Stephen Dixon - Late Stories

His sister calls that night and says “So, long time no speak. How are you? Anything new in your life?” “Matter of fact, now that you ask, yes,” and he tells her about Ruth. Their bumping into each other at a restaurant after about five years. How happy he was to see her and she seemed happy to see him. Her age, teaching, that she was a former grad student of his fourteen years ago, he thinks it was. Her going through a divorce, has two girls, books he sent them, lunch with her at the same place where they bumped into each other, that she invited him to a reading she’s giving and how excited he is to go. That she’s a terrific writer — really special; maybe the best he’s ever had — and a special person too. “I can’t lie about it or in any way be cagey or blasé about it, but I think I’m hooked. First time since Abby I felt this way. That’s good, right?” “Want my unasked-for opinion? It can never work, little brother. There’s nothing I’d like better to happen to you — nobody deserves it more — but a woman thirty-five years younger than you?” “At most. Maybe it’s thirty, or a year or two more than that.” “I’d cut it off now,” she says. “But I’d love to fall in love with someone again. I almost got dizzy when I was with her. Her presence. Just standing beside her. And you can imagine what it was like for me when we hugged hello and goodbye. It can’t be explained — and don’t be saying I’m too much the romantic — but there it is. Something — well, I already said it in so many words, but something I almost desperately wanted, and it’s finally happened.” “What movie have I seen this in?” “Don’t play with me,” he says. “I’m serious, so you be serious.” “Okay,” she says. “Serious. You’re deluding yourself. Go out with someone much older. Even a woman twenty-five years younger than you is too young. Twenty, but preferably fifteen years younger would be the maximum, I’d think, although twenty might be stretching it too far too. What’s her name?” “Ruth.” “Is she Jewish?” “No. In fact her mother was an Episcopal minister, or whatever they are in the Episcopal church. High up. Her own congregation. Retired now.” “So her mother’s probably around your age. Even younger.” “So what?” “Listen,” she says. “You’re hellbent on hurting yourself and also embarrassing yourself too. But hurt is what you’re going to get. I know you. You want more from this woman than she can ever give you and you’re going to kill whatever friendly thing you have with her. I’m sure she has no romantic illusions or fantasies about you.” “What makes you say that?” “Your age, little brother, your age. The whole idea. Once your star former student, now your potential lovemate? It’s not a bad movie it’s out of but a bad book.” “Is there a difference,” he says, “other than one takes one person to do and the other many?” “I don’t quite get what you’re saying. Anyhow, maybe I’ve said too much. Maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about and something good can come of it, something I didn’t see.” “You don’t believe that,” he says. “I don’t, but I thought I’d say it anyway.” “Ah, you’re probably right,” he says. “I’m all confused. I don’t know what to do.” “Don’t do anything; that’s my advice. But if you have to — if you just can’t stop yourself — here’s one thing you might try. You say you sent her daughters books?” “Yesterday.” “Good,” she says. “They haven’t got them yet or only got them today. She’ll have to email you or call you, thanking you for the books. That’d be the only polite thing to do. If she calls, you have to speak to her. But if she emails, don’t respond. Then, if she emails you again after the thank-you one and suggests you meet even before the reading of hers you’re going to, then meet. Enjoy your lunch or whatever it is. But don’t get lovey or smoochy or confessional as to how you feel to her.” “I want to get smoochy. There’s nothing I want more.” “Don’t. Keep it light. Just have fun with her as a friend. That’s the only way she’ll continue to be with you. If you blow it once, you’ll lose her for good. That’s guaranteed.” “No, what you say’s too much like strategy, which I’m against.” “Okay,” she says. “That’s all I’m going to say on the matter. I’ve warned you. Now, how are my darling nieces?”

Two days later, Ruth emails her thanks to him for the books. “They love them. I love them. It’s a wonder how you knew we’d all love them. They didn’t know which one they wanted me to read first and then help explain the myths to them. I said I’ll read one myth from the Greeks and one from the Indian book. We got on the couch and I read to them that way till each took one of the books to read by herself or just look at those amazing illustrations. Thank you again. You’re so thoughtful and generous. Ruth.” He doesn’t answer her. A week, two. She doesn’t email him after that last one. He thought she might, though what would she say? “Haven’t heard from you in a while. Everything all right?” That would be like her and nice. He doesn’t go to her reading and she doesn’t remind him of it. Nor the party before the reading, of course. Why? The day, or maybe it was two, after he spoke to his therapist and sister, he decided—“decided”? Felt very strongly that things would never work between them the way he wants them to. He’s too old. He looks too old for her. His hair is old; some of his skin is too. His body is mostly hard and lean but there’s flab in places he can’t get rid of that only old guys get. He walks like an old man sometimes, but that’s because he exercises with weights too much at home and the Y and as a result his back hurts almost every day and is bent because of it. She would never let him kiss her on the mouth and wouldn’t like him to hold her hand. Wouldn’t like him to put his arm around her. Probably wouldn’t even like being in a dark movie theater with him or have dinner in a good restaurant with him where he’d order wine. Wouldn’t even want him to pick her up to go to a movie or restaurant. Certainly no lovemaking. He wants so much to make love to her. From behind, from in front. Hold her from behind in bed and just kiss the top of her head and be kissed back like that. Wants to go to sleep with her and wake up with her and have her say “Oh, it’s so wonderful waking up to you.” Wants to go to Maine with her in the summer. But first to some hotel on the Eastern Shore, easy car ride back and forth, and go to a bird sanctuary there and seafood places to eat at and walk along the beach with her and so on. So on. He knew if he suggested any of those, he’d look ridiculous to her. So it would never work. It won’t work. Get it in your head: not even for a weekend or entire day. It’d just be lunch after lunch, every second or third week. And only maybe a movie — maybe she wouldn’t be a little anxious about sitting in a dark movie theater next to him. And maybe dinner out once or twice. But where they’d each drive to the restaurant in their own car, and lots of emails between them and he’d get depressed, but more depressed than he is now, because he’d want to be with her more. But it would have to come from her, but it won’t and it never will, and he’d be sad or just glum when he’d see her and because of it she’d say “Maybe our get-togethers aren’t good for you anymore, or as much as we’ve been doing,” and he’d say “It’s not the way I’d like it to be with you.” He’d say it, he knows he would. He’s always had a hard time holding in anything like that. “To be honest,” he’d also say, “as long as we’re talking about it, I’d like to see you a lot more than I’ve been doing — a lot lot more — but I guess it can never happen. You’re going to be annoyed at my saying this,” he’d go on. “Or alarmed or put off, or let’s just say it’ll scare you away from me and you won’t want to see me again once I say it. But you know what I’m going to say,” and she might say something like “Not exactly. It could be a number of things,” and he’d say “Name one,” and she’d say “Just say it, although now I’m thinking we should definitely not meet each other, at least for a couple of months if not more.” Or she’d say something close to that, but eventually in their conversation — their last one — he’d say “I’m going to say what I’ve been thinking to. What the hell, by now everything’s lost, so it can’t make things worse with you than they already are. And it’s probably wrong for me to say it and possibly for me even to think it, but I’m in love with you. Deeply, deeply, deeply. And want to be tender and loving and cozy and close and open and everything else like that with you.” She’d say “I thought it might be that. But you have to know I like you very much but not that way.” Or something. She’d say something that would trounce, or dash, or a better word, his fantasy with her. And if she did, and he has no doubt she will if he does say those things, it’d be something gentle and which she’d think would hurt him the least. He’d then say “Is it the age difference?” and she might say “For the most part, yes.” “So when you look at me you see an old man?” and she’d say “I have to admit it, yes.” “Oh, no,” he’d say, “that’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.” “About yourself?” and he’d say “Yes. It sort of dooms me, not that I didn’t see it coming and couldn’t foretell almost everything you said.” “No it doesn’t,” she could say. “You need, if you want to love someone, a woman much older than I.” Anyway, he didn’t email or call her again. She didn’t email or call him again, either. Had she ever called him? Once. To say, an hour before their lunch date, that she’d be fifteen minutes late. “How did you get my number?” he said. “I know I didn’t give it to you. I took yours, that day we first bumped into each other at the restaurant when I was with my friends, but didn’t give you mine.” “The phone book,” she said. “Like the few people I know who haven’t given up their landlines, you’re listed.”