Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

“No.”

“Good.” Silence. Warren wanted to end it in some way, to speak of something interesting that had happened to him the last few days, but he couldn’t think of anything that his father wouldn’t get angry at or think too dumb to even be worth talking about. He heard him light a cigarette — that snap-snap-snap of his old silver army regiment lighter he’d said was almost no use to him for all the trouble it gave but which he’d never give up because of the great memories it brought back. Warren felt rescued when his mother came out of the bathroom. She was in a bathrobe and had a towel around her head.

“He’s three thousand miles away,” he said, handing her the receiver.

“In San Francisco.”

“Ken?” she said.

“I’m fine and dandy, thanks, and you?”

“Oh, just wonderful. Never better. Where are you?”

“San Francisco. Didn’t Warren just tell you?”

That where you headed the morning you snuck out, or did you make a stop in Vegas first?”

“Who snuck out where? And why would I go to Vegas? I put some duds in my bag and sort of stole out of the room so you wouldn’t wake up. Considerate, in my abstract silent way, you can say.”

“Listen, did you call to be the funnyman or tell me your travel plans, or what?”

“I called — and notice how serious my voice is now — to find out how you are, and of course Warren too. And then, when I get the true picture of our latest falling-out, and also the business side of my trip out of the way, I thought I could better make up my mind about the whole thing.”

“What do you mean true picture ?” She looked at Warren, who was sprawled on the bed, listening to her part of the conversation and whatever he could pick up from his dad’s.

“Excuse me, Ken. Warren, could you leave the room?”

“What for?”

“Don’t give me the ‘what for.’ Just do as I say.”

He shrugged, as if her last words had sounded more reasonable, and shut the door behind him.

“Warren was listening,” she said. “It isn’t good for him — learning all about our difficulties this way.”

“Don’t worry so much about him. He’s capable of accepting these things much better than you think.”

That still doesn’t make it right. Jesus, he’s only eight.”

Then maybe it’s inevitable that he knows. And maybe, also, if you’d listen a little more closely like him—”

“All right, what is it you really called to say?”

“Part, I told you. Also, that I probably wouldn’t’ve rushed out like that or even be here, for that matter — because the business could’ve waited — if it wasn’t for you. You know, in the things you do that burn me up so much and what you say and all.”

“Come off it.”

There you go again — you see? I knew this call wouldn’t be worth a plug nickel for all I’d get out of it.”

“Because you’re not making sense, that’s why. If you used your brains first before you said something, you’d get somewhere.”

“And somewhere I haven’t got by using my brains?”

“I’m talking about the phone.”

That nice apartment and car and all your clothes and your fur piece and my job and your forty to fifty pairs of slacks and everything else I got just by sitting around on my ass?”

“You know I wasn’t referring to your work…or that you’re not a good provider. You are. That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s pretty clear what you meant. But look, I called up with a nice gesture — to make things right. But if you have other ideas…I’m saying, if you don’t want things right again, or you don’t think things can ever work out between us again after that last fight, then fine. That’s just fine. That’s really fine and dandy with me.”

“Oh, stop with all this defensive nonsense why you called. I’ll tell you once and for all why you called and save you the trouble. First of all—”

“Now cut it right there, Bobbie, I’m warning you.”

“You’re warning me what? Reason number one is you want me to apologize for our last battle as I’ve always done in the past, right?”

“Wrong. I called because—”

“Reason two is—”

“Will you give me a chance to speak?”

“—after I get you off the hook by saying it was my fault and I want you to come home, you’ll want me to phone your mother — just so the dear woman should worry none, know what I mean? — and tell her everything’s hunky-dory between us again, as I finally realized, sweet sensible repentant Barbara finally realized she was in the wrong. Number three—”

“Enough with your stupid numbers. Are you going to listen to reason or not?”

“Whose? Yours? That’s not reason. I don’t know what it is. It’s doubletalk. Because I’m sick and tired of kowtowing to you every time you’re in the wrong and refuse to admit it or you’re feeling sorry for yourself because you’re in the wrong and refuse to admit it. This row you’ll have to smooth over by yourself — and that’s with both your mother and me — because I’ve taken all I can from you.”

“Who the hell’s asking you to call my mother? Why are you blowing this thing so out of proportion for?”

“Because I can see it. Your standing there acting like you always do — like a spoiled pouting child waiting for an apology.”

“When, always? Name one time before.”

“August 2 nd, 1969, at eight-fifteen in the afternoon. How the hell do I know, but there were plenty. My point is you never admit when you’re wrong, and I do.”

“Now that’s a lot of crap if I ever heard any.”

“Now that’s a lot of crap if I ever heard any,” then thinking how ridiculous it was mimicking him and how silly she must have sounded. She set the receiver down and ran her hands up and down her face.

“What’d you say, goddamnit?” his voice muffled in the bedspread.

“Bobbie?”

“Excuse me a minute. Ken, I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Can’t it wait?” but she placed the receiver on the bed and went into the bathroom. She splashed water on her face, stepped on the scale, stepped off it and threw her robe and the head towel over the sink, and stepped on the scale again. She stared down and waited for the arrow to stop jiggling. Oh, give it up, she thought, her weight still fluctuating between 105 and 110. She put on the robe and went to the phone.

“Sorry, it was urgent,” she said.

“Urgent? You could’ve had two drinks at the 21 and gone to the John there for what your little urgency just cost me.”

That’s right, you’re calling from San Francisco, aren’t you.”

“Yes. And it’s not eight at night here and special low-evening long distance rates, either.”

That’s right. I believe there’s a three-hour difference in our time zones, which means you still probably have light. What can you see from your window?”

“Other windows.”

“No great big beautiful bay and mountains and ocean and ships going to Tokyo and Bangkok and places?”

“Windows. Actually, a curtain. I drew the curtain because of all those other windows. Come on, Bobbie, what do you say we cut out all this sarcasm and biting remarks for a while, okay? Let’s just say we’re both in the wrong as we were for our last squabble, and begin something from there.”

“So now we’re both in the wrong. My, we are making progress. I’m sorry, Ken, but I’m not accepting any compromises.”

“Okay, so I admit I was compromising — but only to get you off the hook this time.”

“Just try unhooking yourself for a change, all right?”

“Do me a favor? Forget I called?”

“Whatever you say,” and she hung up. She went into the bathroom to dry her hair.