Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

“You were also always a big one for the soapbox, if I remember. Even in college; always the big speech.”

“No, you’re not catching my point, Miriam.”

“Oh, I catch on. I haven’t been asleep these past ten years. But one would think that during this time you might have changed. But you still have to beat the old drum.”

“I’m not beating an old drum. I was simply saying—”

“And that you might have learned some tact. Because to call up an old friend and insult her husband as if he were a first-class hypocrite and schemer, well, uh-uh, I’m sorry, that’s not showing much tact. That’s not using much brains, either, if I can say so without you jumping down my throat.”

“I’m not jumping down anyone’s throat — especially not yours. I happen to like your throat, just as I liked your teeth. Truth is, I once even loved your throat. I’d never try to hurt you — and I didn’t intend to insult your husband. I’m not even sure I did, but let’s drop it.”

“Why don’t we.”

There was a long silence before he said “Miriam, Miriam, you still there?”

“Yes. And I have to go now, Arnie. The baby—”

“You have a baby. When I spoke to Gladys—”

“It’s not mine; it’s the child of a friend in the building. I’ll have one, though. We’re working on it.”

“I’m sure you will. And then it’s been good speaking to you, Miriam.”

“A little rough at times, but I’m glad we can still say it was nice after all.”

“Don’t be silly. And also — Well, it might sound asinine to suggest we meet for lunch one time this week, but I will be around for that long. And it’s what I originally called for.”

“It’s probably not a good idea right now, so maybe another time.”

“A quick coffee then. Just for a half hour or so, and if not at a shop then perhaps I can even come up to your place. It’d be interesting seeing you again, and then these scenes of ancient college boyfriends popping up after so many years have almost become proverbial in books and movies by now. You know, where the husband just stands aside while these two sort of conspire in their talk about those dreamy goofy college days. And then the husband having a fat laugh about it with his wife when the silly old beau goes.”

“Not a good idea, really. I’ve never been much for conspiracies. Call up again when I’m less hassled by work and getting a new apartment furnished, and I’m sure we can spend some time together. I love talking over old times with good friends.”

“So do I.”

He said goodbye, but she didn’t hear him; her receiver had already been recradled. He bought a newspaper and walked the twenty blocks to Penn Station, since he had more than an hour to kill. About fifteen minutes before the train was scheduled to leave for Trenton and his sister and two nieces waiting on the platform for him, all eager to see him after his two years away and planning a family party tonight to celebrate his return before he went abroad again, he rushed out of the club car and called Miriam.

“Hello? Hello? Hello?” she said, and after her fifth hello, hung up.

He called back a minute later and the woman who answered said in a stiff Operator’s voice that the telephone he dialed was no longer a working number. The next time he called it was a thick rolling Bavarian voice that answered, saying “Isolde’s Fine German Pasty Shop, dis is Isolde speaking, vould you like to place an order to go to hell?” He said “No, thanks, I guess not,” and hung up.

The badly decomposed body of an unidentified man was found floating in Billowy Bay off Motorboro Airport at 4:15 p.m., Tuesday, by a Port Authority police officer.”

So?

Know who it is?

How could I?

Jackie.

Jackie?

Jackie Schmidt. Floating in Billowy Bay. What’s that, a little article?

Under “Area News.”

And you can tell who it is just by reading this little thing in the paper?

I’d known he was thrown in there. First shot, then thrown.

Does it say anything about the guy being shot?

Doesn’t have to. I know.

But if he was shot, wouldn’t they also say it?

They haven’t found out where yet, but they will.

And there can’t be another unidentified man thrown in the same day? Of course not.

It doesn’t have to be the same day. It takes time to get decomposed. In fact, it couldn’t’ve been the same day.

How long you think it takes?

Days. Maybe two weeks. Badly decomposed, three. That’s when they threw Jackie in. Shot, took his clothes off, boom, in the water. Today’s Wednesday? Then three weeks today. It’s him.

So what are we going to do about it?

Nothing. It’s done. Jackie’s dead. I knew about it. Now I read about it, I was only telling you, thinking maybe you knew, and if you did, then who from? And if you didn’t, that you’d probably be interested to hear.

You mind my making an anonymous call to this paper so his wife could know?

Jackie not coming home for three weeks, she knows. So will everyone in time.

How? He’s unidentified and decomposed. And no clothes you say? Nothing at all?

Stripped clean. Wristwatch. Socks. Even his gold star.

I don’t know why they didn’t say “naked” or “nude” in the newspaper, but all right. Did he also have no fingerprints on when you people threw him in?

I didn’t throw anybody in. Neither do I know who did. I just know some people who know who did and why and how. Gambling debts. But in bad, and loans. Worse. Taking on more big debts with another group and not paying off the first one a dime before he went in deeper, and then telling both groups to go eat it. Now if he’d just been in deep with the first group and told them to eat it, they would’ve only broken his arm. But taking on two big debts way over his head and telling them both to eat it and then going to another city to take on a third, well, that got to be too much. The first two met, and with the third’s approval, elected to dump him. As for his fingerprints, I guess not. Why bother, for they’d also have to kick out all his teeth and fill in his chin cleft and scars. Besides, they didn’t want to make it impossible to identify him.

Then you’ll have to explain to me, because I’m still fairly new at this. Why only take off his clothes and go part way with the unidentification, when they know Jackie has a record and will eventually be indentified? Time to give them a cover or get the people who did it away?

No. They thought it’d be a good lesson to whoever might think he can beat out on two big debts to two vaguely related groups and to tell them both to eat it besides.

But how are these people who are supposed to get the lesson supposed to find out it’s a lesson and also one meant for them? By reading of an unidentified decomposed man found floating in the bay who could’ve got there through a long sleepwalk? How did the groups even know it was going to make the paper, nothing as that article was? And if it did, that it’d even be read?

Whisper and word started getting around a month ago. “Jackie’s betting heavy. Jackie’s welshing. Jackie’s in very steep. Jackie won’t cough up a note for them and told them both to eat it raw. Jackie could get a jaw broken, talking and acting that way. If anyone’s a pal of Jackie’s, give him the word? Jackie’s missing. Hey, anybody seen Jackie or heard from him the last few days?” Then, body found. “Hmm, bay you say? Isn’t that where they usually drop guys that welsh big-time?” Tomorrow or the next day we’ll read he’d been shot with a small caliber bullet so close and clean that it almost got lost behind the back hairs of his head. Everybody will know by now who it is and what for. As for the newspaper — if it hadn’t gotten in, somebody would’ve informed them. What’s really important, though, is that the people this lesson’s directed to get to know it slowly till it sinks in.