Stephen Dixon - Time to Go

“Make it softer tonight.”

She leaves. “But you were saying about me, Mr. Taub?” Gene says.

“Whatever it was, I got to go. Nice talking to you.”

“But if you had the baby and she’s feeding it or is trying to, you have time to talk a few more moments, right?’”

“About your work?”

“More about the principles involved in writing and technique overall. Because, quite truthfully, not once have I ever fully agreed with a thing you’ve said about technique, as much as I admire—”

“Oh stop that nonsense and leave me alone. I’m busy and I wish you’d see that and I shouldn’t have joked around with you on the phone in the first place and I’m hanging up now, Gene.”

“Oh say, a real conclusion. A hanging-up. My teacher is going to hang up on me. What finality.”

“Not on you. I’m simply putting the receiver down. My dinner’s ready. I’m very hungry.”

“You’re right and I guess I have taken enough of your time. Too much, probably. You’ll have to excuse me.”

“Sure.”

“And my offer still stands, despite all the things that went between us. You need a driver of your car or someone to drive you in his car—”

“You return the bicycle?”

“Yes, why?”

“I don’t know. Didn’t want you to get in trouble or the bicycle owner to think his or her bike was stolen.”

“Very kind of you. You were always a very kind guy. You always have something nice to say about everyone’s work in class. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad, but there it is. And come to think of it, since we do disagree so strongly about the principles of writing and because I did take you already for one term, maybe I should drop out of the class while I still have time.”

“Maybe that’s a good idea. Do what you think best.”

“You do want me to drop, though, don’t you?”

“No, you’re okay. You cause a little excitement in class that I kind of like. And also having you there as an adversary sort of my countering your ideas as much as you countering mine. Something like that. You can understand if I’m not too articulate tonight.”

“I don’t know if I like being used in class like that.”

“You aren’t, entirely. Listen—”

“And if you really didn’t like my playing with my toes, as you called it, why didn’t you just say so? I’m not addicted to the practice.”

“I was hoping someone else would before me. But the class is too damn tolerant.”

“Except for me.”

“Dinner’s on the table,” Magna says at the door.

“That was my wife. She says the placenta’s ready to come out but she wants to do it in the bathroom where it’ll make less of a mess than in this room. So, must go, Gene. Goodbye.”

“I’ll wear socks from now on and won’t take my shoes off once. I’m staying in your class, in other words. I also like the exchange of ideas we have and—”

“Anything you want.” I hang up.

“You okay?” I say to Magna.

“No, there’s another one,” holding her stomach. She looks at her watch. “The last three have come more regularly. I think we should go soon. First eat up. You’ll need the food. I’ll be resting in the bedroom.”

I walk her to the bedroom, then go to the dining room and start eating. Phone rings. “I’m not going to answer it, Magna,” I yell out. “Don’t answer it either.” Phone keeps ringing.

“I’m all right enough to get it,” she yells back and she goes down the hallway, picks up the receiver, says “No, Professor Taub can’t be disturbed, Gene. He’s eating the placenta and it’s bad luck to stop the father in the middle of that rite…I’m feeling fine, Gene, thank you, and you’re wrong — I’m telling the absolute truth.”

A man wheels his child. Wheels or pushes? he thinks. She’s in the stroller and he wheels her to the shopping mall about a half mile from his apartment house. At the supermarket in the mall he’ll get a quart of skim milk for his wife and the green can of Similac and food for tonight and deli for lunch and fruit and cellophane tape she said she needed and bran muffins and low-fat cottage cheese and the pint or quart container of yogurt, depending on how heavy he thinks the total load will be, and also something to cook for the cats for the next few nights she said, turkey legs if they have, turkey wings she knows they always have. He’s also to pick up the prints at the camera shop at the mall. His wife said they’re mostly of his daughter alone or with his wife’s mother when she was here last weekend. If the weather holds he’ll then wheel her to the little park near the mall for a half hour to an hour. He’ll carry the food and photos in the canvas bag he has her diapers and things and a complete clothes change in, while he pushes the stroller with one hand. Every block or so he’ll switch hands. He’ll sit on the bench in the shade if it’s available. If it’s not, he doesn’t know what he’ll do, since it’s been available since he’s gone to that park to sit on it, and it’s the only bench in the shade there and he doesn’t like to sit in the sun. If the baby sleeps while he sits, he’ll read. If the baby isn’t asleep by the time they get to the park and doesn’t fall asleep soon after, he’ll play with her: stand her on his knees and on the bench seat, keep her, balanced as she stands and holds on to the top of the bench or tries to climb up the back slats, let her pull his handkerchief — which he’ll put there for that purpose — out of his shirt pocket or jingle his keys but not put them in her mouth, cradle her, make funny faces for her, show her the photos of herself — if they’re ready — to see how she’ll react to them, give her the teething ring to play with or chew, hold her high under her arms and fly her down to his lips or to where their foreheads can touch, hold her not upside down but at a downward angle where the blood doesn’t suddenly rush to her head, so she can rip grass from the ground.

He looks down at her as he wheels her. She turns around, smiles at him, turns back around. She has on three layers of clothing. It’s sunny but a little cool, so he doesn’t think she’s overdressed. Her undershirt, stretchie, jogging outfit he supposes it could be called — looks just like the adult ones — and a sweater, but because only one button will stay buttoned, it could be too tight. So, four layers on top, three on the bottom. No, four there too if he counts the rubber pants, and he should since they can make her genital area very warm. Because two of these clothings don’t cover her from the top of her legs down, he doesn’t think the bottom part’s overdressed. But her shoulders are bunched up with clothing. Undershirt and probably the jogging jacket under the sweater must have inched up and she looks humpbacked from behind. She also has a baseball cap on. He bought it yesterday in the variety store in the mall, sewed it smaller in back and cut off the “Little Slugger” patch over the peak. “They had no pink baseball caps,” he told his wife and then a couple of people in their apartment building who commented on a blue cap for a girl, “and the red ones they had,” he only told his wife, “didn’t come in size small or they were all out of them.” He didn’t ask. He should have perhaps — red would have been better — but he doesn’t like to ask sales people for things he can’t see or find. Then they go through drawers and display cases or into the stockroom and usually come up with nothing and he always apologizes for their efforts. His wife liked the cap but said “People will say this proves you wanted a boy,” which would be untrue; he just wanted a safe delivery and a healthy child. So he bought the last size — small blue cap because neither his wife nor he liked the typical sunbonnet or baby’s white hat.