Stephen Dixon - 30 Pieces of a Novel

At the corner she says, “See those windows?” and he looks across the street where she’s pointing and says, “Which ones?” “All. The entire building has new windows, you don’t see? They’re a new kind. They never get dirty, outside or in.” “I don’t see the difference from regular windows, and their frames don’t look new,” and she says, “Oh, yes, someone told me about it. Very expensive to put in, but in the long run it pays off. Special wires or fibers in them you can’t see that always keep the panes shiny and clean. I never knew such things existed. I should replace my old windows with them. They also keep the cold out better and the heat in, so you save on fuel and electrical bills, and it’d mean no window washers every fall and spring. That I’d really be thankful for. With them, you make an appointment and then wait around all day and they rarely show up. But I’m an old lady and I’d be throwing away money on the new windows, since I won’t be around long enough to take advantage of the savings.” “What are you saying? You’ll be around plenty long; you’ll outlive me. You’re healthy most of the time, just a little weak today and probably from the heat. If you want those windows or more information about them, I’ll look into it,” and she says, “No, it’s too late.”

On Columbus, couple of blocks from the restaurant, she points across the avenue and says, “They put in all new fire escapes there. It’s the city law now,” and he says, “Where, which building? They all look the same to me,” and she says, “The green one.” “Green?” and she says, “Well, maybe not green — my eyes — but that dark one I’m pointing to. It used to be a landlord could have either inside sprinklers or fire escapes; that was the fire law. But now the law says you need both. So that building there had to install them.” “Mom, those fire escapes are old; they’ve been there since I was a kid,” and she says, “Oh, no, they were only recently put on, two months ago, maybe three. It’s the law now, but only for apartment buildings of up to six stories. It was because of some terrible fire last year where several children died. I don’t know how they think they’re going to save those kids from the taller buildings. Maybe they think every building seven stories and up has elevators, but that’s what’s happening.” “If you say so. But if those fire escapes are new, then something’s already wrong with the paint job they did, for even from here I can see it’s peeling.” “Don’t kid me, you can’t see that well from so far. But every building of that size and lower will have to have them, mine too, of course. It’s going to ruin the architecture of this neighborhood and cost the landlords a fortune. A city of fire escapes, it’ll come to be known as. Ugly and creepy, like everywhere you look, skeletons. And in back too if the building isn’t made up completely of floor-through apartments, which the majority aren’t. I’ll have to take out an enormous second loan.”

A half block from the restaurant they bump into a friend of his mother’s. “How are you, Mrs. Silbert?” he says. His mother just stares up at the woman, and he says, “Mom, your friend, Marjorie Silbert,” and his mother says, “Hello, how have you been? It’s so good to see you,” and shakes the woman’s hand, and the woman says, “I’m fine, thanks. I’ve wanted to come by, Bea, but haven’t been my old self lately. But soon,” and his mother says, “Good, we’d love having you. Come for dinner. Call beforehand, and I’ll make sure the girl prepares something nice for us and goes out for some schnapps.” “Your mother’s looking well,” the woman says, “she’s feeling well too?” and he says, “Seems to be,” and his mother says, “What am I, a ghost? Ask me and I’ll tell you. I’m tired, dear, then more tired. It must be the weather because it can’t be my age. Otherwise, no complaints, especially when my son’s in town for a while and his lovely family. You know Gould, don’t you?” and the woman says, “You’re lucky to have family around even for a short time. My two won’t come near New York,” and kisses his mother on the cheek, says, “I’ll telephone you and come over, we’ll have a long chat,” and goes. “That was nice bumping into her,” he says, “always such a pleasant, elegant lady,” and she says, “Who is she, a friend of yours?” and he says, “I told you, Marjorie Silbert, from the block,” and she says, “She looks awful, no wonder I didn’t recognize her,” and he says, “She doesn’t look bad, always a nice smile and nicely dressed,” and she says, “Awful, like death’s knocking on her door.” “Nah, come on, you’re exaggerating. And I’m surprised you didn’t recognize her. You and Dad were good friends with her and her husband, both dentists — though he died long ago. I used to play with their younger girl,” and she says, “I hope you didn’t knock her up; that’d be scandalous for us,” and he says, “We were little. Kindergarten through about the fourth grade. Then she went to some expensive girls’ school on the East Side and from then on wouldn’t give me or any of the other boys on the block the time of day. But they lived down the street from you — Mrs. Silbert still does, or Dr. Silbert; that’s right, doctor — number one-forty-three. She owns the building; they had their dental practices on the first floor.” “No, don’t tell me. If it was true, I’d know immediately who she is,” and he says, “Mom, no offense meant, but something’s really happening to your memory. You’re sharp in a lot of ways, and when you do latch on to a memory you create a big, full picture, but you have to try and use it more. You got to make an effort to remember who people are, where you are, and what day it is and all those things.” “No, you’re kidding me. My mind’s not so bad. But you can’t tell me I know that woman and she’s lived on our street that long. I was always bad with names but never faces.” “Okay,” he says, “okay. But what are you going to do if she calls you and wants to come over and chat?” and she says, “I’ll let her. When you’re not around no one comes by but friends of the girls who look after me, so I can use the company.”

He gets her in a seat in the restaurant, folds up the wheelchair, and puts it to the side of the bar. “Did you look at the menu yet?” he says, sitting down, and she says, “I’m not hungry at all. I don’t know why you brought me here,” and he says, “To get you out and to eat. This’ll be both breakfast and lunch. What do you think you want?” “You know, my eyes — I can’t see the print too well, so you pick something for me. I’m sure it’ll be good,” and he says, “Like to start off with a soup?” and she says, “I never liked soup, though at some dinner parties with your dad I often had to pretend I did,” and he says, “Since when? You usually like the soups here, even when it’s hot out. And if you don’t want a hot soup today, you could have a cold one, like. …” and he looks at the menu, and she says, “No, no, no, no soup, I don’t eat them, I’m telling you.” “Okay, something with fish, meat, a smoked turkey sandwich, hamburger, turkey burger?” and she says, “I don’t want meat. It upsets my stomach, takes too long to digest, keeps me up, and I’ve learned things about it recently: undercooked meat and its problems and the bacteria meat collects if it’s left out too long,” and he says, “Good, you’re reading the newspaper again,” and she says, “I heard it on the all-news channel I get. A terrific bore to sit in front of for a few hours straight. But it does pass the time and is better than most of the rubbish on, and occasionally there’s an interesting story.” “Then how about a salad?” and she says, “What am I, a rabbit, that I should just have salad?” and he says, “That’s something like what Dad used to say,” and she says, “Well, every now and then your father said some smart things — he knew about life,” and he says, “Yes, no; on some things: money, for instance, and how to make it. Anyway, it doesn’t have to be just vegetables in the salad. There could be tuna in it, grilled chicken, marinated steak strips, it says here. Lots of things like that. But you don’t want to eat meat”—because she’s shaking her head—“okay.” “It’s funny, though, but I never liked tuna, not even when I was a little girl and it was all the rage. Real fish in a can that isn’t sardines, people thought. Oh, boy, how everybody got excited when it first appeared in our neighborhood grocery store. But it’s always been too oily for me, and smells. Your father loved tuna, canned or fresh, and the oilier the better, but especially mackerel,” and he says, “We had mackerel in the house? I don’t recall, nor Dad liking tuna that much. I also don’t remember your ever serving fresh tuna,” and she says, “Restaurants.” “Oh. What about a pasta dish? They have hot and cold and in all sorts of shapes: curly, long, penne, which I remember from someplace but now forget what it is, and a cold pasta salad too, again a penne,” and she says, “Too doughy; may as well eat bread, and the sauce will make a junkyard of my blouse,” and he says, “You’re right, I should’ve thought of that. Eggs. What the hell, you always liked them, omelets or otherwise, even though they’re not supposed to be great for people. But at your age, why worry about it? You’ve passed the possibility of those kinds of complications from foods,” and she says, “Eggs, then, a good choice. Fried with the eyes up, but not too runny, and let me have a few strips of bacon, well done,” and he says, “Fine.” She doesn’t eat and he doesn’t touch her food, though she’s constantly offering it—“The cholesterol, I’m not supposed to,” he says, “and my salad’s enough”—so her lunch is wasted. She sips a few times from her Jack Daniels, but that’s all, plus a sesame stick. “No taste for anything today, I’m afraid — I told you.” When he comes back from the men’s room, she’s sleeping. “Maybe,” he says to the waiter, who starts cleaning up around them, “I should let her nap awhile, and I’ll have a refill on my coffee,” and the waiter says, “Whatever’s your enjoyment,” but he can see the waiter doesn’t like the idea — place is busy and though there are a few free tables, his might all be occupied — so he says, “No, I should get her home, let her sleep there, peaceful as she is now. And she’ll be embarrassed if she finds she’s been napping in public,” and the waiter says, “So I should forget the coffee, I presume,” and gives him the check. He touches her and says, “Mom? Mom, we have to go,” when she starts stirring, and she says, “I wasn’t sleeping, I want you to know. Just closed my eyes to rest them. There must be a lot of pollution in the air for them to get so tired. What time is it?” and he says, “Ten after two,” and she says, “It’s so light for two o’clock, when usually my eyes see things darker,” and he says, “Two in the afternoon,” and she says, “Of course, even though restaurants around here are still serving that late in the evening. But how dumb of me.” “No, you’re just momentarily disoriented; so who isn’t?” He walks her out, then says, “Jesus, what was I thinking? Hold on to the wall here, I’ll get the chair,” and she says, “I don’t think I can.” “Sir,” he says to a young man passing, “could you please hold my mother up by the arm while I get her wheelchair from inside?” and the man says, “Why didn’t you bring it first?” and he says, “She said it was all right, that she could stand and wait, but suddenly doesn’t feel well,” and the man says, “Go get it,” and holds her, and he gets the chair and says to her while she’s standing, “You want to walk behind it and push it for a block?” and she says, “Let me sit for a second,” and he sits her in the chair and says, “So after you catch your breath, you want to walk behind the chair for a block?” and she says, “Why’d you lie to that nice man?” and he says, “Why, what’d I say?” and she says, “Why are you now lying, or — I’ll be kinder to you — fibbing to me again?” “I don’t know what you mean,” and she says, “Each new thing you say makes it worse for you. Why are you doing that?” and he says, “Shoo, are you suddenly sharp! I’m glad to see it,” and she says, “And why are you still trying to fabricate your way out of my original question?” and he says, “And what was that? Okay. Because I felt embarrassed at my stupidity in getting you out here before I got the wheelchair. That make you feel better?” and she says, “Please don’t speak to me like that; I don’t deserve it,” and he says, “I’m sorry, really sorry. I just should’ve admitted my error right off to the man. I’ve always got out of spots like that by dissembling, but I’ll try not to anymore,” and she says, “You didn’t even have to explain to him. Just say, ‘Would you mind holding my mother’s arm while I get the wheelchair from inside?’” and he says, “Isn’t that what I said?” and she says, “But with the long apology you made, I think,” and he says, “Sure, that’s even better, what you suggested; that’s what I’ll do next time. Now, want me to help you to stand so you can push the chair from behind for a couple of blocks?” and she says, “Before it was one, now it’s two?” and he says, “Hoo-hoo, are you ever cooking. Okay, one or two. It’s good exercise for your legs, which you don’t do enough of, according to Angela. You don’t want those muscles to atrophy. That would be catastrophic, the doctor says,” and she says, “Everyone has to get his two cents in. No, I’m feeling too weak to walk.” “You’re really tired today, aren’t you?” and she says, “That’s what I’ve been saying. I’m glad at last it’s registered.”