Stephen Dixon - 14 Stories

“Bull,” he says.

“Tony, drop the club.”

I drop it.

“You didn’t mean what you said,” he says. “Too bad. It would have been nice sticking it in her and then pulling it out quick and fighting you off with a couple of feints and slices or two and then sticking it in you. Maybe not nice. But different. And I could do that. I’m ready. I hope you believe that. Sure you do. And I’m very very good with this knife. So maybe you should try,” he says to me. “Come on. Pick up your club and try and get me.”

“Don’t, Tony.”

I don’t. “I wasn’t going to hit you with it anyway,” I say to him. “Just go. Leave us alone.”

“No, come on,” he says. “If you don’t come at me with the club I’m going to stick the knife in Della’s neck.”

“No.” I sit on the bed.

“You want me to stick it in her neck?”

“No.”

“Where then?”

“No place. All I want is for you to go.”

“Just stay there like that, Tony,” she says. “This will be over soon. Or in an hour. Or a day. Then it’ll be over. But you’re being smart. Even if he knifes me don’t attack him and risk your life. Only attack him if he comes after you. But now just leave him alone. He’ll eventually go.”

“Don’t be too sure,” he says. “Come on, big boy, come try to get me with the club.”

I lie on the bed, head on the pillow, arms over my chest.

“Then I’m going to put it in her back or neck.”

“Please don’t,” she says.

“Even if you do, it’ll be her neck and she’ll be dead. So what’s the sense of risking my life for her as she said?”

“Because you’ll have a better chance to come get me and beat me over the head in the time I stick it in her neck and try and pull it out to get you. You have to think like that.”

“That makes sense,” I say. I stand up.

“Sit down,” she says. “Lie down, Tony.”

I lie down.

“You two are just no fun,” he says. He gets dressed. “Don’t move,” he tells her. “Just stand by my side.” He sits down. “Put my socks and shoes on and tie them tight” She does that. “All your money now,” he says, “and his.” She collects it with him following her right behind. “Now walk me to the door. And you stay in bed or try and come after me with or without the club,” he yells at me.

“Stay in bed, Tony,” she says.

They go to the door. I can’t see them. “Now kiss me goodbye,” he says.

“Oh stop the crap already and go,” she says.

“You’re right. You’re much smarter than him. Who needs a kiss? Kiss him. He needs it.” He opens the door and goes.

We don’t have a phone. I go next door to call the police. Della says “I’m going to take a shower for an hour and don’t want to be bothered by anyone,” and goes into the bathroom. The police come. “Come out when you can,” I yell into the bathroom. She comes out. Lots of questions from the police. We tell them everything. One policeman says to Della “You should go straight to a doctor.” She says “No, I’m okay. I can take care of myself.” We go to the police station and answer more questions and look at photos. None are of him. I say to the police we’re exhausted. They say sure. We go home. That evening a circular from our police precinct is pasted on the mailbox in the vestibule and slipped under every tenant’s door. It’s a warning about that man today who’s been raping and robbing women in their apartments in the neighborhood lately. It has a good description of him, ours along with others. Several different outfits and hats. The outfit and hat he wore today are there. The circular says he gets into the apartments mostly by telling the woman over the downstairs intercom that he’s a delivery boy from a local florist with a box of flowers for her.

“Did he tell you on the intercom he was a florist delivery boy with a box of flowers for you?” I ask her.

“No, at the door.”

I meet Ann on the street. At first I don’t recognize her. Woman yelling “Dave?” I look. Car’s coming too. We’re both in the crossing and car’s not going to stop. I immediately see she’s pregnant and not going to move except maybe at the last moment and I pull her by the elbow closer to the sidewalk and then on it and let her go and she says “You remember me.”

“You almost got yourself killed just now.”

“I know, that was stupid and thanks, but you remember me. Ann from the street.”

Now I know. She’s much darker, has pink-tinted prescriptions on, hair cut shorter but covering most of her forehead when before it was brushed straight back, face thinner, pregnant, looks much different. “Sure. How are you?”

“Fine, and you?” Puts out her hand and we shake.

“Okay. And Ryan?”

“Couldn’t be better. He’s writing movies now, very big-time stuff in Hollywood. Everything seems to have worked out. But what about you, beyond being okay?”

“Things seem to have worked out there too. Three books in two years have been published and a fourth’s due in June.”

“Fabulous. We did get a postcard from you about something about it.”

“That was about my first and second. I just finished my fifth and also a play the other day. That’s why I didn’t recognize you, and am surprised you did me. My eyes are a little tired. Celebrated the end of the play last night and had too much to drink.”

“You just had plenty, not too much. You deserved it I guess if you finished a play. It’s a long one?”

“Over full-length. That your second?” pointing to her stomach.

“First.”

“Perry from the street told me so long ago that you were pregnant that it almost seems as if it could be your second.”

“Perry was the first to hear, that’s why.”

“When—” I start to say and she says “End of November.”

She looks so great, thin, belly barely a bulge though end of November’s only a couple of months away, less — but she goes on. “How’s your sister?”

“Great. Moved to L.A. California’s changed her life she says.”

“And her son?”

“Doing great too.”

“How old is he now?”

“Almost thirteen.”

“Thirteen?” She can’t believe it. “I remember when—”

“On his scooter.”

“Up and down the block. Once under someone’s legs. He was always so frisky. Thirteen. Must be pretty big.”

“He’s getting there.” I’m starting to feel depressed. Maybe from last night’s drinking, which made my body today a little upset. But Ryan and Ann have been married for about ten years and have a child coming, which could make me depressed. She’s so happy. And more beautiful than ever, maybe from the baby, and kind, warm, intelligent, the rest. Instead I’m by myself, no woman, no child, no past marriage, nothing like that, and no prospects, in two small rooms, and where all my relationships with women over the past fifteen years have been failures after the first few months or a year, while theirs has obviously flourished, not just stayed intact. I’ve seen them during the last few years eating behind restaurant patio windows in the neighborhood, laughing and gabbing and holding hands. Seen them once or twice kiss each other affectionately on the street and one time a year ago or so passionately goodbye as he was getting in a cab with hand baggage and a typewriter, though at the time I was involved with a woman and doing the same things on the street and behind patio windows but not to someone I’ve been with for years. But she goes on.

“Then you make a living writing now?”

“Just about, but I keep my living small. Still working?”

“Right to the end. I help edit a magazine.”