Stephen Dixon: Time to Go

“What’s this? Contractions stopped?”

“No. Here.” She points to her lips and I kiss them. “Since we probably won’t have to leave for hours, I thought you should have dinner. I can’t. Then we might even read or you read to me, and if the contractions still aren’t regular, we’ll go to sleep and see what happens.”

“Great, fine, but I thought we had to go to the hospital now.

And I’m sorry, I would’ve been here much sooner, but this student — Gene Kyplie? — I’ve mentioned him before.”

“‘Big mouth Gene’?”

“I can’t believe this kid. Today he—”

Phone rings. “If it’s one of our parents,” she says, “say nothing. That I’m okay, everything’s the same — resting now — but let’s not tell them things have started or they’ll never stop worrying.”

“Got you.” I run to my workroom. “Hello?”

“It’s Gene. How is Mrs. Taub?”

“She’s fine.”

“I was thinking. If you need a ride to the hospital — and I’m not saying on a stolen bicycle — or feel too nervous to do the driving yourself, I could—”

“We’re not leaving yet.”

“False labor?”

“No, seems real enough. Just that we’re going to spend the first hours of it at home.”

“That’s smart. That’s what my mother did with my two sisters. Why go unless the contractions are coming regularly? That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll just get bored to death there and then have to come home, just as I said. It’s going to be a long haul. The first one always is. But let me give you my phone number in case you do need a driver. I can drive you in your car or mine. I’m only a five-minute walk to your place, and by car, less than two.”

“Gene, we’ll be all right. Thanks for your thoughtfulness.”

“No problem. You’ve been more than thoughtful to me in class. And your long written critiques and some of the office discussions we’ve had—”

“Good, I’m glad, but I have to go.”

“Before you do may I ask one more thing? I mean, since there’s no emergency now.”

“What is it?”

“It’s about my story. Is it okay to speak of it now?”

“Go ahead. One thing. What?”

“You once said that every first line of a story should get the reader right into the story. Should sort of pull him right in. That’s the same thing, I realize. But you said the first line should usually be brisk, brief, with almost no adjectives if we can help it, and be something like the first line of a news story. To get the how, why, what—”

“I didn’t say like a news story. I said—”

“Anyway, it’s been one of the greater points of our disagreement. Since you also said that there are no rules to writing except one which really isn’t a rule and that’s to write as well and as honestly and uncompromisingly as one can. Terif. I go along with that. What’s not to? So why the rules that a story must have an ending and that the first line should get the reader right into the story? Because don’t believe and never have and maybe I never will, though I admit I’ll change some of my attitudes about writing in the future and maybe this will be one of them, that a story should grab the reader from the start. I believe the first line should show the style of the writing rather than the content of the story. Should stamp the writer’s mark on the page rather than the narrator’s. Should say to the reader ‘Okay, pal — or enemy, or whatever you are to me — I the writer—’”

“I got to go, Gene. Seriously, something’s changed. My wife, she just came into the room and — oh my God, she’s having the baby right now. Hold it, honey, wait — there, my arms are out, let it come — push, push — holy God, I can see the head.”

“If your arms are out — since one of your other big points about writing is plausibility, something else I can argue against strongly — how are you able to hold the receiver?”

“Lots of ways. It could be one of those receiverless phones you can talk to from any place in the room. But it’s between my shoulder and neck — how could you have missed that? — and now — hold it, Gene. — Okay, honey, here comes another contraction. Push, push — one more should do it — got it. What do you know, a boy. What do you want to name it? Gene? Nah, I don’t like that name. Here, let’s get the mucous out of its nose and mouth before we do anything. There — great — and sponge its top and then in a blanket and under the light bulb to keep it warm. Want me to bite through the cord now?”

“I’d wash its eyes first. That’s almost the first thing they do after the birth — to prevent infection, I think.”

“Right. Eyes. Clean. And boy he’s a big beaut. I’d say around nine pounds. And why don’t I like the name Gene? You relaxed now? Yeah, baby’s just fine. Well, you know, you just about always associate the name you’re going to give your kid with the people in the past who had it, and I once had a Gene in my class — that right, the—”

“I’m still in your class. I haven’t dropped out but I am thinking of it again, though it wouldn’t be the courageous—”

“Well, this kid Gene — all right, not a kid — a student — was kind of a pest. Not just extrapolating too much in class and hogging a lot of the talk. But lauding me one minute, damning me the next. And on the students’ evaluation reports of their teachers last year — for the course guide they publish for themselves? I got one comment that was so nasty and cheap — that I was only in teaching for the money? Remember that one? ‘Mr. Taub says he can’t teach writing, that we can only teach ourselves. So why is he at this university then? I’ll tell you.’ That my chairman wanted to speak to me about it, because he said one of the deans had called him — not that I gave a goddamn — and you know who I think wrote that report?”

“I hope you’re not saying it was me. I know who wrote it — or at least have two good possibilities, since I think it was a combined effort — but I of course can’t give their names.”

“Not only that, this kid Gene likes to take his shoes off in class, and he doesn’t wear socks. And he occasionally picks his toes or plays with them during most of the class, which wouldn’t be so bad if he sat at the other end of the table — bad for me I mean — but he always sits a seat or two away from me. I’ve hated this habit of his but never said anything. Okay, I’ve given plenty of reasons why it can’t be that name, so enough complaining. And baby’s nice and comfy now. Cord’s neatly tied, face and body thoroughly sponged. He’s as clean and healthy as can be. What a kid. Want to feed him now?”

“I don’t think your wife will have much luck feeding him so soon, with a bottle or by more natural means. And what about the placenta? Has it come out yet? If it hasn’t at the next contraction you should get her to push.”

“The placenta, honey. Has it come out yet?”

“You’d know if it had. It looks like the raw horsemeat they feed the lions in the zoo. I was there when my mother had my youngest sister. I watched the entire delivery — special permission for siblings sixteen years and over — she was a change of life baby, in case you’re wondering — and my parents also told the doctor I was pre-premed. And she couldn’t feed Ramona for two days, till the milk came. Even after that it was rough for weeks.”

Magna’s standing by the door. “What are you yelling about a placenta for? Who’s that?”

“Gene you-know-who. Here, take the baby and see if it will feed, honey,” and lodging the receiver between my shoulder and neck, I pretend to give her a baby.

“Are you really talking to a student that way? You don’t want him to think you’re insane. You shouldn’t get so close to your students. Dinner will be ready in three minutes. Spaghetti’s already in and you like it al dente.”