Stephen Dixon - Late Stories

He thinks about her a lot the next week. Then calls Brad. “Hey. Great party once again. Thank you. I’m also calling because there was a woman at your party, very attractive. Blond hair. Average height. Slim. Around thirty. Wearing a navy blue blouse. Not navy. Baby blue. A light blue.”

“You must mean Abigail Berman,” Brad says. “A doll. A living doll. Someone I knew through school but who quickly became one of my treasured acquaintances. So smart; gentle. Brilliant, I’d say. Post-doc. Russian scholar and translator. You’d like her work and authors. Twentieth century poets, mostly. Pasternak, Mandelstam, Akhmatova, Tsvetayeva, if that’s how you pronounce her name.”

“You got it right.”

“And that face. So spiritual. Standing alongside her is like being in the presence of an Italian Renaissance model for a painting of the blond madonna. Ghirlandaio. Botticelli. You know what I mean. Same with her voice. So soft. I can’t rave about her enough. If you’re interested, I think you’re too late, though you could always give it a try. An old buddy of mine, Mike Seltzer, met her at the party and they left together and Mike called me last night. He’s seen her twice since the party and he’s got a big date with her this weekend, he says. It seems, if you want my opinion, their relationship is already hot.”

“Then I better not call her.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Next time he sees her is at Brad’s Christmas party the following year. He didn’t speak to Brad about her after that one time and was hoping she’d be here and alone. She comes in with the guy she left the party with last year. The foyer closet is filled and she heads his way to dump their coats in the bedroom, where his is. He smiles and says “Hi” and she smiles and says “Hi” and goes in back. He feels nervous, agitated, something, and has since he first saw her come into the party. To calm himself and get out of her way when she comes back, because he doesn’t know what he’ll say and do then and he doesn’t want to just say and do nothing, he goes into the dining room where the drink table is and makes himself a Bloody Mary, drinks it quickly and makes another, this one not as strong. He doesn’t want to get looped. Then he’ll sound like an idiot if he does speak to her. He hangs around the same room she’s in. Tries not to be looking at her when she turns his way. Then she catches him looking at her — she must have a few times — but this time looks back at him with an expression saying “Do we know each other from some place?” He raises his shoulders and looks away. Why the hell he do that? He had a chance to speak to her. About twenty minutes later — he left the room and came back — she’s in a circle with three other women. He decides to wait to talk to her but to definitely talk to her sometime tonight. Why? He doesn’t know. Maybe just to speak to her once and see what she sounds and acts like when she’s talking to him. When the circle breaks up and for a few moments she’s standing alone, holding an empty wine glass, he goes over to her and says “Excuse me. And don’t be alarmed at what I’m going to say. But I know you caught me looking at you before. Staring, even, and I apologize. But we do, sort of, know each other. Maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Even a huge exaggeration. We were at Brad’s Christmas party last year. Oh, my name’s Philip Seidel.”

“Abigail Berman.”

“Very nice to meet you, Abigail. And I remember, at last year’s party, I wanted to talk to you— Would you like a refill on that wine?”

“No, thanks,” and she puts the glass on a side table.

“But some guy got to you first and before I knew it or could say a word to you, you left the party together.”

“That would be Mike. He’s somewhere at this party. I met him here that night and I guess we’ve been a couple ever since.”

“Lucky guy.”

“Oh, yes? Thank you. But lucky gal too.”

“But I mean real luck, too. Because who knows what could have happened if I’d gotten to you first. In other words, got there seconds before I would have, because I was really on my way. Sorry. That was dumb of me. Too much of what I was thinking came out. Parties are good for meeting new people and drinking too much and maybe even saying the wrong thing, and Christmas parties especially, it seems. And I haven’t drunk too much. I don’t want you to think that. Although I have had some. But enjoy yourself. I don’t think I ever acted so foolishly to a woman as I have with you just now. Of course I have, once or twice, but it’s not my typical way of behaving. As I said, enjoy yourself. Nice meeting you.”

“It’s been interesting, but same here, Philip.”

She sticks out her hand and he shakes it and walks away.

What must she think of him. A first-class schmuck. He’s embarrassed by what he said to her. Almost everything. He should have planned it better, not that anything would have helped him. She’s already hooked up. Talking to her made him nervous. Just thinking about talking to her before he actually talked to her, made him nervous. He talked nervously. Not that many women have had that effect on him. He’s just dazzled by her, that’s all. Was from the time he first saw her last year. So he should have thought of that and been more careful in what he said. Should have talked about her Russian work and authors. Opened it with that. Maybe brought up Babel and Chekhov too. Said Brad told him about her work. That would have been all right to say. Doesn’t sound too much like snooping. Or maybe it would have gotten him in deeper. No, just about nothing would have. What he said got him in about as deep as he could go. He gets his coat from the bedroom and starts for the front door. Brad stops him. “Leaving so early?”

“Yeah. Thank you. Got some stuff I gotta get done by noon tomorrow. Once again, great party. And that woman, Abigail. She’s really something. I talked with her. Very bright as you said. And still with the same guy she met here last year.”

“That’s right, I sort of was matchmaker. A real couple. Will probably get married. Mike, her boyfriend, is head over heels for her and, according to him, the feeling’s mutual from her.”

“Lucky guy.”

“Yep, she’s a honey. And so everything else: smart, lovely and accomplished. She’s not standing behind me or anywhere near us?”

“No.”

“Not to say good-looking.”

“Good-looking? Beautiful. Gorgeous. You said so yourself when we first talked about her.”

“We talked about her?”

“Shortly after your party last year. You called her a blond madonna.”

“I said that? What do I know about madonnas? Sure I can’t convince you to stay?”

“As I said, too much to do tonight in preparation to finishing it tomorrow. Thanks.”

He sees her at Brad’s Christmas party two years later. He was invited to last year’s party but got the flu and couldn’t go. Doesn’t think he would have gone anyway. He was still embarrassed by what he said to her and figured she and her boyfriend would be there. She’s wearing a maternity dress. Four, five months pregnant; maybe more. She’s certainly showing, and not just a little. Sitting on a couch, drinking from a mug with steam coming out of it, so it’s probably herbal tea. At least a noncaffeinated tea, or maybe just hot water. He goes over to her. “Mind if I sit on the couch with you? All the chairs are taken and it’s been a busy day and I’m a little tired.”

“Please. Sit.” She moves over to one end of the couch to give him more room.

“I don’t know if you remember me.”

“You do look familiar. Did we meet here last year at Bradley’s party?”

“Actually, it was two Christmas parties ago that we spoke and three years ago when I first saw you here. To refresh your memory, though it’s hardly worth remembering. But I was the fellow who said your husband, though he wasn’t that then, and I have to assume he is now, since you’re wearing a wedding band and I saw him here, beat me out by a few seconds in introducing himself to you. And look what it’s come to. Marriage. Baby. Congratulations.”