Stephen Dixon - 30 Pieces of a Novel

“Did it suddenly get cloudy?” his mother says. “No. Same blue sky, no clouds, pretty high humidity, temperature around eighty-five.” “Not going to rain? It looks like it, everything darker, as if a real storm.” “I told you, Mom, it’s only your eyes. The day’s clear and sunny.” “That hot?” “It could be worse, believe me. Eighty-five degrees is nothing,” and she says, “What I’ve become, I can’t believe it. What did I do wrong in life for my body to get so fouled up as this?” “All you have is an ophthalmological problem — you know, your eyes. Otherwise, you’re in relatively good shape.” “I know. And as for ophthalmology, remember: I once wanted to be a doctor. I should consider myself lucky. No cancer or major brain disconnections, and I still got an appetite and my hearing hasn’t gone completely kaput. But I don’t really care about my health, much as I talk of it. It’s you and your wife that — what’s her name again? I suddenly forgot.” “Sally.” “Sally, excuse me. What a doll. And your dear children. How are they?” “Fanny and Josephine. They’re fine. You saw them yesterday.” “I did? I forget. And your wife? There’s nothing to help her?” “The scientists are working on it.” “They’ll come up with something. When I was still able to read the papers, I read about it. A breakthrough any moment, they say, right? How’d she get what she’s got?” “Nobody knows.” “No signs when you first met her? It just came? They say if you work hard enough you get what you work for, but it’s not always true.” “What do you mean?” “I mean your wife, your children, your life. That she’s such a good person. That God isn’t always looking after us, and how can He? Not that I believe in Him after all I’ve seen.” She picks up the ginger ale can. “What should I do with this?” “You done with it?” “For now I am, but I don’t want it anymore. Are you permitted to just throw them away? You can’t get fined?” “The scavengers canvass through the trash cans here and get a nickel apiece for them, so I think it’s okay. By the time a cop comes over to arrest us, the evidence will be gone.” “What?” “Nothing. I’ll get rid of it.” He takes it to a trash can near the woman, though there’s one much closer to his bench, and drops it in and looks at her sitting on the grass, sunglasses off and somewhere, head arched back, eyes closed, facing the sun.

“Henrietta, Henrietta!” a man yells from the path and waves to her. “Gosh, where the heck were you?” she says. “I was getting set to leave.” The man sits beside her, fanning himself with his hand. He puts her sunglasses on, looks at her as if to say, How do I look? takes them off, grabs her Frisbee, and throws it up a few feet and catches it. “Where’s Jackson?” she says, and he says, “I decided to leave him home. I wanted to really get a workout this time. Whenever he’s with us he ruins it by leaping at the Frisbee and, if he gets it, hogging it, and you know he’s only going to tear it to pieces one day.” “I love it when he goes after it.” “Well, then get a dog.”

He goes back to the bench. “I’m feeling tired,” his mother says, “think we should go home?” “Anything you want.” “I don’t want to spoil it if you’re enjoying yourself here, but let’s leave. I hate falling asleep in public, with my mouth open and people staring inside.” “Don’t worry, nobody’s doing that. Looking and staring’s just one of the things — two of the things? — people do in the park, but I don’t think they do it too deeply and I’ve a feeling they forget what they see in seconds, because it’s always on to the next.” “What?” “It’s always on to the next thing they look and stare at not too deeply. Do you understand?” “I didn’t hear it.” “I’ll tell you at home.” He unlocks the wheelchair, looks over, and sees the woman and man talking animatedly, the man slapping his knee and finding something very funny. As he’s wheeling his mother, she says, “Those trees over there—” He leans over her and says, “Mom, why do you keep insisting the trees are painted black when I’ve told you a dozen times already—” “That isn’t what I was about to say.” “I’m sorry, what was it then?” and she says, “When do you go back?” “First week in September.” “September? That’s right around the corner. Before you know it, it’s over.” “Mom, it’s mid-June, two days or a day or three — whenever the first day is — before summer even begins. We have to go through more than two months till September. Till that time I have another two weeks here and then go to Maine. Then we come back to New York and see you for another five days or so, and then I head south back to my job.” “It’s not September? I can’t believe it. Why do I always think it is?”—shaking her head. “I got to get my head examined, but I know you’ll tell me I don’t have to.” A minute later, while he’s pushing her, she says, “Those trees over there. It’s so mysterious.” “Why? Because you think they’re painted black and you don’t know why?” “They’re not? I didn’t see how they could be, because what would be the reason? But that’s how they all look to me, as if someone came with a brush. It’s terrible getting so old and losing everything at once.” “But you haven’t, which is what I told you before. Listen”—bending over her from behind—“I want you to listen to me. Are you listening?” “Yes, but you’re not saying anything yet.” “I’m saying, which, as I said, I’ve said before, that regarding your health you at least haven’t got some horrible and painful and disabling illness, disease, or affliction. One not just where your walking’s affected, like now, but where you can’t walk at all. You were never really sick in your whole life, which is something for someone in her early nineties who smoked a lot and probably drank too much too. You’re going to be in reasonably good health till you’re past a hundred, I’m sure. Good genes, it must be, though they seem to have skipped over your siblings and folks. And just luck and I don’t know what else contributing to it. A certain vanity, a feeling of things due you, and so on: positive outlook, though you don’t have too much of that now, but you’ll bounce back. And just that: when things went truly bad for you, you didn’t dwell on them too long but quickly worked them out and bounced back. Though I can understand — I don’t want you to think I’m not sympathetic — what you mean about the little infirmities and things — your hearing, that you don’t have the energy you once had, and of course your eyes — that can make you feel much worse.” “Is that what you were saying before? I don’t believe it,” and she turns around and looks at him and laughs. “So you think what I said’s funny and maybe even everything I say is funny too? Well, that’s good and no doubt healthy for you too. And for the most part I agree with you,” and he laughs too.

He’s pushing his mother to the park entrance when he thinks of the young woman again. Jesus, what a body! He imagines lying beside her in bed, all their clothes off, and reaching out to touch her, but shakes the thought away. But she had to be somewhat interested in him to look over so often, isn’t he right? No, and for all the reasons he gave. Or she was a little interested, and just maybe, but after a while, no matter how many times she looked over, he should have stopped sneaking looks at her. Oh, well, gone now, and next time he takes his mother to the same spot — it’s her favorite because it’s so shaded, where they sit, and quieter and cooler than just about any other place in the park nearby, while still being safe and having a steady flow of people walking past to distract her — and if the woman’s there he’ll make a point of not looking at her once he first sees her. He’ll in fact sit on one of the opposing benches with his back to her and his mother facing her this time in her wheelchair.