Stephen Dixon: What Is All This?: Uncollected Stories

Herbert bent down to tie his wife’s shoelaces, one hand and knee touching the pavement. A Fifth Avenue bus pulling out of a stop sent exhaust fumes in his direction. He held his breath, finished tying one of the shoes, and looking up saw her large body standing over him like an equestrian statue still draped with its unveiling cloth.

“I’d do it myself if I wasn’t so heavy,” she said.

“You’re not that heavy,” he said, and untied and tied the laces of the other shoe just in case.

“But you shouldn’t be doing that, Herb. It’s not a man’s job. I should lose weight; tie my own shoes.”

“Don’t be silly.” That was it. Both shoes tied neatly and tight. Maybe he should have tied double knots so he’d be sure they wouldn’t come loose. But then later at home, if she didn’t ask him to untie the laces while the shoes were on her feet, she’d make him take out the knots after she’d forced the shoes off her feet, and that always hurt his fingertips. It was a damn nuisance this bending, tying, retying, looking at her ugly scuffed shoes with the stockened big toe sticking out of the opening in front. It was almost the same style his mother and all her illiterate friends wore some fifty years ago. Now maybe if his wife wasn’t so heavy and her feet not so swollen most of the time, she’d be able to wear high heels like other women her age and begin to look like somebody. But what wishful thinking that was, and he stood up, spit into his hanky and rubbed it on his dirty hand, then folded it and carefully stuck it back into his coat’s breast pocket.

“So many people walk on Sunday it’s amazing,” she said.

“Not so amazing. We do it.”

“But on Sunday? I’m saying, everybody?”

“Sunday’s as good as any other day. Less crowded.”

“But so many people walking when no stores are open, I can’t see.”

“So they don’t spend money; that’s bad?”

“And what do you want them to do, die with every cent?” She looked at her shoes. “You know, I think you tied them too tight.”

“Why, it hurts?”

“I wouldn’t ask if they didn’t, Herb.”

“I thought I tied them loose enough. Though you should know what’s wrong with them. You’re wearing the things.”

“I’m not trying to pick an argument. I say they’re tight. I mean — I know, especially the right. Now will you please untie them some?”

He was glad he hadn’t double-knotted the laces. He started to bend down, his wife now breathing more heavily above him, but quickly straightened up and looked around.

Before, when she had asked him, he also looked, but just quick ones so she wouldn’t suspect anything. There were fewer people on the street then and nobody seemed to be looking his way. But now the street was more crowded and people seemed to be looking everywhere. They didn’t see anything interesting in front of them, they looked in the store windows. If nothing interesting was in the windows, they looked around the sidewalk. A man tying his wife’s shoelaces was interesting; untying them, even more so.

“Maybe I should stand here all day and get my feet swelled till they’re limp and blue, is that what you want?”

“No, of course not.”

Then what?”

“Try walking a little more. Maybe they’re not that tight.”

“Walk and get lame? You’d like that better? You got so much money where you can throw it into some doctor’s window?”

“Did I say that?” his voice almost a whisper.

His wife, apparently satisfied with his answer, dropped her scolding finger. A painful expression creased her nose. She looked suspiciously at her shoes and attempted to stand on her left foot. Her fat jiggled and her bosom heaved. She got her foot about three inches off the ground.

“You know, it’s really killing me,” she said to the back of his head.

“You tied them before like a madman.”

“What?” He was watching a group of schoolgirls, dressed nicely in sweaters and kneesocks and skirts, jump out of a cab, laugh and fumble over the change they each contributed to the fare, and cross the street. He still heard them laughing, one exceptionally pretty one with her long red hair like silk bouncing, as his wife pointed to her feet.

“I’m saying it hurts, Herb — do you hear?”

He’d stoop down. After all, she was his wife and he knew he had to get it over with eventually, so get it done now and that’d be that. But squatting down, his thighs spread apart, the first thing he did was feel his crotch. His pants were dry. He glanced at them and saw they weren’t stained with urine either, which was a good sign. Because lately he’d occasionally let himself go: just short spurts and not from any excitement or anything. It was only that something had gotten wrong inside him like so many other men his age got, and he sometimes couldn’t control himself. His wife knew about it, and when she wasn’t shouting at him for staining his pants so much, she’d be urging him to see a doctor who takes care of such things. But he’d hold off that visit a week or two longer to see if his trouble would go away by itself. He heard it sometimes did.

A young couple stopped a few feet away to look at the store window behind him. The Tailored Woman was what the store was called, and some very nice clothes and accessories it had also. He looked up at his wife’s breasts drooped massively over him. They never looked good when she tried stuffing them into one of her baggy dresses. Maybe in her skimpy nightgowns, when they swung back and forth, unstrapped and partly hidden, maybe then they looked best. But she should only have the figure to go into one of those dresses in the window. And he should only have the money to buy it. A real fortune they must cost. But say he did have the money — what good would it do? A laugh, that was the good it’d do, because she’d never lose an ounce. Money she could but weight never. He looked back at the couple. They were now watching a white sports car zoom downtown. Herb, his legs aching, rose and also watched the car as it screeched to a stop at the corner when the traffic light turned red. With that car the driver could have easily made it through the light, he thought. The car, waiting for the light to turn green, revved its motor and exploded two loud pops through its tailpipes. Then it switched gears, retched, bucked like a horse at the starting gate, and took off down the avenue, turning at 55 thStreet and disappearing.

“What is it, Herb? You’re interested in everything but me today.”

“I was looking at that white sports car.”

“Car? That was a car? That’s a toy car. It couldn’t fit three.”

“Maybe, but it looked nice and went fast.”

“Fast? Marilyn’s friend’s husband had one, and fast it went into a tree. Lucky he was insured and not hurt.”

“For someone who’s careless, any car could hit a tree.”

“You know him that well to say he’s careless? Anyway, can I change back the subject?”

“Huh?”

The shoes, Herb, the shoes. Because one minute more and I’ll be crippled for life.”

“Walk over to that water thing there.” He pointed to a polished bronze spigot attached to the outside of the store.

“Why?”

“Because you could put you foot up on it, which’d be easier for me.”

“You can do it right here. Come on, Herb — for me.”

What did she say this morning? “It’s a nice day”? “Such a beautiful day”? Some nonsense like that when she said they should take the subway to Columbus Circle, walk along Central Park South on the building side because that’s such a refined area, and then go to Rockefeller Plaza where all the pretty flowers are, and from there they’d maybe stop in for coffee and take the bus home. But once on the train she decided to get off at 59 thand Fifth instead, and now only two blocks they’ve walked and already she’s asked him twice to do her laces. By 55 thStreet she’ll say she’s dead tired, stop, complain, make him bend down and feel if one of her ankles is more swollen than the other, then tell him they should take the Fifth Avenue bus downtown now because her legs hurt real bad and they can just as easily see the store window displays and flowers from the bus. But an idea like hers he never should have listened to in the first place. He should really just hail a cab and ride away without her for once, which would serve her a good lesson. Besides, the Fifth Avenue bus doesn’t give free transfers crosstown where they’re going like the Lexington Avenue bus does, but try get her to walk the three short blocks to Lexington and she’d holler like he’s never heard. So today’s the last fall Sunday of the year that’ll be beautiful, as she said. But how did she know? The weatherman’s her uncle?