Stephen Dixon - Time to Go

“You’re going to wind up with crap,” my father says, “pure crap. If you have to buy a necklace, go somewhere else. I bet you can get this one for a hundred any other place.”

“Around a hundred, hundred-twenty-five,” I tell her.

“Let me show you these then.”

“Here we go again,” my father says.

“I have to get her something, don’t I?” I tell him. “And I want to, because she wants something she can always wear, treasure — that’ll remind her of me. That’s what she said.”

“Fine, but what’s she getting you?”

“How do I know? I hope nothing. I don’t want anything. That’s what I told her.”

“Oh, you don’t want anything to remind you of her?”

“She’ll remind me of her. I have her, that’s enough, and besides I don’t like jewelry.”

“You thinkers: all so romantic and impractical. I wouldn’t get her anything if she isn’t getting you anything. Listen, I like her, don’t misunderstand me: she’s a fine attractive girl and you couldn’t get better if you tried for ten more years. But tit for tat I say. He who gives, receives, and one should be a receiver and giver both.”

“You’re not getting my point. She wants something and I don’t. I accept that and I wish you would.”

“Sucker,” he says. “All my boys are suckers. None of them took after me.”

“Some people might say that was an improvement.”

“Stupid people might, just as stupid people might make jokes like you just did. If you took after me you would’ve been married sooner, had almost grown-up children, a much better job, three times as much income and been much much happier because your happiness would’ve been going on longer.”

“Look at this batch,” the saleswoman says, putting another tray of jade necklaces on the counter. I see one I like. A light green, smaller beads, nicely strung with string, no gold on it except the clasp. I hold it up. “I like this one.”

“Hedge, hedge,” my father says. “Then ask the price and offer her half.”

“How much is it?” I ask her.

“A hundred-ten.”

“Fifty-five or sixty — quick,” my father says.

“Sounds fair, and this is the first one I really feel good about.”

“That’s the only way to buy. Janine,” she says to a younger saleswoman, “would you try this on for this gentleman?”

Janine comes over, smiles and says hello to me, undoes the top two buttons of her blouse and starts on the third.

“It’s not necessary,” I say.

“Don’t worry,” the older woman says. “That’s as far as I’ll let her go for that price.”

Janine holds the necklace to her neck and the older woman clasps it behind her. “Feels wonderful,” Janine says, rolling the beads between her fingers. “This is the one I’d choose of this box — maybe even out of all the boxes despite the more expensive ones.”

“Who are you working for, him or me?”

“No, it really feels great.”

“Don’t fall for their patter,” my father says. “Sixty-five — go no higher. She says seventy-five, say ‘Look, I’m a little short what with all my wedding expensives and all, can’t you take the sixty-five — the most seventy?’ But you got to give them an excuse for accepting your offer, and no crying.”

“How much is this one again?” I ask her.

“One-ten,” the older woman says, “but I’ll make it a hundred.”

“That’s just fine. I didn’t mean to bargain down, but if you say it’s a hundred, fine, I’ll take it.”

“Idiot,” my father says. “You could’ve had it for seventy easy.”

“Terrific. Janine, wrap it up special as a prewedding gift. Cash or charge, sir?”

“You’ll take a check?”

“Janine, I don’t know this guy, so check his references. If they’re okay, let him pay by check. Thank you, sir. What about calling Michaels now?” she says to a man at the end of the counter and they go in back. I take out my wallet.

My father sits in a chair next to the guard. “My son,” he says to him. “Nothing like me. Never learned anything I ever taught him and I tried hard as I could. He could’ve been much more successful if he’d listened. But he was stubborn. All my children were stubborn. Neither of my girls had the beauty of their mother and none of my sons the brains of their dad. Health you’d think they’d have had at least, but they didn’t even have that. Oh, this one, he’s healthy enough — strong as an ox. But two I lost to diseases, boy and a girl, and both in their twenties, which was hard for my wife and I to take, before I went myself. So, there you have it. And I hope his bride likes his present. He’s paying enough. Though why he doesn’t insist on getting something in return — hint on it at least if he doesn’t want to insist — or at least insist her family pay for the wedding, is a mystery as much to you as to me. To everyone including his bride, who I admire — don’t think I was just buttering him up there — he says he’s too old to have anyone but him pay for the wedding, and she makes it worse by praising him for what she calls his integrity. Make sense to you? Doesn’t to me. Since to me integrity is great in its place but is best when it pays. All of which is why I hound him the way I do — for his benefit and his only. So. Think it’ll stay as nice out as it is? Ah, what’s the difference?”

I get off the train from Baltimore, get on the subway for upper Broadway, suddenly my father’s in the car standing beside me. “Welcome home,” he says. “You still going through with giving her that present and making the wedding all by yourselves? Anything you say. I won’t interfere. I can only tell you once, maybe three times, then you have to finish digging your own grave.”

“If that’s really the last time, fine by me,” and I go back to reading my book.

“Just like when you were a boy. You didn’t like what I said, you pretended I wasn’t there. But I’m here all right. And the truth is, in spite of all the mistakes you made with your life and are still making, I’m wishing you all the luck in the world. You were okay to me at the end — I won’t deny it. I can’t — who could I to? — the way you took care of me when I was sick — so I suppose I should be a little better to you now. Am I right? So do you want to be not only family now but good friends? If so, let’s shake like friends. We kissed a lot when you were young — in fact, right to when I went and then you to me a few seconds after that, which I don’t think if the tables were turned you would’ve got from me — but for a first time let’s just shake.”

The car’s crowded. Late afternoon Christmas shoppers returning home but not the rush hour riders yet. I’m squeezed right up to him. “Look,” I say, “we can talk but don’t remind me of how sick you were. I don’t want to think of it now. I will say I respected you for a lot of things in your life, especially the way you took the discomfort and pain then, something I told you a number of times but I think you were too out of it to understand me. But you also have to realize, and which I maybe didn’t tell you, how much you screwed me up, and I allowed you to screw me up — whatever the causes or combination of them. I’ve worked out a lot of it, I’ll try to work out the rest, but no real complaints from me for anything now for I’m going through absolutely the best time in my life.”

“Good, we’re friends,” and he shakes my hand.

I get off at Magna’s stop. Today began my school’s winter break.

I head for the revolving exit gate at the end of the platform. A boy of about sixteen’s between me and the woman exiting in front of him. But he’s hesitating, looking around and behind him, at me, the downtown platform across the tracks, the woman who’s now through the gate and walking upstairs, back at me sullenly. I don’t know whether to walk around him or go to the other end of the platform and the main exit. Maybe I’m wrong. He might just be an angry kid who’s hesitating now because he doesn’t know which exit to take, this or the main one. I walk past him but keep my eyes on him. As I’m stepping backwards into the gate he turns to me, sticks his left hand into his side jacket pocket and thrusts it at me, clamps his other hand on my shoulder and says “Give me all your money.” I say “What? What?” and push backwards and revolve around the gate to the other side and he has to pull his hand away or get it caught between the bars.