Stephen Dixon - 30 Pieces of a Novel

She unlocks the front door with the keys his mother must have loaned her, leaves them on top of the breakfront by the door, and says, “Cool in here; you’re lucky. That’s because your mother keeps the blinds down. Anyway, gotta get going, so I’ll see ya. Say hi to her from me and that I had to dash,” and she goes. He yells, “Mom, I’m back, I’m back, you around?” and she says from the bedroom, “I’ll be out shortly, darling; welcome home. Take something in the refrigerator. I bought lots of things you like,” and he says, “I’m not hungry but I’ll look,” and goes into the kitchen, opens the deli wax paper of several packages, takes a slice of liverwurst from one and a slice of Swiss cheese from another and stuffs them together into his mouth. Drinks a glass of milk, nice and cold. The apartment looks different. So clean and everything neat and put away and counters and floors shining as if washed and mopped and waxed. That’s how he always remembers it when he comes home from camp, and the coolness of the place compared to the outside, but then forgets it till the next year. Also no lights on, to keep the heat of the rooms down too, his mother said. So it looks strange, a cross between day and night, when it’s just the middle of the afternoon and the outside’s maybe its brightest and hottest. The place also seems smaller, but not as much smaller as it did last year, and he wonders if his room’s the same way and goes into it and it is. So what does that mean, that next year everything will seem the same here as when he left, or close to it? He looks for things he missed: a board game, a sponge ball, a book, feels his bed to see if it’s still as comfortable — he got used to the hard cot at camp but what he never got used to was how narrow it was, and when he was sleeping he fell off it at least three times and once, even, during the rest period they make you take after lunch. Opens his middle dresser drawer for no reason but to look at the folded stacks of clothes. In a week it’ll be messy and in a few weeks his mother will ask him to fold his clothes in his dresser if he wants to find anything in it, and if he says he doesn’t want to she’ll say then he won’t be allowed to play outside after dinner. Smell of mothballs comes out of the drawer. That’s what he always remembers, and he fingers around and finds a couple of the balls she missed, for his mother must have taken the rest out when she cleaned his room for his coming home. He gets out the mothballs she missed in the other drawers — they’re all in the back corners. He doesn’t mind the smell much, but it can get embarrassing when people start sniffing hard in front of him and then point out the smell on his clothes. Sits on the radiator cover, holds open some middle blind slats, and looks out his second-story window at two rows of backyards going all the way to the end of the block, a lot of the close ones overgrown with bushes and vines and trees whose branches hang down to the ground. In one yard a woman’s sunbathing in a skimpy swimsuit. He doesn’t know how she can just lie there in the sun, her arms turned up so the forearms show and her legs spread wide, and get burned and hot and sweat so much. He stares at the tall apartment building at the end of his block, at a small propeller plane passing over it till it flies out of sight, then looks at the woman — she’s drinking right from a glass pitcher — and goes to the bathroom because he has to pee and after it taps on his mother’s door. “What is it, Gould?” and he says, “I thought you’d be out by now, anything wrong?” “No, it’s okay, don’t worry,” and he says, “I also forgot to tell you: Mrs. Jacobo, your friend, said to say goodbye to you, that she had to get back to work,” and she says, “Did you like her?” and he says, “She was all right, but she talked too much,” and she says, “She’s nice; helped me out a lot by picking you up, and she had to come from work to do it,” and he says, “I know. She also told me you work there together and all about you and Dad,” and she says, “That’s why I’m in here, Gould. The shock of it keeps coming back and back, and today it really got to me, probably because you were coming home, know what I mean? Okay, okay,” and opens the door; she’s in her bathrobe, hair a mess, face looking as if she just got up, hugs him, kisses the top of his head, and says, “Good, I’ve made my grand appearance, so you won’t think me entirely strange. But I’m going back in to rest some more, if you don’t mind and can understand. Play with Willy, if he’s home,” and he says, “Good idea. Can I take the keys Mrs. Jacobo left or should I leave the door unlocked?” and she says, “The keys,” and goes into her room and shuts the door and he calls Willy down the block and gets the keys, though he doesn’t know which one fits which lock. If you don’t fix the button, door locks automatically, but he’ll be able to get back in and if he can’t he’ll ring till his mother comes to the door. It might even be a good excuse to get her out of her room again. But when he gets back he’s going to ask for his own keys and he bets she gives him a set now that there’s only the two of them.

Plays, and when he lets himself in a couple of hours later the table’s set for one, with a note on the plate: Gould, dear. It was so wonderful seeing you again. You look great (I neglected to say then), grown a few inches, even filled out some, but in a husky way: you’re getting so tall and strong. I’ve made what used to be your favorite sandwich. If you want something else, leave it and make a sandwich of your own choosing from the assorted deli I also have in the refrigerator. In the bread bin are a fresh loaf of rye bread and a package loaf of white and several fresh Vienna rolls (without seeds). For a special treat, but only today, take the bottle of White Rock ginger ale in the refrigerator too . The sandwich is liverwurst and Swiss and lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise on white bread, which he still likes but it’s not his favorite anymore: ham and Swiss on white with mustard but no lettuce and tomato is — but he doesn’t feel hungry for anything now. He wonders when his dad will call. He should have asked her. Should he ask through the door for his dad’s new phone number? It’s almost too late to call him at work, if he went there today, and asking for his home phone number might make her mad and maybe even sad too, and he drinks the soda and reads a book and listens to a radio show and answers the phone and writes down the message from a woman whose name he never heard before, and at eight raps on her door and says, “Mom? Mom?” and tries the knob, but the door’s locked and she says from what sounds like across the room, maybe from her bed, “I’m so sorry for acting like this, Gould. Did you have your supper?” and he says, “I’m not hungry,” and she says, “You have to be hungry; maybe you noshed a lot, then,” and he says, “Only a piece of liverwurst and cheese before,” and she says, “I’m sorry, I know it’s all my fault you’re not eating, but I can’t seem to be able to make even another grand appearance. I feel repulsive and look a wreck, but it won’t go on past tonight, I promise. Maybe things will improve with your father where he’ll come home, and maybe they’ll even get worse, where we have to set up two permanent separate households, but the worst thing about it is the effect on you,” and he says, “I’ll be all right, and now that we talked about it, I’ll be fine. Can I come in now?” and she says, “This will sound terrible, but it’s probably better if we next see each other at breakfast. Then I’ll be all rested and feeling and looking better and we can do something together, like go to the park if it’s not too hot. Now I’m still so tired I only want to go back to sleep. I’ve taken my phone cord out of the wall, so if it rings, answer it, but I’m not able to come to the phone for the rest of the night.” “A Mrs. Corn called and said for you to call her. She didn’t say about what but that you’d know and you have her number, so I didn’t take it; was that all right?” and she says, “Of course, and I’ll do it tomorrow. She’s my boss and very sweet and probably wants to know if I’m coming in Monday. You know I had to go back to work because we needed the money,” and he says, “I guessed so, but doesn’t Dad give you any?” and she says, “Not enough because his business hasn’t been doing too well and now he has his own rent and expenses. Somebody will be looking after you on Monday, so don’t worry,” and he says, “Who?” and she says, “A very nice woman. To take you to the movies and things. And later next week you’ll go to your aunt’s in Coney Island for two days, and I’ll have a day off to be with you, and your father will be around, and we’ll all work something out for when you go back to school,” and he says, “Can I have his number so I can call him?” and she says, “I don’t have it, or don’t know where it is right this minute,” and he says, “Can you get it for me?” and she says, “I wouldn’t know where to look,” and he says, “Do you know where he lives so I can dial four-one-one for it?” and she says, “It’s such a new number they won’t have it,” and he says, “They give you new numbers; I’ve heard you and Dad on the phone with them. You say the number’s new and give the name and address and they find it,” and she says, “I don’t even know where he lives. I’m afraid that’s where your father and I stand now, Gould,” and he says, “Come on, Mom, you have to have it,” and she says, “Are you saying I’m lying?” and he says, “No. Could you tell me what you do at work?” and tries the door and it’s still locked, which he figured it’d be. “That Mrs. Jacobo and the woman on the phone before didn’t say anything about it,” and she says, “Sales. Mrs. Corn is the head saleslady in our department: Girls’ Clothes. Lynn — Mrs. Jacobo — has a much better position as a buyer, and if I stay at it long enough and get good reports I can eventually move up to that. They can do very well. But I’ll tell you it all tomorrow morning. Now get a good night’s sleep, which means not staying up too late reading. Your bed’s freshly made, and also don’t open your window too high. There’s a floor fan in your room if you want — I bought it just last week but haven’t plugged it in yet,” and he says, “I saw but didn’t know it was mine. Thanks. And good night,” and she says good night and he thinks usually he likes to get a kiss but he’s not going to ask for it.