Stephen Dixon - 30 Pieces of a Novel

He sees his mother’s best friend from the block and yells out, “Margaret, Margaret!” and says to his mother, “Mom, there’s Margaret,” and Margaret stops, looks around, catches him waving at her from about forty feet away; What do you know, what a nice surprise, her look seems to say, and she starts over to them while he wheels his mother to her. They’re on Columbus Avenue, around three in the afternoon on a normal weekday, but the sidewalks and restaurant patios are all crowded, sky’s darkening and wind picks up a bit, and it looks and feels like rain though no one seems to be hurrying to avoid it. “Listen, maybe I shouldn’t have stopped her, because we haven’t got too long to talk,” he tells his mother, leaning over her wheelchair. “I don’t want us to get caught in the downpour,” and she says, “Why would we?” and he doesn’t know if she means get caught in the downpour or talk too long, when Margaret reaches them. “Beatrice, Gould, how are you?” she says, bending down to take his mother’s hand while she kisses her cheek. He kisses Margaret and says, “And how are you doing? It’s been awhile,” and his mother looks up at her, doesn’t seem to recognize her — maybe she’s tired; this is around the time she takes a nap, and she had a good-sized drink at lunch just now — and then says, “Oh, my dear, it’s a treat to see you,” and he’s still not sure she recognizes her. “Did my son tell you we’d be here?” and he says, “No, Mom, we just happened to bump into her.” “I’ve lost so much weight lately and also with this ugly scarf covering my head, I’m surprised you noticed me from that far away,” and his mother says, “But now I can see you and recall all the kind things you’ve done for us, but I’ve always had a problem with names.” “It’s Margaret, Mom. From the street. How are you feeling, though?” he says to Margaret, and she says, “I’ve been terrible, to tell the truth. I hate to complain, so don’t let me start in about it and bore you, but I’ve had big troubles, I’m afraid; a fluke to end all flukes.” “Do you think it’s going to rain?” his mother asks him, and he says, “Why, you want to get back? You tired, cold? Because I don’t think the sky looks too threatening,” and she says, “It wouldn’t bother me, a little rain. I’d even like it — the drops on me; something different for a change. But I didn’t think you’d want to get soaked.” “Why don’t we all walk together then, if you’re heading home,” to Margaret, and she says, “I was actually on my way to Pioneer for a few things.” “So, how are you, dear?” his mother says. “You’re looking fine,” and she says, “I was just telling Gould that I haven’t been that well lately. I’ve had big troubles, something entirely unforeseen, Beatrice,” and his mother says, “At our age it’s always one setback after the next. Either we lose somebody or we lose some part of our body. I’m sick of doctors. It never lets up and they’re all no good.” “Mom, excuse me, but let her finish,” and Margaret says, “But if she’s tired or cold?” and he says, “You’re okay, aren’t you, Mom?” and she says, “If you say so — only kidding. I’m not quite up to par today, but I’ll survive, why?” and Margaret says to him, “If there’s a cloudburst?” and he says, “Believe me, we both would rather know how you are, and we’ll just duck in someplace if it rains and then get a cab somehow,” and Margaret says, “Well, it’s a ridiculous thing; and talk about the unexpected, this one takes the cake. I had a mole I didn’t know about on my scalp,” and he slaps his hand to his mouth and looks at his mother, and she’s staring up at her placidly. “Or maybe this mole all of a sudden grew there, but at the beauty parlor six months ago the girl cutting my hair nicked it with her scissors. Really, the first time I was ever nicked with scissors or hurt in a beauty parlor in any way, not even my nails, and I’ve been going to one every two months for more than fifty years and it has to be this one tiny mole on my head. And something went wrong with it — you both know how that can happen with moles — and it quickly spread and now I’m getting radiation for it every other day and they think they might get it under control.” “No! Oh, my goodness,” he says, and his mother looks alarmed at him and says, “What is it? Is it your wife? One of your children? He has two young girls”—to Margaret — and he says, “No, they’re okay,” and, to Margaret, “I’m so sorry, so sorry,” and she says, “That’s why I’m wearing this kerchief. From where they cut, and also some hair falling out. But I’m hoping for the best; what else can I do for now? Just, I’ve been feeling sick so much of the time because of the treatments. The stuff I’m going to Pioneer for is really for my stomach, to settle it, since I hardly eat anymore, even if they say I’m supposed to. But how can I eat when everything I put down wants to come up?” and he says, “I can’t believe it. God, what happens in life!” and she says, “Isn’t it amazing? But if I don’t get cured I at least know I had three wonderful sons and lived my normal life span and maybe a decade beyond,” and he says, “Don’t talk like that. You’ll get better,” and she says, “I pray so. Now you get your mother home. I also didn’t go out with an umbrella — this weather wasn’t expected. The radio said it’d be mild and sunny all day, and for some reason rain’s not supposed to be good for me, not just sun,” and he says, “Because of the radiation?” and she says, “Maybe I have it wrong. It could be the sun that’s the one bad egg, which is another reason I wore the kerchief. Goodbye, Beatrice,” and his mother says, “Are you going so soon? Don’t be such a stranger, dear; come and see me,” and she says, “I’ve been meaning to but things have sort of slowed me down lately. But I’ll try; I love our talks,” and they kiss and he kisses her and wheels his mother toward home. “Tell me, was that Margaret from our block I just spoke to?” and he says, “Yes, your old drinking buddy,” and she laughs and says, “When was that? But she’s not been well, has she? I could tell by her voice. So weak. And something about her expression.” “She’s sick, all right,” and she says, “What of?” and he tells her about the accident and now the radiation, and she says, “Age is an awful thing. People today live too long, I honestly believe that,” and he says, “It has nothing to do with age. You know her; she was strong as an ox. Lifting heavy garbage cans, shoveling snow and washing her windows outside and in. It was that fluke accident, as she said,” and she says, “How?” and he says, “I told you,” and she says, “Tell me again. With all this street noise and because you’re speaking behind me, it’s sometimes difficult to hear.” About a month later, when he calls his mother, the woman taking care of her and who answered the phone says, “You remember Margaret, your mother’s good friend, the one who used to come by here every week or two and they’d talk and have drinks and cheese?” and he says, “She died, didn’t she,” and she says, “You knew? It only happened a few days ago. The mailman, Frank, told me,” and he says, “No, but I saw her when I took Beatrice out last time I was there, and she said what was wrong with her and it really seemed bad,” and the woman says, “They were a real pair. Talked and laughed; I never knew what it was over, but she was the only one your mother did that with and it could go on for hours. She’s going to be real sorry when she hears about it,” and he says, “Maybe it’s best we don’t tell her,” and she says, “What about when she asks me to phone Margaret to come by and for me to make sure there’s enough Jack Daniels left for them, which she used to do regularly?” and he says, “Has she done it recently?” and she says, “No, but she’s going to, I feel it, and I don’t know how I’ll be able to lie to her with a straight face,” and he says, “I think she’s already sensed something was wrong — the way Margaret looked last time and her not seeing or hearing from her for so long — and, I don’t know, has put it out of her mind because it’s too sad to think about. It’s a real loss, besides that she was such a nice person. Is my mother able to come to the phone?” and she shouts out, “Mrs. B, your son’s on the phone, pick up,” and his mother picks up the phone in her room, and he says, “How you feeling, Mom?” and she says, “Could be better, I guess. Do you remember my dear friend Margaret?” and he says, “Yes, sure, down the block, brownstone next to the big apartment building,” and she says, “She owns it, you know. She used to work for this elderly couple — years ago — she and her husband, though she did most of it, laundry, cooking, small repairs, and all the custodial work, when first one and then the other of this couple quickly died and they left only Margaret the building. Her husband was no good. A charmer, from Portugal, and a ladies’ man they said — she told me everything — so he used to disappear for months on end. I haven’t seen her for a long time. I don’t think it’s a mystery either but that it’s because she died. No one phoned me, not that I could have gone to the funeral. I don’t have the heart or energy for those things anymore. Do you know anything about it?” and he says, “Unfortunately, you’re right. I just found out myself. And if her sons didn’t tell you, I’m sure it’s because they thought you had problems enough. What a wonderful person, though, huh? and what a friend to you,” and she says, “It’s such a pity. All the old-timers from the block are either gone or they’ve moved away and you never hear from them again, and I don’t even think I have any sisters or my brother left. But how’s your wife? The kids? All my little darlings. Everyone’s okay?”