Stephen Dixon - Late Stories

Last time he’d seen Vera was fifteen years ago when he was in her city for a new book of his. Took the train up from Baltimore, she met him at the station, took the train back. They had coffee at the cafe in the bookstore. He was giving a reading there and bought a copy of his book at full price — thought it would make him look cheap to her if he took the author’s discount, which was offered to him — and inscribed it and gave it to her. To Vera, my dear old friend . She never mentioned later on that she’d read the book or any part of it or even started it, and he never asked.

About two years after that she called him to say she was staying overnight in Baltimore — she had an audition for a part in a play at the best theater company there — and he asked Abby, she said it was all right, and invited Vera for dinner. “But not to sleep here, okay?” Abby said. “I’d find that a little strange.” He picked Vera up at her hotel and drove her back. She said in the car “Your wife is beautiful, spiritually and physically. Such magnificent skin and hair — that of a much younger woman — and a lovely voice and manner of speaking. And so intelligent. I felt ignorant compared to her. She obviously adores you. And you’re so good to her, tending to all her needs and just the way you speak to her. I like seeing that, although it’s nothing short of what I expected of you. What she must think of me, though, for the way I treated you in the past.” “Not at all. She knows all about it and said that was long ago, when we were practically kids. Believe me, she never had a bad thought about you. That’s not Abby.” “Good. I didn’t tell you, by the way, and you were both very discreet about it, but once again I didn’t get the part. They said I was good and it was close but I was just a mite too old for the role. That’s always a good excuse. I didn’t think I did well.” “Nonsense. I’m sure you did well. And I’m sorry — for you and also because it would’ve been nice to see you on stage and have you over for dinner again, and we would’ve taken the kids to the play too. They would have loved knowing that we knew one of the main characters.”

Since that first phone call after Abby died, she called him about once a month to see how he was doing. “I’m concerned about you,” she said in her last call. “Your daughters away. You living alone after so many years with Abby.” “I’ll be all right,” he said. “I’m getting used to it — the living alone, I mean. As for my daughters — I miss them tremendously, but they come down for weekends now and then.” “Have you ever thought of visiting me? It’d be a good change for you, doing something new, and I’m not that far away. Two, two and a half hours by car.” “I never go anywhere. The local Y; the local food market; that’s about all. Oh, for a book at a nearby bookstore about once a month. I don’t think I’ve been out of Baltimore County since Abby died seven months ago.” “That’s what I’m saying. I’ll show you around here, take you out to dinner, and you can spend the night. I’ve a guest room.” He said “Maybe you’re right. Let me think. No, you’re right. It could be a major emotional breakthrough for me, just reaching the entrance to 95 North, and my kids will love it that I even attempted to get away from the house for a day. They’ll think, next time I might even drive up to see them in New York. Okay, I’m coming. But dinner’s on me. And breakfast out also, if we have that too.”

He drove to her apartment near Philadelphia. During dinner he thought she’s still so lively and funny and beautiful. In great shape too. Slim, very fit; tight behind. She even shows cleavage of a woman thirty years younger. Same with her skin. Hardly a wrinkle on her face and neck, and nice texture to her hair and just a few wisps of gray. “How can you look so young?” he said. “Pardon me, but we’re almost the same age, and I’ve gotten to look like an old guy.” “No you haven’t,” she said. “And it’s not through surgery. You know I’d never do anything like that to my body. It’s exercise, yoga, long walks every morning, and lots of filtered water and harmless facial oils and creams. And of course healthy organic foods, which is why I chose this restaurant and why it’s a bit pricey. As for my hair, this is its natural color. What can I say?”

He slept in the guest room. “Oh, one problem,” she said when she invited him to come. “I’ve only been here a few months and haven’t a spare bed yet. I’ll buy it this week. I’ll need it sometime. For instance, if my son ever decides to visit me.” He knew she was short of money, so he said he’d like to pay for the bed. “It’ll probably cost no more than a motel room would, but so what if it costs more.” She got it at Ikea, set it up. He gave her a check for it when he got there.

He didn’t sleep well. The bed was uncomfortable. And it was a hot muggy night and she didn’t have air conditioning because she never liked it, nor an extra fan. “Take mine,” she said. “The heat doesn’t particularly bother me.” “Wouldn’t think of it,” he said. “I’ll be fine.” He was hoping, as he lay in bed for hours, that she’d knock on his door and say something like “Would you like to sleep in my room with me? With the fan and cross-ventilation, it’s much cooler.”

They had cold cereal and yogurt and coffee for breakfast. He said he wouldn’t mind a slice of toast and butter if she has, and she said she was all out of bread. “I should have planned it better. But the nearest natural food market is ten miles from here and I only do one shop a week.” Then they walked for more than an hour along an old restored canal. “I do the same route daily,” she said, “even when it rains. It’s so tranquil. I get my most inspired thoughts here. Poems; even stories, I’ve begun writing. And ways to bring in enough money so I can quit my awful job.” His older daughter called him on his cell phone after they got back and asked how he was. He said in front of Vera “I’m having a great time. I’m so glad I came.”

He said to her in her building’s parking area before he left “It’s already past one. I hope I haven’t taken up too much of your time.” She said “Why would you think that? From now on I’m going to make it my duty to see that you start thinking much better of yourself.” They kissed goodbye — a friendly kiss, lasted no more than a second — and during the drive home he thought he hasn’t been this happy for a long time. Things are looking good. Just that she allowed him that quick kiss on the lips.

He called her that night. Thought for about an hour whether he should do this and then thought why not? He wants to know. She said “What a surprise to hear from you so soon.” “Wrong of me?” and she said “No, I like talking to you. We’ve a lot to say.” “Listen,” he said, “I want to be frank and direct with you. What else can I be at this stage in my life? Do you think something new and promising has started between us?” “It’s a very distinct possibility.” “You know what I mean, of course,” and she said “You don’t have to spell it out for me.” “Oh, that makes me feel good to hear you say that. So let’s do it again, but soon, and how about this time you visit me? I’ll show you around. No canals. But there’s a beautiful reservoir just a half hour from me, and lots of other attractive places. And Baltimore’s a fairly interesting city, if we want to do a little exploring there.” “All that might be nice,” she said. “Let me see which of the next few weekends I’ll be entirely free. I’ll get back to you.”

He called her three days later and she said “Was I supposed to call you? I forget. But I’ve been thinking. Maybe it’s not such a good idea I come down. I doubt my old buggy could make it both ways, the train will be too costly, and I’ve a ton of work that’s piled up at my job and it seems it’s going to be like that for weeks.” “The work you might be able to do here. I’ll leave you alone. And I’ll pay for the train fare. I’ve two spare bedrooms, but I’ll put you up at a bed and breakfast if you prefer.” She said “That might be better — the B and B or an inn. It’s sweet of you to offer all this. Let me see. I’ll get back to you.”