Stephen Dixon - Time to Go

“Larry’s father? Something happened to Larry?”

“Not to. Larry. Mr. Koven said he didn’t have the heart to tell you himself, but as Larry’s best friend you had to know.”

“We haven’t been best friends for twenty years. I mean, I like him and I’ve seen him when he came to Chicago on one of his business trips and lance visited him in Phoenix—”

“That’s just it. His trips. He was away — for over two days — I don’t know to where — and the previous week their dog had died.”

“Their dog died?”

“I know it sounds strange, but it’s important to what happened.

Larry’s very rich according to Mr. Koven. Lives in a mansion with a big swimming pool.”

“It’s not a mansion, but what is it I’m supposed to know? Their children?”

“No, they were safely away at college. I don’t like telling this, but he insisted. I said I just told you your uncle died, and he said he was sorry and gave us both his condolences but that this was more important. That uncles die of old age — heart, blocked arteries — but that this is today, somebody young wiped out by tragedy. He wouldn’t sleep unless he knew I told you tonight, because right after it you were supposed to call Larry. He said Larry had asked him for you to call.”

“His wife?”

“‘Murdered!’ he screamed into the phone. ‘Murdered, murdered!’ The dog died naturally a week ago, and when Larry got back from his trip he found the house ransacked and his wife strangled. “

“Oh God no.”

“They have windows that come right down to the ground, he said. Maybe that’s how they got in. And with no dog barking — maybe they saw Larry leave with his bags and knew about the dog and that the children were away and so came in. They took a few dollars and the stereo and that’s all.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“I wasn’t being petty. Believe me, it’s horrible for me speaking about it. I knew Larry as a boy for twenty years too and Mr. Koven and his wife are always polite to me on the street and several times he’s helped me with legal papers and tax forms. I was talking about the absolute senselessness of it all.”

“I know. I’m sorry, mom, sorry.”

“So you’ll call him?”

“I’ll call. But you sure he wants me to?”

“Mr. Koven said Larry had definitely asked you to tonight.”

“Then I will. But what a day, huh? Unbelievable.”

We say goodnight, I hang up and look at Magna.

“I heard,” she says. “Are you going to?”

“What do you think I should do?”

“I think you have to, don’t you?”

“But tonight? After Saul?”

“If you can’t, you can’t, and I can certainly understand why you couldn’t, but he might be expecting your call.”

“What do I say to him?”

“You say how you feel. Or that you’re too numb to feel anything now. Though I think you’re just supposed to ask what you can do for him. If you can also tell him how I feel about it, please do.”

“Okay. But I’m not going to wait.”

I get a glass of vodka and ice and call Larry. He answers and I say “Larry, it’s Will.”

“Yeah, my dad just phoned and said he spoke to your mother and you were calling. I didn’t ask him to ask you. He got it in his head to speak to you. That maybe only you, because we were so close for so long, could help get me through this, but I told him it wasn’t necessary. But he hasn’t been the same since the funeral Sunday. He’s actually been a bit crazy — wants to sell everything and pack up and go back to Germany, but I told him ‘Nobody’s there now, dad.’ He’ll be okay though.”

“I can well understand him. And I’m sorry, but I didn’t know around when it happened. Maybe my mother told me, but if she did it went past.”

“Sure. And my dad told me about Saul. That’s when I almost blew up at him for getting you to call me, but kept it in. I liked Saul. Great guy. Powerful too — oh boy. He was like your oldest brother almost, so to me like my best friend’s oldest brother. Or let’s just say your favorite uncle, right? I loved it that he used to play ball with us. I told June about that a lot. How he came around a few Saturdays a year and got us out to the park with a bat and gloves, or even into the street for stickball, and played till we got tired, not him. A fantastic athlete. So my condolences to you.”

“And I can’t tell you how I feel about June.”

“I can’t tell you how I feel either. Maybe they’ll get the crazies who did it, but you never know. Even if they do, where’s it leave me? Oh, questions — forget it. If I say another word about it I’ll crack up right over the phone to you. The girls are with me. They’re fine, they look good. They’re staying another week, so we’re all okay for the time being. I’ll write you maybe. And visit you next time I get to Chicago. I’m a mess, Will, no doubt about it, that’s the biggest truth I’ve said to you so far about me, but a mess is the only way I should really be now, right? And I’m awfully sorry about Saul.”

“Thanks. Magna wants me to tell you how she feels about June too.”

“I’ll speak to you.”

I hang up. “How my going to get to sleep tonight, Mag? How my going to?”

“Why not just finish your drink, have another if you want, and then call it a night. I still have a dozen papers to grade by morning, but if you want me to I’ll come to bed with you now.”

“No, I’ll be all right.” I finish the drink, kiss her goodnight, take off my clothes, get into bed and shut off the light.

My father follows me on the street. He says “Don’t go into that store and don’t go into the next one you might want to go into either. Go into none, that’s what I’m saying.” But I stand in front of the door of the jewelry store I heard was the best in the city and am buzzed in. My father’s right behind me, and I nod to the guard and say to the saleswoman after she says “Can I help you?” “Yes, I’m looking for a necklace — amber — I mean jade. I always get the two mixed up. But jade’s what I want: long-lasting, forever, is the symbol, right? This might sound funny, but I want to present the necklace to my wife-to-be as a prenuptial gift.”

“Doesn’t sound funny to me and you’ve come to the right store.” She takes out a tray of jade necklaces. All have gold around or in them, and when I ask the price of two of them, are too expensive.

“I don’t want any gold in them, except maybe for the clasp, and these are way too expensive for me.”

“Much too expensive,” my father says.

“I’ll show you some a little lower in price.”

“Much lower in price,” my father says.

“Maybe a little lower than even that,” I say.

She puts away the tray she was about to show me and takes out a third tray.

“These seem darker than I want — to go with her blue eyes and kind of pale skin I mean — but how much is this one?”

“You can pick it up,” she says. “Jade doesn’t bite.”

“Just the price,” my father says. “But go on, pick it up. You’ll see how jade’s as cold to feel as it is to look at.”

I pick it up. “It feels nice, just the right weight, and seems”—holding it out—”the right size for her neck.”

“Is she around my height?”

“Five-five.”

“Then exactly my height and this is the size I’d wear.”

“I’m sure it’s still too expensive for me.”

She looks at the tag on it, which seems to be in code: 412xT+ . “It goes for three-fifty but I’ll make it two-seventy-five for you.”

“Way out of my range.”

“What is your range?”