Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

She didn’t say anything.

“It relates to what you said just before, just as what you said related to what my mother said when she told me she wouldn’t speak to me again at the table, nor would I be allowed to say anything or leave the table, till I finished my milk. You did get the idea about not speaking to me from that, didn’t you?”

Drank her coffee.

The coffee’s not as good reheated as when served fresh.”

Didn’t speak.

“Of course, that goes without saying, doesn’t it?”

Put down her cup.

“Anyone who drinks coffee knows it’s better when just made than when just reheated, or really when reheated anytime after it’s been made.”

Silence. Looked away from me.

That is, when they’re both served at a reasonable temperature. When they’re both served very hot or, for me, iced — not that I’d then see the reason for reheating it first — they’re both undrinkable, right?”

Looked at me. No expression.

“All of this said, of course, after I already said that it goes without saying that reheated coffee isn’t as good as fresh.”

Stood up.

“I was also thinking before about the first time we met. Do you remember where and when that was?”

Got a valise out of the coat closet and went into our bedroom. I followed her.

“Forget the when, then; just where?”

Began packing.

“It was in a movie house. The Embassy. Before the picture began, I sat down next to you, about halfway up the middle aisle, three or four seats in. About ten minutes into the movie, I had to go to the men’s room. I asked if you could save my seat for me, and do you remember what you said?”

Silence. More clothes. Went into the bathroom and came back with some of her toiletry to put in the valise.

“You said nothing, Louise. You put your finger over your lips, just as my sister and I used to do right after we’d said the same word or words at the exact same time, and went shhh to me. Do you remember that? Do you remember what I said to you after you did that?”

Closed the valise but couldn’t snap it shut. Opened it, pushed the obstructing sweater sleeve further in, and snapped it shut.

“I said ‘How can I ask you to save my seat without asking you to save my seat?’ Do you remember what your response was?”

Went into Rae Ann’s room. I followed her.

“Face a bit strained with anger, you went shhh to me again, which I’ve already said isn’t saying anything — it’s just making a sound. To save my seat, though I didn’t think this would work — it was really a last resort — I put my book on it, and when I got back I was relieved to see no one had taken my place. Do you remember when you first said any of what I’d consider real words to me?”

Got a knapsack out of the closet and started packing some of Rae Anne’s things.

“Outside the theater. It was a pleasant summer night, do you remember? July 6 th, a Tuesday, to be exact. After the movie, I’d got out of our row first, intentionally hung back for a few seconds and then followed you up the aisle. Admiring you, I admit. You probably didn’t know I was right behind you. Did you?”

Put her hand on her hip and looked straight at me.

“I stopped you in the lobby, not outside the theater, and said ‘Excuse me. I didn’t mean to be annoying before, as I think you thought I was. But every seat seemed to be taken and I had to go to the men’s room and didn’t know how to ask you to save my seat without actually asking you, which I know I’ve already told you inside the theater, other than for the men’s room part and that I thought every seat was taken.’ Do you remember that?”

Resumed packing.

“Then do you remember what you said right after I told you that?”

Went into the bathroom and got Rae Ann’s toothbrush and hairbrush and a few hair ties and threw these into the knapsack.

Then did you know my sole reason for stopping you in the lobby was to start some kind of conversation because I was attracted to you?”

Raised her eyebrows as if she’d forgotten something. Shook her head. Tied up the knapsack, put it over her shoulder, went to our bedroom, picked up her valise, snapped her fingers, dropped the valise, got some personal papers out of the top drawer of the dresser and put them into a knapsack pocket, picked up the valise and went to the front door. I followed her.

“All right. You give up. Or maybe you didn’t forget. Did you? Do you know what I’m still referring to? You said, after I stopped and spoke to you in the lobby, that you had been too engrossed in the movie to be bothered a single second by me in the theater or to try and save my seat. I said I was sorry. You accepted my apology. We continued to talk in the lobby. Then we went to a cafe nearby for coffee. I was the one who suggested it. Over coffee, I asked you out for dinner the next night. I don’t think you wanted to. It wasn’t because you had to be with Rae Ann. She was with her father for the summer. I in fact think I even had to work very hard to convince you to come to dinner. But the next night, when I was walking you to your building, we made a date for that Saturday. And then, for the rest of the summer, we saw each other almost every day. And after that summer, we saw each other several times a week, sometimes going on-weekend vacations together, a couple of times with Rae Ann. And the next summer, a month-long camping trip in Canada with that very knapsack. Then we rented this apartment together, and of course, except when either of us had to be out of the city, we saw each other every day. By the way, do you remember what kind of movie it was?”

Pointed to herself.

“Right. That kind. Silent. You can say it. I won’t bite you if you do. A revival of the best of the silent films, the movie theater billed the series as. We saw several others in the next month. But that day — that first time we met — no piano accompaniment, as there was supposed to be. Do you remember why?”

Opened the door.

“‘The pianist,’ the theater manager told the audience before the movie began—”

Left. I got my keys, locked the door and went downstairs. She was sitting on the building’s stoop.

“‘The pianist,’ the theater manager said, ‘broke his hand the previous day and they couldn’t find a replacement in time and, unfortunately,’ he said, ‘there are no silent movie piano pieces for solo right hand.’ Then he said ‘That wasn’t nice to say, for the pianist is still in great pain.’ Now is that a coincidence? The pianist’s hands were silent. The silent movie. The theater was silent during the movie except for sporadic coughs and cracking of candy wrappers and things, and of course me. That you originally said shush to me. That you now say we’ve nothing left to say to each other. That you refuse to say anything to me now. The coincidence factor ends, though, because the traffic is certainly noisy, as is the garbage-receiving contraption at the back of that sanitation truck, and noises from other places. That window being replaced. The plane, now, overhead. Even this mosquito near my ear and now yours,” and I swung at it and missed. “But the other coincidences are something to speak about, aren’t they?”

A car with Rae Ann and her father pulled up. I looked at my watch. Right on time: nine, when he brought her back every Monday morning after having her for the weekend. Rae Ann kissed him goodbye and got out of the car with her overnight bag. He waved to Louise, she smiled and waved back, and he drove off. Louise grabbed Rae Ann’s hand and they walked down the block, knapsack over her shoulder and valise in her other hand.

I walked after them. “Louise, I was lying before when I said I was thinking about how we first met. I didn’t think about it. I was only trying to use that as a guise. I thought that by mentioning it, you’d think wistfully about that night and even get a kick out of it, and agree to staying in the apartment with me.”