Stephen Dixon - 30 Pieces of a Novel

It really happened, in somewhat the same way, this morning. All right, a lot different. She threw open the door, scaring him, said, “Hi, Daddy,” he said, “I’m working,” she said, “Should I go away?” and he said, “You can say what you came to say,” and she asked him to type chapter five of her novel Amily . He hasn’t yet and told her he couldn’t right away. “First things first,” he said, “and excuse me but my things before yours before a certain time of the day, say — at least today — around one or two? After that, if I haven’t just started working frantically on something of my own or am in the middle of it and zinging to a finish, I’ll type it gladly. And if I do what I have to before one or two, I’ll type your work even earlier than I thought.” “Okay,” she said, and started to leave, and he said, “One more thing, sweetie. Try knocking lightly on my door next time, don’t just barge in. I don’t want to say you’ll help give me a heart attack — that’ll just scare you — but it does startle me sometimes. Remember that, and now please shut the door,” and she did. She’ll knock hard or burst through the door around one or two, if he’s still here, and ask if he’s typed her chapter, and he’ll say no, if he hasn’t, but will type it by the end of the day, he promises, or certainly before she starts chapter six tomorrow, and please no more knocking on his door so hard or bursting into the room.

Shuts his eyes, thinks, Think again, just a single line to get things going, and pictures — she pops into his mind; he doesn’t draw her up intentionally — his other daughter. “May I use your typewriter?” she says, and he says, “God, you scared the hell out of me,” and she says, “I’m sorry, but you’re so shaky. You drink too much caffeine coffee,” and he says, “It’s not that. Anyone would be jumpy if someone comes up on him from behind, when his eyes are closed and he’s thinking deeply, and suddenly says something. Both of you — your sister … how come Mommy and I failed to make you aware of older people’s delicate nerves and to teach you to tap lightly on the doors of people’s rooms before entering? So do that with the door from now on, or make a lot of noise coming up the stairs, so I’ll know you’re out there and I’ll be prepared if you suddenly open my door — you did that okay, nice and gently — and say something to me. Now, what is it you wanted?” and she says, “You don’t seem in a good mood to do it,” and he says, “What, come on, what?” and she says, “Now you’re even angrier,” and he says, “Will you stop that? I feel all right, not angry, look, my face: no anger; no smile either, but I don’t feel like smiling and neither do you. We can’t just put one on. We’re not that kind of family. Your mother isn’t that way for sure, and I inherited that trait from her,” and she says, “That’s impossible,” and he says, “You’re right, and you know what? That last little run of words of mine made me feel much better, so what is it you came here for, honestly?” and she says, “You made me forget. I know it was for something important.” “My typewriter, right? Don’t ask me how I know. I’m afraid I can’t; I never let anyone use it,” and she says, “I only need it for a little while, and I’m your daughter, not anyone . Besides, even if I had wanted to bring my word processor with us, you wouldn’t have let me. You kept complaining there wasn’t room in the car for anything but the most important things, like your box of wine and typewriter and tons of your papers and yours and Mommy’s books and only our most necessary clothes,” and he says, “Maybe only to my daughters and wife I might loan it for a short time, but it’d have to be very important. What do you want it for?” and she says, “A letter to a friend. She wrote me one on her father’s typewriter, also from the country at their cottage, and I wanted to type mine back to her. It’d only be fair. My cursive is horrible to read, and printing a letter is babyish and would take too long.” “I’m sorry, but this typewriter, since I only brought one of mine up here, is too indispensable to me to risk injuring it with a personal letter you want to write. You kids type on it too hard and keep jamming the keys,” and she says, “I won’t.” “Now, if it was for something to your school or a job application you needed to write or anything like that—” and she says, “You’re so selfish and mean and you won’t even trust me when I promise,” and he says, “You didn’t let me finish,” and she says, “Were you going to say that despite all that, blah blah, you’ll let me borrow it?” and he says, “No, but—” and she leaves and slams the door. “You didn’t have to slam it,” he says. He gets up, throws the door open, and she’s downstairs by now and he yells down them, “You didn’t have to slam the door, Fanny. It didn’t scare me half to death, but it doesn’t reflect well on you, I’ll tell you, not one bit. I don’t like that kind of reaction, that uncontrolled anger. And you have to understand that if my typewriter broke up here it’d take weeks to get repaired. I’d probably have to buy another one during that time, just to have something to work on, because they’re very slow to get typewriter parts where we are — in the whole state of Maine, in fact — and I bet I’d have to drive to Massachusetts to buy a new manual one,” and she says, “Then bring two of them and maybe then you wouldn’t mind me using one, or let me take my word processor next time,” and he says, “Maybe you’re right. Okay, I’ll do that next summer — your word processor. Or I’ll take or UPS up a second manual typewriter. And okay also, you can use this one, but not right now, okay? When I’m done, in a half hour or hour at the most, all right, Fanny?” and she comes to the stairs and says, “Thank you,” and smiles, and he says, “Good, we’re old pals again, and I know you’ll be extra careful with it: just your fingers on the keys, no elbows or toes,” and she says, “Don’t worry, Daddy, I won’t step on it.”

He opens his eyes. Something close to that happened yesterday when he was also looking for a line, couldn’t come up with one, gave up for the time being, and went downstairs for coffee and to read and maybe a quick swim, and said to her, “It’s all yours,” and she took the typewriter to her room, banged away on it for about an hour, and then put it back on the card table. He went to his study right after, not to try and think up a line — by this time he knew he was through for the day — but to check on the shape of the typewriter, and everything was fine, keys weren’t stuck and cover had been neatly put on, and then went downstairs and thought, No swim, sky’s turned gray, and started to prepare salad for supper. But anything in those scenes he can use today? Doesn’t think so, and if there was he probably would have tried using them yesterday. The stuff after he went downstairs and told her she could use the typewriter now? No. A line, he means, or several of them to start off with? Not that he can think of. Afraid not. Not at this present moment. Sorry.

What now? Two days and nothing. Looks up, cups his hands in prayer, and says, “A line, Sir, or a line, Madam or Miss, gibt mir ein line, please. All I need is one, I swear, and away I go and am forever grateful and maybe even a believer. And I’ll be especially fast. Not that time means anything special to You. But my older daughter might want to use the typewriter for another letter — she’s an avid correspondent — and she was so careful with it yesterday that I want to give it to her today without a second thought if she asks and even suggest to her she use it if she doesn’t bring it up herself.” Types: No second thoughts? No. Types: Use it if you want, honey, you were great with it the last time? Nah. Without a fuss he wants to give the machine to her? He wants to give the typewriter to his daughter without a second thought but can’t? He suddenly started to become a believer over the most simple experience? Closes his eyes. Maybe now, he thinks, it’s quiet, and they often come when you least expect them. Maybe now is the time for all good lines to come to the aid of their linemakers , he thinks of using. Did that. Says, “Line, goddamn you, appear!” His wife comes; his eyes are still closed. She says, “I hope I’m not disturbing you.” “Disturbing me? No chance. But how’d you get here? The stairs are so steep. Anyway, this is great. Where are the kids? Out with friends for the afternoon, I bet.” “Oh, sure; don’t you wish. Anyway, I was wondering—” and he says, “But really, how’d you get up here? then wonder,” and she says, “Walked.” “Walked?” “Crawled and walked.” “Crawled?” “Stop mimicking everything I say.” “Stop repeating everything you say?” “Listen, don’t be annoying; I made it somehow and am now here.” “Finally,” he says, “progress. Oh, what am I doing? Here, come kiss me. Or I’ll come to you, since you’re probably too tired after all that crawling and walking to come any farther to me. What is your name?” he says, getting up and walking over and standing beside her. “And you’re standing! How were you able to do that?” “I stood.” “And you don’t have to tell me your name. I know it. Your name is line. Mein line hast komm . My line has come. You know German; I don’t. My wonderful kind line has finally come. But I’ll go to her. Oops, I forget, I’m already standing beside her. I went, after it came up to me, and am now beside my line.” Smooths back her hair. “And a beauty of a line it is, too. Line, how are you, how you doing, line? I am going to line you because you came all the way up to me and stood and kept standing despite what I know are tremendous difficulties.” “What’s come over you, Gould? You sound positively bonkers.” “Positively. Right. And why? Because I’ve been longing for my line for a long time. Because my line finally came. Because—” “Because you’re saying what you’re saying. Listen, all I came up here for and was wondering about is when are we going swimming?” “You want to go swimming? You mean in the Y pool?” “No, in the lake.” “How can you? You haven’t been in it for years.” “Well, I want to go now. I came up here, I’m standing, I want to swim in the lake. So I’m asking you when we can. Now? Soon? I’d take the car myself but it’s been so long since I’ve driven that I’ve forgotten how.” “Okay, soon,” he says, and kisses her. First he embraces her. Before that he feels her. “Yes, it’s you, all of you,” he said while he was feeling her. “Your thighs, buttocks, back. Your shoulders, head, neck. I’m telling you, it’s you, really you. Your waist, pubic area, breasts. And your name’s Sally and I’ve been silly.” Opens his eyes. Did a line come? Thinks. Surely out of so much, there had to be one. In spite of what he said about a line coming up, no. “Silly Sally? Sally Silly?” Those aren’t lines. Or they’re lines, but they’re not … anyway, it’s not working. Maybe his mom.