Stephen Dixon: Time to Go

“I can wrap a lightbulb in newspaper if it’s only that you’re concerned a regular glass might cut your foot,” the rabbi says. “But if you don’t want it.”

“If they don’t, they don’t,” his wife says.

“We don’t,” Magna says, “but thank you.”

“Then no second glass,” he says. “It’s your day.”

“That’s it, my father says. “Now you’ve really made me mad. That she’s on your side in this — well, you must’ve forced it on her. Or maybe not. Anyway, I’m tired of complaining. From the man’s point you’ll be missing the best part of the ceremony, not the second best. I won’t even begin to advise you about anything about the rabbi’s fee.”

“I know what your advice will be,” I say, “and I don’t want to bargain with him, is that so bad? Because what’s he going to charge — a hundred-fifty? two hundred? So how much can I cut off it — fifty, seventy-five? What’s fifty anyway? What’s a hundred? And he’s a professional. A professional should not only do his work well but know what to charge. You always let your patients cut your dental fees in half?”

“If I thought they’d go somewhere else, sure. Because if I wasn’t working on them I’d be sitting around earning nothing in that time. But if your rabbi asks four hundred?”

“He won’t. You can see he’s a fair guy. And I’m not a complete jerk. If I think his fee’s way out of line, I’ll tell him.”

“That’s not the way to do it, but do what you want. I’ve said it a hundred times to you and now I’ll say it a last time. Do what you want because you will anyway. But I’ll tell you something else. Your mother didn’t give you three thousand dollars of my insurance policy benefit to just piss away.”

“That money was nine years ago. I didn’t ask for a cent of it but she thought I deserved it because of the four years I helped her with you. And I used it to good purpose. I lived off it and worked hard on what I wanted to work on for one entire year.”

“Oh, just pay anything he asks no matter how high. In fact, when he says his fee, say ‘No, it’s too little,’ and double him. That’s the kind of schmo I sometimes think you can be.”

We’re being married in Magna’s apartment. The rabbi’s talking about what the sharing of the wine means. My mother’s there. My brother and sister and their spouses. My nieces and an uncle and aunt. Magna’s parents and cousins and her uncle and aunts. A few of our friends and their children. My father. He looks tired and ill. He’s dressed for the wedding, has on his best suit, though it needs to be pressed. He sits down on the piano bench he’s so tired. The rabbi pronounces us married. I’m trying. Magna smiles and starts to cry. My mother says “What is this? You’re not supposed to be crying, but go ahead. Tears of happiness.”

“Kiss the bride,” my sister says. I kiss Magna. Then I kiss my mother and Magna’s mother and shake Magna’s father’s hand while I kiss his cheek. I kiss Magna again and then my sister and brother and brother’s wife and my nieces and aunt and uncle and Magna’s aunts and uncle. Then our friends and Magna’s female cousin and I shake the hand of her male cousin and say “Oh what the hell,” and kiss his cheek and the cheek of my sister’s husband and the rabbi’s cheek too. I look over to the bench. My father’s crying. His head’s bent way over and he dabs his eyes with old tissues. He starts making loud sobbing noises. “Excuse me,” I say and I go over to him, get on my knees, put my arms around his lower legs and my head on his thighs. He’s sitting up straight now and pats my head. “My boy,” he says. “You’re a good sweet kid. I’m actually having a great time. And there was no real harm meant between us and never was, am I right? Sure, we got angry as hell at one another lots of times, but I’ve always had a special feeling for you deep down. It’s true, you don’t have to believe me, but it’s true. And I’m so happy for you. I’m crying because I’m that happy. I’m also crying because I think it’s wonderful you’re all together today and so happy, and I’m glad I’m here. Your other sister and brother, it’d be grand if they were here too.” I look around for them. “Maybe they couldn’t find the right clothes,” I say. I get on one knee and hug him with my cheek pressed against his and then he disappears.

Class is over, I go to my office and call Magna.

“Will, listen, you must come home. I think it’s started.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve had contractions since five o’clock and bleeding. There — there goes another one. I’m not in pain, just a little uncomfortable, but please hurry.”

I look for a book to bring to the hospital. The doctor said the whole process might take fifteen hours, might take thirty. Two books, just in case. I slip into my jacket pockets two books I’ve been wanting to read for a long time.

“Mr. Taub, may I speak to you a minute?”

“I’m sorry, Gene, I’m in a rush — my wife. She just called. I mean I called her. We were supposed to go swimming at the gym, but she said her labor contractions have started. Today might be the day we have the baby.”

“Oh, that’s really something. Really, congratulations. They’re premature congratulations, but I know everything will turn out all right for you both. But this will take only a few seconds. It’s about what you said on the story you handed back to me today.”

“Honestly, Gene, whatever I said doesn’t mean anything right now. It means a lot to you — that’s not what I’m saying — just that I have to go.”

“I understand, but I just wanted to know—”

“What? Please, I said I have to go. My wife’s gone into labor.”

“Of course. I shouldn’t have stopped you. I didn’t know, and now I shouldn’t still be stopping you. And regular office hours would be better. Could I see you here Friday at your regular two o’clock appointment time?”

“If I’m here, Gene, if I’m here. Excuse me, I have to lock up.” I look for my keys.

“Your keys. Over there on the desk.”

“I’m a little nervous, you can see that. So forget anything I say or do from now on.”

“Sure, the baby — who wouldn’t be? Mind if I walk part of the way with you? We live in the same direction. You are heading home, am I right?”

“Home. I’m going to have to walk fast.”

“No problem, I’m a fast walker.”

I lock the door, we leave the building. “Maybe along the way,” he says, “you can explain to me what you meant on the second page here, third paragraph”—he holds out his manuscript—”that my narrative ‘shows no movement forward,’ I thought the point of my story — the point I wanted to make, at least, and whether I did it successfully isn’t for me to judge, I think you once said. That the judges are the readers, not the writers. That the writer’s job is just to—”

“Did I say all that? If I did, I don’t know what I meant, at least not now.”

“Still, my point wasn’t to show plot but style, not to move forward in the story but to remain stagnant, not to—”

“Look, I can’t talk about it. You’re holding me up, and I have to hustle. I’m in fact going to run.”

“Because your wife’s in labor?”

“What do you think?”

“Was this the first time she called to say she was having contractions?”

“Yes.”

“Then I wouldn’t worry. I know something about it and the first time or two is usually a false alarm. It was with my mother when she had me and my older brother and my younger sisters, but the last two she didn’t overreact on. False alarms all four times. I think they call them false contractions.”