Stephen Dixon - 14 Stories

Easy, easy , EASY, Mr. Randall thought as he was being lifted onto the stretcher. He wanted to say they were handling his head much too roughly, wheeling the stretcher much too hard. “Easy,” he finally said, “or I die.”

“Were you planning anything for dinner tonight?” Mr. Singerton said.

“Same as always: something nothing for Warren and me.”

“Like to eat out then? This might seem strange — how it started off I mean — though I have seen you on the stairway.”

“Seen you also. You must work nights, because the only times I’ve seen you is during the day.”

“I write technical brochures, so I can work home as long as I hand in my copy at the specified time.”

“To work in your apartment and get well paid for it would be the best kind of work I’d like to do. But I don’t know anything about writing except for letters. Plus a journal I’ve been keeping on and off since Warren was born.”

“To me the worst thing about other people’s journals is that I can’t read them. I’m a born snoop.”

“That’s probably why you picked up the bullet when Warren told you not to.”

“I knew it had to be something,” Warren said.

“You still want to go out?” Mr. Singerton said. “I can pick you up at six.”

“That’s foolish,” she said. “If I lived below you then I could see you coming to my door, but not when I’m one floor above. I’ll ring your bell when I’m ready.”

“But that wouldn’t be proper,” he said.

“First saw it on the car hood,” Ron said on the phone, “just laying there. It’s a bit ripped up now, but I got all the pieces and with Scotch tape I think you could read it. My girlfriend just didn’t want to believe the note. Did the guy die?”

“Last we heard, he was living,” the detective said. “You stay there and I’ll have a man get the note.”

“He’s still alive,” Ron said to Loey. “Shot himself right in the head. I wonder what kind of gun he used.”

She grabbed most of the note which Ron had assembled on the counter, and ran out of the drugstore. Ron ran after her, shouted “You crazy? You want us both thrown in jail? The cops have my name. They’re coming now to get the note. Bring it back, goddamn you,” but she got in a cab and one by one threw the pieces out of the window as the car drove away.

“Goodbye, Mr. Randall,” the intern said in the ambulance, and covered Mr. Randall’s face with the top of the blanket.

“You were right, Bonnie,” Andrea said, removing her earphones. “Desk phoned for me to locate fourteenth-floor service to clean up 1403. That Mr. Randall. A suicide.”

Bonnie closed her eyes, was silent, tears came, said “I knew it. That breathing wasn’t natural. It didn’t sound like sleep or sex or dogs, cats or anything. It truly sounded like someone dying,” and she imitated the sounds she heard on the phone. “Like that.”

“If you ask me it still sounds like sex,” Andrea said. She rang fourteenth-floor service and got Anna on the phone. “Anna, this is Andrea. Mr. Hire wants for you to go to 1403 and clean up the room. I’m sorry, but there’s been a suicide there, love.” Anna hung up. Andrea called back. “Anna, you feeling sick from what I told you? You see, Mr. Hire wants the room cleaned up immediately. He tried reaching you himself but you weren’t in. They’ll be police up there, so he wants you to try and do your best and clean around them. The fourteenth is your floor, isn’t it?”

A policeman was looking at the two suicide notes when the chambermaid walked into the room. One was addressed to “Mrs. Sarah Randall, my former wife.” He read: “I have nothing unkind to say to you, Sarah, nor anything that is kind. Do what you think best in disclosing the news of my death to the children. Word it any way, I don’t care. You were always good with them — with words. I hate writing letters like this. Any letters. I haven’t much money left and only a few questionable stocks and the insurance policies, and they are of course all for you and the children. Also, everything I can’t think about right now, like the car. It’s parked in this hotel garage in my name. The parking spot is row L, space 16, if I recall correctly. And everything in our old apartment which might turn out to be more trouble in disposing than they are monetarily worth. Always my love. I’m also sorry for the difficulties my death will most naturally cause you, and for the fact that I am leaving you theoretically impoverished because of the cutting off of my monthly payments. As for the children’s shame and/or grief and/or realization later on in life as to the kind of maniacal blood that might be running through their blood if yours isn’t hopefully dominant; I am of course absolutely despondent about that too. I love them. I pray they get a more sensible father. Love, Eugene.”

And the letter to his friend: “I’ve informed Sarah that everything I own, including cash, stocks, policies and apartment possessions are hers to do with as she wishes. My bank is City Central. I don’t remember the account number for either my savings or checking accounts, but I’m sure a bank official will be able to provide them to you without much trouble. The savings should be all of $150, the check account balance possibly twice that. I’ve neglected to keep my bank records straight this past week, but I’m sure that figure ($300) is close. The car’s all paid up as of two months ago and has a bluebook value of $425. It’s in this hotel garage, row L, space 16. The hotel, which you probably know, is the Continental. I suppose all this makes you the executor of my vast estate. Sorry, for that burden, Harris. My best to you, Whitney, the children. Things were good and not so complicated for me when they were going good, but I think you’d be the last person in the world to ask or even desire an explanation, right? Always my best for our many years of friendship and my regrets for our recent falling-out. Gene.”

“It’s all yours, miss,” one of the policemen said, and they left the room.

“Why me?” Anna said in the empty room. “Of all people, why me? Why not the maid on the twelfth, for instance? Why couldn’t they bring her here for the job instead of asking the one maid who already saw that poor man? It’d only be one flight up for her, and she has a strong stomach for everything she’s always said and she didn’t have to see that poor man. That dumb man. Shooting himself like that. Causing everybody else who comes after him all these troubles and heartaches and extra work. Like cleaning up after him. Always I have to clean up after these kind. Never a suicide yet. Thank God never one before on this floor. And shooting out a window, which makes no sense. It’s crazy.”

She called up the hotel repair shop. “Could you please send up a window man to put in a new window in 1403? And hurry, please.”

She wrote on a list: “New ashtray, new lamp.” These she could get easily from Stock. She swept up the pieces of broken window glass and china and dumped them in the can on her cleaning cart. But the blood? “Oh you unfeeling man. What do I do about getting rid of your blood? Soap and water won’t work. The stain’s been on the carpet too long. I know. I don’t have to test. You need something else to get it out.”

She phoned Mr. Hire. “Please, Mr. Hire, I don’t like the job you told Andrea to give me in 1403. I can’t clean up this room. I can’t even stay in this room. Just the thought of that poor man lying where he was on the floor where I saw him before, me first with the detective and Mr. Reece, is enough to make me sick. Please take me off. Call Harriet who works on the twelfth or that new girl on the fifteenth. They can come up or down on the elevator and use my cart. And I also don’t know how to clean up dried bloodstains. Maybe that makes me a very bad chambermaid, Mr. Hire, but I never can stand the sight of blood. I can’t even stand the sight of my own blood. I can’t even hardly take care of my daughter when she gets hurt and spills lots of blood. Please take me off, Mr. Hire. I just can’t do it.”