Stephen Dixon - 30 Pieces of a Novel

He takes her hand and they walk. He asks her who she plays with at camp; she says, “Avery’s my best friend there, I play with her the same every day.” “Every is your friend Avery day?” and she says, “Are you making fun of her name? That’s not nice, and you and Mommy tell me on things like that not to,” and he says, “No, it’s only I just noticed the closeness of the two words.” “Avery isn’t a word, it’s a name,” and he says, “Right, you win. Listen, the lunch I made you today, was it enough?” and she says, “It was fine.” “Did it taste okay and there was sufficient variety?” and she says, “I said it was fine.” “You got the box of chocolate kisses in the bag, didn’t you?” and she says, “Don’t lie.” “Are you still mad at me for talking so long with those men? You know I couldn’t help it. I haven’t seen Lenny, the tall one, for a while. You heard, we go as far back as college together, when between the two of us we had a full head of hair. No, the truth is he was always balder than I. And you don’t want me to be impolite on the street. He can call the cops and have me arrested. That’s why it’s best not to be stopped by anyone outside with a cellular phone.” “He didn’t have any, and you’re not being funny. And if he’s your friend you shouldn’t talk about his being bald that way.” “Why, he brought it up, and I was referring to my own baldness too. But tell me — this is important for tomorrow — do you want cream cheese on your lunch bagel instead of peanut butter, or peanut butter and jelly? Actually, if it gets too warm out the cream cheese can spoil, while the peanut butter or peanut butter and jelly — oh, my goodness, look who’s there.” A man’s standing at the corner not too far away, smiling and shaking his head and waiting for them, she’s sure. She doesn’t recognize him but she knows he’s going to stop her father and they’re going to waste more time talking of nothing that interests her till she gets mad. “What do you know,” Gould says, “Burton Minowitz. We haven’t run into each other since yesterday,” and they shake hands and the man says, “It’s true, I can’t walk on Broadway three blocks without seeing you. What’re you doing, following me?” and he says, “You got it. A big investigation, Josephine’s really the lead detective, and they only put me on with her to make her cover look visually more realistic, right, sweetheart?” and she thinks, Does he want her to answer that? Well, she won’t; whatever she says it’ll just lead to more silly talk from them. “Look, Burt, I wish I had the time to chat about everything that’s happened to you and me since yesterday, but she’s got to get home.” She does, she thinks, but not like the way he said it. It’s as if she’s sick instead of bored with their talk. “You just pick her up from camp? I can tell by the sack-my boy has the identical one in blue,” and she thinks, Oh, God, no, and her father says, “Yup, a few minutes ago,” and the man says, “Which one you go to, honey?” and she says, “June camp,” and her father says, “The one at St. Matthew’s between West End and Broadway,” and the man says, “We’re sending our boy to Cathedral; it’s where I’m off to right now. St. Matt’s would be a lot closer, but he wanted to be with his friends.” “Our older girl went there two years ago and we found it sort of not together … was it two years ago or three?” he asks her, and she says, “I don’t know. Can we go?” and he says, “In a minute. Anyway, the kids were sort of rough, or unruly, rather, and the counselors somewhat apathetic and negligent, I thought. I was afraid they’d lose her when they went on a trip to Liberty Island,” and the man says, “Haven’t seen anything like that. Aaron loves it, the other boys are friendly, and the counselors are very responsive and conscientious,” and she starts walking; she’s not going to stay for any of this anymore. Are all men her father’s and that man’s age — older fathers, she’s saying — big blabberers? If her father doesn’t chase after her, she’s going to walk the rest of the way to their building; she knows where it is, not the street number so much but the stores on the Broadway corner of the street it’s on, and it’s at the bottom of the hill on the right and faces the river. “Wait, Josephine — listen, Burt, you see what’s happening; some other time,” and runs after her, and Burt says, “But I’m going that way — we should’ve just walked together,” and Gould catches up with her, grabs her hand to stop her, and says, “Just say you want me to take you home, that’s all you have to do,” and she says, “I said so, and I thought you knew it.” “All right, all right, maybe you did. So what do you want? Want a bagel along the way — something else?” and she says, “First let’s cross the street. That man’s behind us, and if he catches us we’ll only go slow,” and they cross Broadway and she wants a bagel, she’s hungry, but doesn’t want to stop anymore. He might see someone he knows in the bagel place or even while he’s looking out the window while they’re waiting in line, and then he could yell out the store to that person if the door’s open or run after them, even, once she got her bagel, and so on. She only wants to go home, even if there are no bagels there. She and Fanny ate the last two this morning unless he bought some since then. “Did you or Fanny buy bagels today for home?” and he says, “Why, should we stop for some? That’ll mean crossing Broadway again if you want to get them hot at Ray’s Bagels,” and she says, “I’d rather go home. Can we take a taxi?” and he says, “For what, seven blocks? Come on, you got strong legs — we’ll be home in twelve minutes if we walk at a fast clip,” and they walk a block and a half, he asks her about camp, same questions he asks every camp day and she answers them the same, but he smiles and says things like “No kidding” and “Wow, that sounds like fun,” as if he’s hearing her answers for the first time, when he says, “Excuse me, sweetie,” and lets go of her hand and goes over to a very old lady who seems to be having trouble stepping off the curb, she keeps raising one foot and then putting it back down on the same place, and he says, “Need any assistance getting across the street, ma’am?” and she says, “No, in getting a cab. If I try waving my cane or hand for one I’ll get all unbalanced and trip,” and he says, “I’ll hail one,” and Josephine thinks, Oh, darn, why can’t others do it? Why’s it always have to be him? More time wasted, and suppose no taxis come? and he says to her, “Stay here while I get a cab for the woman,” and she thinks, Yeah yeah, and he goes into the street and signals for a cab and several pass and he keeps signaling and one stops and he opens the door and helps the woman off the sidewalk and into the cab and she doesn’t say thank you. She speaks to the driver and then sits back and faces front and her father shuts the door and through the window says goodbye. The lady just stares at him — no smile, even — as the taxi pulls away.

“That lady was rude,” she says, walking, and he says, “Why, what’d she do to you?” and she says, “Not me; she didn’t thank you for what you did,” and he says, “Listen, you just want to do good, don’t ask or expect anything in return, and you and the rest of the world will be much better off, not only because of what you’ve done, but—” and she says, “That’s not how you tell me to act when someone helps. And it’s so easy — it’s just the lips you have to move,” and he says, “You’ve young lips; even mine are young, in comparison. Hers are much older and something might be hurting them or some other place in her or she could be partly demented, which one can become at that age,” and she thinks, What’s demented? No, it’ll take him a long time to tell her, and if it’s complicated he’ll slow down or even stand still to make sure she gets it, so she doesn’t ask, and he thinks, She doesn’t know what that word means; she can’t, and he Says, “By demented, I meant-” and she says, “I Know, I Know,” and he says, “What?” and she says, “You don’t have to tell me, I’m not in school,” and walks faster, and he has to run to catch up with her and takes her hand and they walk.