Stephen Dixon - 30 Pieces of a Novel

Three blocks later there’s a man sitting on the ground in front of the Korean restaurant Gould’s said a few times he wants to take the family to or order in from — and the kids always say if he does they won’t eat — with his arms out and pants legs rolled up and saying loudly, to no one in particular, it seems, “Don’t walk by me like that. People, you see the condition I’m in. You’re not blind and me neither. I’m destitute and crippled and I wouldn’t be lying here if I didn’t have to, but I have no home. Please, people, help a poor cripple with a family dying for food,” and her father stops, and she says, “You think he’s really poor and hurt and his family?” and he says, “Maybe you’re right; it is quite a story”—he’d just started searching through his pants pockets for change—“but then again, what’s a quarter?” and holds one up and says, “Want to put it in his paper cup?” “I don’t like him. Even if he’s telling the truth, he shouldn’t be scaring children with his begging and screaming for help and showing the ugly sores on his legs,” and he says, “Okay, you don’t have to,” and goes over and drops the quarter into the cup, and the man says, “God bless you, sir,” but doesn’t smile — he looks at her father as if he wants to spit on him; that’s what it seems like to her — and her father says, “Thank you,” and comes back and takes her hand and they walk and she doesn’t want to talk anymore, just stares straight ahead, and he thinks, What’s she moody about now? What’d he do? The man? What was so bad about that? and it only took a few seconds; and she thinks, If they don’t talk they’ll walk faster and get home sooner. If he does talk to her she’ll first pretend not to hear and if he says it again she’ll answer with a yes or no but something quick and then pretend she’s thinking to herself again, and maybe he’ll stop talking or at least asking her questions, when she sees coming toward them and walking her dog a woman from their building, someone her father always stops to talk with, either in the lobby or street or anyplace they meet, even in the elevator. She’s a college teacher of a subject he’s interested in, she doesn’t remember exactly what but it has to do with books they both read, and he says, “Hey, how you doing?” and stops, and then, “Josephine, don’t go away, I only want to say hello — a second, sweetie, I promise,” but she keeps going, faster, starts running, and he says to the woman, “See what I’m up against sometimes? She’s just come from camp, probably got overtired there — talk to you soon and best to Alan”—and runs after her, but she’s nowhere around. The Drive maybe, and he runs to the corner but doesn’t see her going down the hill on either side street. She’s small, and he runs across the street to make sure she’s not walking or hiding behind a parked car. So where the hell is she? Hates it when she does this. She’s pulled it on him a few times — his other daughter used to wander off, still does, but not because she was angry at anything he did; she’d get interested in some store window or store and would forget she was with him — and he’s told Josephine — told them both — how he feels about it. It’s not because he then has to look for her. Someone could snatch her, especially on the side streets between Riverside and Broadway where there are fewer people around. Is that overdoing it? No, it’s being realistic. A couple of these side streets — not this one — have SRO hotels and a lot of seedy characters in them — you can sometimes see them hanging out the windows and on the stoops — and there’s a church two blocks away that feeds lunch to the homeless and some of those guys hang around after and he’s sure are responsible for a lot of the cars being busted into in the neighborhood and who knows what else?

She’s in a store, watching him through the window. A drugstore, the only one of the nearby stores she quickly looked at that she thought she could go in without them asking where were her parents or babysitter. He’s always teaching her a lesson, so here’s one for him: when she wants to go home, he should take her, because he can’t pretend this time she didn’t tell him. If he wants to talk to people so much when he’s walking with her, let him arrange to talk with them on the phone or meet them for coffee later.

He goes inside a store: women’s shoes. She wouldn’t come in here, her sister would, so why’d he? “Excuse me,” when a saleswoman gets up from a chair and starts over, about to ask what can she do for him, “but I’m looking for my daughter. Young, small, dark hair, in shorts?” and she says, “How recent?” and he says, “At the most, minute and a half ago,” and she says no but the look says she doesn’t believe him. Why else she think he’d come in here? Maybe it’s just that she had to get out of the chair, but can’t she see he’s worried? “Thank you,” and goes to a bookstore two stores away — store between is a tiny chocolate shop with only a few feet of space for customers, and he saw through its window she wasn’t there — looks up the five or so aisles and goes back outside and looks around. She’s never gone off for so long on their walks home. Chances are slim anything can happen to her, but they still exist and does he really know how slim the chances are? Slim for what age, hers, or for kids younger and older? She could be home now, if she ran all the way. There’s a phone on the next corner, and he should call from it to see if she’s there. But if she is looking at him from a hiding place now she’ll see how worried he looks and will probably show herself soon. Maybe he should put it on a bit, look even more worried, till she thinks she’s gone far enough in this trick or in getting even with him or whatever she’s doing it for, and that if she doesn’t he could get so worried that when he does finally see her, since she has to come out sometime, he might explode. The drugstore, he just notices; that should have been the first place he checked. His girls love looking at the makeup and hair stuff and the new things they have for kids their age — though he’s almost sure she’s just hiding somewhere, not looking at store shelves, though there’s also that chance she’s already home. Just go in, nothing to lose, quick peek — and heads for the store. She sees him coming and thinks, Better leave before he gets here so he won’t be even madder that he had to go in to find her and she didn’t come out on her own.

He reaches for the door handle; she’s pushing the door open. “There you are,” he says; “Jesus, was I worried. What’ve you been up to?” and she says, “What do you mean? I’ve been here,” and he says, “I know, I can see that, you’re not a ghost, you didn’t just fly in, but what were you doing in there?” and she says, “I came in to see if they had something,” and he says, “What?” and she says, “Are you getting mad? I can hear it in your voice. If you are, you should stop now, Daddy; that’s what Mommy says, stop it when it starts,” and he says, “Just answer me normally: what were you looking for that was so important?” and she says, “A shampoo conditioner Fanny and I like, but they didn’t have it,” and he says, “You were going to buy it?” and she says, “No, I was going to ask you for the money,” and he says, “Come on, what’re you handing me? Listen, I don’t like it, your running away and hiding from me,” and she says, “I didn’t, I told you. I came in here and I thought you knew,” and he says, “All right, you want to lie to me? You think I’m not smart enough to see through your actions and fibs both? We’ll call it a big fib, to be generous and not carry this to where we’re really angry at each other—” and she says, “You’re the one who’s angry, I’m not,” and he says, “Fine, have it your own way, but you know how I feel and that I’d also like you to be more honest,” and she says, “Okay. I ran away and inside here, but I had to. If I didn’t, you’d take forever to get home. If I frightened you—” and he says, “Who said you did? I was worried, like any father would be when his little girl suddenly disappears on the street, but I knew you’d turn up. And now you’re here, we’re together again, I don’t have to look for you anymore, so good, I’m glad, but please don’t do it again. Never, you hear? It’s wrong to treat me like that,” and she says, “And it’s wrong too for you to treat me the way you do on the street. Talking to everyone,” and he says, “So your father knows a lot of people; what’s he supposed to be, if they want to talk to him, rude?” and she says, “Yes,” and he says, “You can’t be, it isn’t right. And if someone old needs a cab or to get across the street, you help them, or if just a quarter to give a guy, that too. That’s what people should do: learn that,” and she says, “Not when their daughter has to get home,” and he says, “All right, right now you’ll never quit, so let’s go home and we’ll talk about it some more there. And we’re even: my stopping to talk with people and your worrying me,” and she says, “You won’t get more angry over it with me at home?” and he says, “No, you proved your little point pretty well,” and she says, “It isn’t so little,” and he says, “Fine, it isn’t, I’ll agree on that if you’ll agree that I had good reason to be somewhat worried about you and that it’s something you shouldn’t do again,” and she looks away, and he says, “You’re not answering?” and she continues to look in the direction she wants to walk, maybe he’ll get the hint, she thinks, though she’s not going to start walking to really make it obvious, that’d make him mad, and he says, “We’ll settle that later too, but calmly, don’t worry; I intend to be extra calm and reasonable with you,” and takes her hand and she pulls it back, and he says, “Come on, Josephine, give me your beautiful hand,” and takes it and they head home along Broadway.