Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

The phone rang. Warren, reading a comicbook on his bed, waited for it to ring five times before he ran to her bedroom to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hello, sweetheart, how come you didn’t answer sooner?”

“Hi, Granny. Mom’s in the bathroom with that hair dryer going on. I’ll get her. Ma?” he shouted. “Grandma Ruth’s on the phone.”

“How is everything at home?”

“Fine. Dad called. He’s in San Francisco. Ma?” he said, interrupting her next question, “Grandma Ruth wants to speak to you.”

“I said, Warren, your father called? How long ago?”

“I’m not sure; not long. Ma?”

“Did he mention anything about when he’s coming home — or your mother? Warren, are you listening to me?”

Just then his mother pushed open the bathroom door and took the receiver out of his hand.

“Hello, Ruth, what can I do for you?”

“My God, Barbara, right away I can hear how angry you are.”

“It might sound like that, but I’m not. How are you?”

“But I can hear.”

“All right, you can hear, you can hear, but how are things with you?”

“Wonderful, thanks, but I’d like to know what’s this I hear about Kenneth and you. I haven’t the exact story, of course, but whatever it is, it can’t be more than a little fuss.”

“It’s much more.” She waved Warren out of the room. He gestured he’d sit on the bed and wouldn’t speak or listen to anything said on the phone, but she continued to shake her head for him to leave, and he stamped out.

“Why is it more than that?” Ruth went on. “A spat, like everyone has spats, and then it’s over. Be smart — make up. I know something about how a wife should act. She thinks she’s in the right — and even if she is, she should forget it or maybe just believe she’s right but not say so. For if it makes them happy and builds up their ego, why shouldn’t you give in sometimes, am I right?”

“No.”

“Don’t be a little girl, Barbara, angry for nothing, holding malice till it hurts. Do what I say and everything will work out fine.”

“You honestly believe that?”

“Answer it yourself, dear: what else could happen?”

“Well, there’s always what I think of myself after that lie — there’s always that. And then tell me one thing that’s gotten better between us after I’ve given in to him because you said I should, my own folks said I should, just about everyone I know said it.”

“If everyone’s said it, then it must be the right thing to do.”

“Oh, artfully answered, Ruth, but I can’t believe you believe that deep down. Haven’t you been reading the papers? We’re wearing our own fashions, breaking down all the discriminatory practices. Women shouldn’t sell out to men anymore.”

“Please, you can’t change him. That’s how he is, was, and will always be, so accept it.”

Then it’s never going to be good again between Ken and me till he does change — and you can tell him that when he phones you.”

“He said he was going to phone me?”

“Also tell him not to constantly kick me in the face as to what the call’s costing him when I’m trying to talk over some very important personal things.”

“He said that? That’s not like him.”

That’s just like him. Your son’s the big sport when he wants to make an impression. Just come over here and I’ll show you all the nice things he’s told everyone we know he’s bought me.”

“I can’t come over today, but thank you.”

“I was only kidding — never mind. You’ll probably be speaking to him soon — I mean, grant to me that I know by now how he operates — so tell him where I stand, all right? Also tell him — let’s see; what should you say? That this time it’s different. That I often think it’s not worth the trouble being married to him anymore. And for sure he can’t come back to the apartment till he takes responsibility for these fights and separations and that he’s going to do something to prevent them in the future.”

“So he’s responsible, so you’re responsible — what makes the difference in the end? After all, you’re husband and wife, married almost ten years and with a lovely home and a son to consider, so you’d think one of you would be big enough to accept the blame and then forget it. Because listen, Barbara—”

“Ruth — please? No more,” and she said goodbye and hung up. She figured Ken would call within the hour. He’d walked out on her three times the past two years, after calling her the worst names possible, and always Ruth later called her begging for a “beneficial to both” reconciliation brought about by Barbara’s willingness to accept the blame. And always she said she couldn’t but would ultimately, just to end the matter and for the sake of their son, say something like “Okay, maybe it’s a little bit more my fault than yours; so it’s over; come home.”

She had a good idea what would happen next. He’d call his mother, who’d tell him only a little of what Barbara had said and certainly none of the tough talk and give him advice how to handle this tricky situation. Then, nervously picturing the call he still had to make, he’d light a cigarette and smoke it down slowly. Finally — feeling emboldened by the cigarette and the shots of scotch from the bottle he always carried in his suitcase — he’d tell the hotel operator he wanted to place another call to New York. His approach would be like the ones he used in the past. He’d say he knew he wasn’t totally innocent for this most recent rupture, but could she tell him with a straight face that her hot temper and insults and inflexibility weren’t mostly to blame? It was always so easy for him, she had always made it so easy for him, that she could just puke when she thought of all she’d given up in herself since she married him. She lay on the bed, thought of taking the phone off the hook so she could avoid the inevitable ugly scene, decided against it, as he was going to call sooner or later so be done with the damn thing no matter how bad it might turn out, and tried dozing off for a few minutes and only reopened her eyes when Warren tiptoed into the room.

“You sleeping?”

She shook her head.

“What are you doing lying down then?”

“Resting, can’t you see?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No — I’m sorry. I’m actually just lying down here waiting for your father’s call.”

“He say he’ll call again?”

“No. But I have an intuition about such things — a feeling.”

“What things?”

Things like that. About what people will do who are very close to me like your father and you. That he’ll call.”

“How long you think he will?”

“I can’t predict it with any great exactness, not being the expert in these feelings that some people claim to be, but I’d say soon.”

“Will you let me speak to him?”

“You know it.” She inspected her nails. Most were jagged, uneven, the nails on the right hand bitten down so far the last few days and the cuticles looking such a mess, that she had to turn the hand over. She got out her manicure set from the night table.

“Why’d you send me out when Granny called? She say I did something she didn’t like last time she took care of me?”

“Why, did you?”

“What did she say?”

“Now you’re doing a bit of conniving like your father sometimes does, you know? Even at your age, which I’m not sure is so cute. I had personal things to discuss with her — nothing about you.”

“What personal things?”

The phone rang. Warren lunged for the receiver, said “Daddy, that you?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“He says, how’d I know?”