Stephen Dixon - 30 Pieces of a Novel

In the movie now he looked front, she pulled her hand away from his — a sign she was angry or disappointed, maybe — and he whispered close to her ear, “Really, did I do something wrong? Anything I said I should be thinking about apologizing for?” and she whispered, looking serious, “Why, because I removed my hand from your sweaty palm? It was getting physically unpleasant, just as mine must have been getting to yours, and I thought I might be annoying you with it and distracting you from the movie.” “Shh,” the person behind them said, or another one; “please, the movie. You want to talk, do it outside.” He mouthed, Later, and smiled, and she nodded but didn’t smile, and he thought, Jesus, I’m such a creep, I can’t believe it, and they watched the movie and discussed it on the way to a pub, she called it, she knew around here and wanted to go to for a drink before heading home, and standing at the bar in it he felt funny, all the young people standing around them, just as he thought he would a week ago. He’d suggested when they came in they get a table — his main reason: not to stand at the bar with all the young people, though what he told her was, “We can relax and talk better”—but she said, “A table’s too formal for just a piddly beer. And I’ve been sitting all day at my desk at home, and then at the movie, so I’d like to stretch my legs.” Some men around her age at the bar or walking past them seemed to want to make a pass at her. Anyway, were definitely interested. Kept looking over, tried to catch her eye directly or through the long bar mirror above the liquor bottles. One handsome young man sitting at the bar stared at her through the mirror now. When they came in she looked around briefly, seemed to nod hello to someone in a standing group but he didn’t see who, and then only looked at him—“Chins,” she said, clicking her beer stein against his glass of wine, and drank from it and said, “We done discussing the movie?” and he said, “Unless you want to talk some more as to why they make these things so noisy, jumpy, and uncomplex,” and she said, “I don’t. Now tell me what happened in the theater. And don’t say ‘What do you mean?’ I won’t allow you to give yourself extra time to think up an evasive answer, though of course my going on about it now has given you that time. How come, to put it bluntly — oh, I hate phrases like that when it’s obvious I’m being blunt — you didn’t kiss me? Was I — and I don’t like babbling people either but feel I have to finish this, so forgive me — asking for so much? Or you simply didn’t want to, or thought it the wrong place, or the shusher behind us stifled you, or what? There, you’ve had lots of time to think up a clever evasion, and meanwhile I’ve exposed myself as an unattractive babbler, but say something,” and he said, “I have to talk here? How do you know we’re not being monitored? This looks like the kind of joint that might do that — state-of-the-art slick and insipid singles bar with its newest gimmick being to entertain its masses through hidden recorders. One of the drinkers nearby could have one under his shirt or up her armpit and then management lowers the deafening music a few dozen decibels and plays our conversation back over the same sound system and everyone laughs himself silly,” and she said, “You’re not talking, then,” and he said, “Okay, I talk. ‘Didn’t want to kiss’? You said that, lady? Well, let me think about it, not with any excuse-making goal but to see my reluctance then as clearly as I can,” and he looked at his glass and thought. This is the approach. He can have it both ways and also appear thoughtful. He can protest his unresponsiveness yet give all the arguments for not getting involved further: the age difference, her family, he has a daughter also twenty-three and maybe even a few months older than her, she’s just a student, she should be going out with much younger men, same frame — frames? — of reference, and “just a student” meaning he’s a teacher, she’s a grad student, it wouldn’t look right or seem good. Other things he’ll come up with: what could it lead to? That it’d embarrass him being affectionate to her in front of people, and kissing? Out of the question. Meaning in front of people, not that he wouldn’t like to. Mention the hand-holding incident with his daughter. That he’d think himself a hypocrite he could only be kissy-poo alone with her? No “kissy-poo” reference. Besides sounding awful, he doesn’t want to ridicule the act of kissing her, because then he’d be ridiculing her; she was the one who practically put her lips to his. Anyway, something like that, and if she accepts his reasons and respects his reactions but says it still doesn’t make any difference to her — she’ll go along with however he wants to conduct himself in public, within reason (she’s not going to be passed off as his daughter, for instance) — then what? Then — well, he doesn’t know. Does he want to see her again? Yes, he thinks so. Yes or no? Yes. Sleep with her eventually? Yes, surely. Sleep with her tonight if she lets on that’s what she wants and actually does all the asking or prompting? All depends: his place or hers, roommate, type of building she lives in. But his building. People in it have begun to know him. If one’s waiting for the elevator with them or the next morning is already in the car when they get on it to ride down? They could walk down — it’s only the seventh floor and he could say it’s good exercise and how he almost always goes downstairs; that’s the truth — but someone could see them going through the lobby to the street, and what if a neighbor’s waiting for the elevator when they leave his apartment? So? Means nothing in the morning: student of his who dropped by early to deliver a late paper and they just happen to be leaving at the same time. Doorman? Why would he care? He’d see them come in at night and think, Hey, what a doll, lucky old fuck, or maybe that’s another one of his daughters. But he’s way off track: first the negative arguments. “I’ve thought about it,” he said, “even if the music’s hardly conducive to thinking — that bang bang screech bong,” and she said, “It’s not anything like that and don’t digress; tell me what you thought,” and he said, “For one thing, I’m still married,” and she said, “This is what you sunk into deep contemplation for? Because I thought you were separated, the two of you marching lockstep to an amiable divorce,” and he said, “Where’d you hear that? I never told you. Maybe your folks did, but I never told them either, though it’s true,” and she said, “I’ve only spoken to them briefly since we met, and not about you — I forgot to,” and he said, “Ah, best you not, right now: what would they think? Anyway, you’re right about the divorce — you must have just assumed it, or something I said — but you don’t know the reasons for the amiability. My wife’s quite sick. She wanted to divorce because of that. Sort of sacrificing herself. Thought she was being a drain on me. I took care of her as much as I could but couldn’t anymore. She was that sick — still is — but even worse — she’s eleven years younger than me — moved back with her elderly parents and they’re taking care of her now with a nurse, the kids coming around often but not to help, and she doesn’t want to see me anymore when she’s so sick, because—” and she said, “I didn’t know; that’s terrible,” and he said, “It’s awful, yes, except it isn’t true,” and she said, “What isn’t?” and he said, “What I said, all of it, except the separation and amiable divorce procedure. I don’t know what came over me to do that — I’m sorry,” and she said, “Wait, what you just—” and he said, “Yeah, made up. As I said, I don’t know what—” and she said, “But why? Something wrong with you, a screw loose, to play with my emotions like that?” and he said, “Listen, I can understand why you’d be mad, but maybe we should tone it down here,” and she said, “Okay, but answer,” and he said, “No screw loose. Oh, I’m normal, so like everyone else who is, minimum of a little. But I’m nervous with you, so maybe my nervousness makes me feel a tiny bit extra screw-loose, giddy, say dumb things, even turned me into a liar,” and she said, “Okay, okay. Not entirely satisfactory and I’m not sure what to say, but okay, okay. What’s the real situation between you and your wife?” and he said, “Separation and eventually a divorce, all quite amiable and compatible. Twenty-eight years, which includes the four we lived together before marriage, and she got tired of it, felt we had little to say to each other, et cetera. No common interests left, now that the kids were grown, though the younger is still in college, so we should separate for a while and if it’s what we continue to want … I’m sorry about that bizarre story. As I said, where it comes from, who knows, since she’s healthy as all hell, and that excuse about my nervousness around you can’t be all of it. I think, maybe, and this is just speculation, and I don’t want to go into another long solitary thought session to try and figure it out”—and she said, “What were you saying?” and he said, “I didn’t want to talk about a separation, one we’re trying out, because then you might think Sally and I could go back together,” and she said, “So, fine, if you did, but what’s it got to do with our silly kissing?” and he said, “I suppose little, that what you’re saying?” and she said, “Well, does it? Just for curiosity’s sake, where’s the separation stand now?” and he said, “Oh, that’s another thing. She met a man, is very happy with him, lots in common, so we’ll probably end up getting divorced and she remarried. I don’t know what could stop the divorce — certainly I wouldn’t, if it’s what she wants — thus the amiability,” and she said, “Fine, and you don’t seem too torn up by it,” and he said, “I’m not, but you know …” and she said, “Which means what, the long stretch with her is enough to stop you from stepping out some too?” and he said, “You mean with you?” and she said, “Not only, but for argument’s sake, yes,” and he said, “No, but our respective ages, you bet. Every time I think I knew your parents twenty years ago—” and she said, “Fifteen, probably less,” and he said, “And now you’re all grown but still forty years younger — forty-one; that’s a chunk,” and she said, “I’m not looking for anything long-term. I’m just interested in you, would like to see where it goes. We stop when we want to, even at this pub’s door. We for certain don’t have to get serious. We have fun, talk a lot, do what comes naturally if that’s what develops, see movies, read, stay away from my parents, go to the beach if you like beaches—” and he said, “I don’t. I like mountains. Beaches are too bare and hot.” “Then I could never go out with you.” “Good, you shouldn’t. And I look ludicrous in a bathing suit with my shirt off.” “What are you saying? You’ve a nice build.” “How would you know?” “I can see through your shirt, the way you fill it out, and your big arms.” “Maybe the arms are the last to go. But I’m gray. I’ve gray hair on my chest and, if you want to get personal and frank — can I say it?” and she said, “Say anything you want,” and he said, “Around my pubes, on them, but there, and in some spots, white.” “What of it? Maybe I do too.” “You couldn’t.” “I could be prematurely gray, coloring the gray away in my head hair, maybe everywhere else too, or the places where I don’t shave it off. You never know.” “Listen, let’s walk and talk and, if it rains, run for cover.” “It’s not supposed to rain, but were you speaking metaphorically?” and he said, “No, I thought I read it in a weather report.”