Stephen Dixon - 30 Pieces of a Novel

He raises the other blinds without opening them first. “Mom, come on, really, we’re going to lunch. We have to,” and she says, “Why?” “Because it’s good for you. You’ll see. Just getting out and seeing daylight and other people and being in a restaurant and eating is good,” and she says, “Not the way I look.” “So you’ll look better. Angela will help you with your hair and a shower if you didn’t have one; now you just look like you’ve been sleeping.” “Some other time, please, darling.” “No, today, and I’m hungry. Come on, Mom,” even though he thinks maybe she is better off in bed; he could be pushing her too hard. Who was it? Sybil, his wife’s friend, who pushed her mother on a vacation — sort of forced her to see more and more Mayan ruins when the woman that day just wanted to sit by the pool or in the motel room and nap and read — and she got a stroke and died, and she was — what? — a young woman, not even sixty. But if she sleeps it means she won’t eat or exercise or get any fresh air, and she’ll be bored — you lose interest in life, you lose your life, or something like that; at least it doesn’t help you at that age, that’s for sure. She should get up and out; he’s almost positive she should. “What should I do?” he says to Angela. “You gotta do what you gotta do, I suppose. I think she’s had enough sleep and the air will do her good if it’s not too hot.” “It’s mild; it’s okay. Mom, really, we’ll have a good time. I promise I won’t keep you out too long or push you. We’ll go slow. And just say the word and back we’ll go.” “I’m not really hungry today. If you are, the girl can prepare you something here.” “Before you came she did say she didn’t have an appetite,” Angela says. “You’ll do fine once you’re in a restaurant,” he says to his mother. “First a drink: Jack Daniels on the rocks, little water, twist of lemon; that’s your favorite, isn’t it?” and she smiles and says, “You know what I like. I always thought it was the best. What is it, a bourbon, a rye? I never know what to call it.” “It’s a sour mash, I think, which is close to a bourbon.” “They once sent me glasses,” and he says, “I remember, with the Jack Daniels logo on them.” “They were good glasses, too. It was some campaign and the liquor store man said … where was I at the time?” “You were in a liquor store,” he says, “the one on Columbus, down the block, that isn’t there anymore. I remember the story. Buying a bottle of Jack Daniels — a quart — and the salesman from Jack Daniels was there, and the liquor store man said to him, ‘She’s one of our best customers for your Daniels,’ and the man from Daniels said, ‘Then just fill out this slip, ma’am’—you said he had a Southern accent but I don’t see how that could be so.” “It was so long ago, I forgot the story. They must’ve thought I was a real shikker; why else would you give away something like that? But I never really drank that much, and I certainly don’t now. I just happen to prefer Jack Daniels over all those scotches and bourbons and whatever you called that one. But is that how I got those highball glasses, they were for highballs, though I used them for water when guests were here. They took ice well. Me, I like my Jack Daniels in a shorter squatter glass—” “An old-fashioned glass,” he says, and she says, “Yes, one of those. But that was very nice of them to do. It came from Kentucky, the package, and was insured. The postman brought it to the door and I had to sign for it. Eight of them in a box. I didn’t think I’d ever get them. You never do when you just fill out a slip and don’t pay money. And it was pure luck. I walked into the store at the same time the Jack Daniels salesman from Kentucky was in it, selling to the store, I think he was doing. And his company had this campaign, this promotional campaign he called it, and the store salesman probably put in a good word for me because he knew I only bought Jack Daniels and only from him, and I got on the list. I think I still have those glasses.” “No, they’re all broken by now,” he says. “Too bad. They were good glasses. I didn’t use them for my Jack Daniels drinks but I did for beer and soda, though they aren’t the appropriate glasses for beer. Those are different, and which I once had plenty of but they all must have broken by now too. Mugs, steins … the tall ones shaped like cones. …” “Pilsner glasses, I think you mean. Did I ever tell you of the time I was on a train in Czechoslovakia, Sally and Fanny when she was an infant and I, drinking a Pilsner beer in a Pilsner glass, and when I looked out the window at the station we’d just pulled into …” She starts closing her eyes and he says, “Anyway, good memory, Mom, amazing. You got everything. It’s wonderful the way you were able to bring that scene back. Now Angela and I will get you out of bed and she’ll give you a shower and help you brush your hair. Then you and I will go to Ruppert’s and get a drink and some lunch, and after that I’ll push you into the park and we’ll sit at our favorite spot, that food kiosk by Sheep Meadow. It’ll be cooler there than anywhere in the park, that I know of—” “I don’t think I’m up to all that. I’ll even skip the drink. I’m too tired to do anything now but sleep.” “You don’t have to do anything. Angela and I will get you up. She’ll give you a shower and help you dress. All you have to do is sit on that stool in the shower. She’ll even dry you if you’re too weak. Then I’ll get you in the wheelchair and to the street and into the restaurant. Or you can walk behind the chair and push it a little for exercise; by that time you might feel able to. You’ll see; you’ll end up appreciating that I practically forced you to go. You need the change of scenery. Everyone does.” “You’re right. It’s so monotonous here, but I doubt I’ll make it to every place you say you want to take me.” “You’ll make it, you’ll make it. Now, upsy-daisy, Mom, ready?” and she shakes her head and looks as if she’s about to cry, and he says, “Come on, what’s wrong? You’re okay, maybe still a little tired and confused from too much sleep, but you’re ready,” and lifts her from the back, sits her up, and swings her around so her feet rest on the floor. “Now we’ve started. We can’t turn around now, can we?” “Okay,” she says. “You’re too convincing. But I don’t want to be out for very long. My body couldn’t take it. I feel too weak.”

On the street she pushes the wheelchair about twenty feet toward Columbus Avenue and then says, “Something’s not working, I can’t go any further. Let me sit,” and he says, “That was hardly any exercise at all. Just walk to the corner, or halfway to it from here,” and she says, “I’m about to fall any second right here; I feel it,” and he quickly helps her sit, gets her feet on the footrests, and pushes the chair down the block. Someone walking a dog passes, and she says, “Do you know what that woman is?” and he says, “Oh, not again, Mom,” and she says, “A dog walker. I never knew such people existed, but they walk dogs for a living.” “Listen, as I’ve told you many times before, why do you think one person walking a dog is a professional dog walker? If she had five or six dogs, or three or four, and all of them on different kinds of leashes, I could see her being one. But the odds are she’s just the dog’s owner,” and she says, “Oh, no, I’ve heard. She’s a dog walker. It’s a profession I never knew of till someone told me. It’s an interesting thing to do, walk someone else’s dog, and you’d get lots of fresh air and exercise and get to meet lots of people walking their dogs, and it seems easy to do. Hey, do you think they’d give an old lady like me the job? I’d love it,” and he says, “Sure, you can do it from your chair.” “That’s right, I could,” and she smiles. “I’m sorry, that was a mean joke, and I didn’t intend it as such. I don’t know what I was saying,” and she says, “No, it was funny, and you’re right, and I could make extra money. If I do get anything from it I’ll give it all to you. I don’t need it anymore. Dog walkers, though. It’s something, really something to think about. All these new things.”