a half months, because things aren’t going to get any easier for me. And to help me out after, naturally.”

“Count on me. I’ll take care of you more than you can deal with. Now please come here?”

“You come over here. I’m the one who’s pregnant. And I want you to read my poem inside your head. Do that and then we might go to bed. Bed and head. I like that, don’t you? But I won’t put it into my poem. My poem’s done. I won’t change a word of it. I’ll even keep ‘toothsome’ in, even if it doesn’t mean pleasing.”

“It does, though. I’m almost positive about that.”

“Fine. What a natural instinct I have for words. I’m being facetious, of course. I stink as a poet.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t do it enough, that’s all. But when you do, they mostly work. That one was a gem.”

“Now you’re being sweet. Look at you — you’re acting like a sweetheart. I’m almost beginning to believe what you say about the baby. I’m almost tempted to go over to you in bed without you first coming here, but I won’t till you read my poem in my head. Not memorize it. Just read it once quietly to yourself. Come over.”

I get up and go to her. She holds out the sheet of paper. I take it and look at it. It’s blank. I turn it over. Other side’s blank too.

“Can you remember it?” I say. Because if you can or any part of it, you ought to quickly write it down.”

“I only want to be close to you now, is that enough?”

I put the paper on the desk, take her hands and stand her up. We hug.

“Oh, you big stiff, now it’s all right with you, huh?” and I nod that yes right now it is with me.

Started. I’m going. Really moving. No stopping me now. Look at me fly. Fly is to run. Faster than the sound of speed. Speedier than the fast of sound. Sounder than the speed of fast. I don’t know. I don’t care. Makes no dif what holds up. Just to be on my way. Just to stay on my way. Right to the very end. The top. I’m there. Stop. The end.

I’ve reached the end. Very nice here. It is. It isn’t. Plenty to do here. Nothing much. Nowhere to go but down. No fun. No sights. I sit. I stand. What to do? Let me see. I sit and stand and rest and sleep and stand and nap and eat and sit and stand and think what to do. What to do? I don’t like it much at this end. I’ll go back to where I began at the other end. Somewhere back there where I can do some other things and maybe go another way. But not just to stay right here. I go.

I’m heading back. Still in a rush. Places I’ve seen. Things I’ve done. All much the same. But all much different. Not bad going back. Seeing the same things from another way is what I meant. A long tunnel down, like. A long passageway down, like. Those are about the same. That’s all right. Everything’s all right. And maybe things have changed at the other end since I was last there.

I’m here. Back. At the other end. Hurray. Where I first began. It’s changed somewhat. Or I’ve changed somewhat. Or I’ve or it’s or both have changed a lot to somewhat. Could be. Don’t know for sure. But it has changed. Or I have. Don’t know for sure. Said that. Say something new. I can say I like it better here than at the other end. I can’t say I like it better here than at the other end. They’re both pretty much the same. So many things beginning to seem the same. Both places no place to go but the other way. Up or down. Back or back. Depending which end I’m at. I go.

Toward the other end. Places seen, things done. No longer the novelty of seeing it again coming from the other way. And still no better point to it all, it seems, than to reach the other end. I stand still. Maybe that’s the point. To see the same thing till it means something to me. But standing still I find is seeing the same thing till I get tired of it. And going slower than before is seeing the same thing only more of it. And going faster than before is passing the same thing only less of it. I’m bad at definitions. But haven’t time to clear them up. In a rush not so much to get to that other place but to pass through here.

I’m there. At the other end again. Seems the same. I’ll stay to see if it stays the same or if I’ll see things I’ve never seen before or in a way I’ve never seen. I stay. I sit. I stand. Still too much the same. It’s almost exactly the same. Maybe even more than almost exactly the same. It is the same. Other than for my staying longer than my last time here. I can go back. I can stay at any of the places in between ends. I can stay here. I choose none. But that’s choosing one. And I want to move. I choose movement, not a place. I jump up and down in place. That’s moving without moving. That’s being in the same place but not being in it. That’s seeing at different levels. It means a lot of things but ultimately nothing. I choose going back. I don’t choose, I just go back. Maybe there’ll be some place to pass through in between ends this time. You never know. I go.

On my way back. Still no place to pass through in between ends. Maybe that point’s past the last place where I can see it hasn’t changed. I pass that place and that, and that place hasn’t changed. Nothing’s changed. Maybe none of what’s to come has changed. Maybe only places I’ve just passed but can’t see from here have changed. I turn around.