Stephen Dixon - Late Stories

“Now I do remember. You got upset at what you said. I forget what my reaction was.”

“You were fine. Seltzer. Do I have the last name right?”

“Mike’s you do. Mine is still Berman. Abigail Berman. And thank you for your congratulations.”

“You must be very happy.”

“Deliriously so. Are you married?”

“No marriage. No children. No prospect for now. But who knows? Well, I don’t want to bother you anymore.” He makes a move to get up.

“You’re not bothering me. Why would you say that?”

“It’d seem I’d have to be bothering you, with that missed-out-by-seconds line. It would bother me if I were you.”

“Obviously you’re not. So. Nice to meet you again. .?”

“Phil Seidel. Philip. Either. Yeah, I better get moving. Unless I can get you something first.” She shakes her head. “Then it’s really time for me to go.”

“As you wish, Philip.”

“Of course it isn’t important one way or the other for you.”

“Why are you talking like that? Be reasonable, Philip. Maybe we should end this conversation. Something doesn’t feel right where it’s going and I think it can only get worse.”

“I’m honestly sorry. Excuse me.” He gets up and goes to the coat closet and gets his coat and starts to put it on. He sees Brad, opens the front door, closes it, turns around and goes over to him. “Once again — it’s become something of a habit.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m doing the same thing I did at the last Christmas party of yours I went to. Leaving early. You know. It’s crazy. But I can’t be in the same room with that woman. Abigail Berman. Probably not the same party.”

“Why? The gentlest person I know of? What could she have done?”

“It’s me. If you must know, I’m absolutely taken with her. If only it had been me who got to speak to her first three years ago here. Haven’t I told you? Before Seltzer did. Seconds. Missed out by seconds. And not that he wouldn’t have worked his way in there somehow. He’s a pushy type, aggressive; I can tell.”

“He’s not. You don’t know him.”

“Anyway, there was always a chance something could have worked out between her and me. She was unattached then, am I right?”

“I think so. She was ready, at least. But she ended up with a very nice guy and their marriage is a good one and now the child. Be happy for her.”

“I am, I am. Not for her husband, though. He moved in on her too fast. Ah, what am I bitching for? Just jealous. That’s all. I see someone I think’s perfect for me, and I can’t get her out of my head. When it comes to her, I’m always talking silly. Did the last time, did this time. Gotta go, really, and thanks,” and he leaves.

He gets a job in California less than a year later. Lives there for five years. Has girlfriends. Almost married one but they weren’t right for each other — he wanted someone more brainy and she wanted someone less — and she broke it off a short time before the wedding date. He’s not sorry either. Moves back to New York. He missed the city and never felt comfortable in California, and he lived in three different cities there. Next time he goes to Brad’s Christmas party is seven years since the last one he went to. Though it’s now known as Susan and Brad’s party, since they got married and already have three children. He still thinks about Abigail now and then, “the girl of my dreams” he’s referred to her a few times to other people, and hopes she’s at the party, but there’s probably not much chance of that. It’s been so long. She and her husband could very likely have moved away too. And not to talk to her — though why not if it comes to that? — but more just to see what she looks like and if she’s changed much. He’s kidding himself. He wouldn’t have come to the party if he didn’t think there’d be even a slight chance she’d be there. He’s actually anxious about seeing her and his stomach feels a bit queasy because of it when he rings the doorbell. It’s a much larger apartment than the one Brad had before, and in the same building on Riverside Drive. This one overlooks the Hudson and New Jersey rather than a sidestreet and airshaft the last one did. Some of the guests brought their kids, even infants. Never did before. And the party started at two in the afternoon instead of six or seven at night. She’s there. Her husband too. In different rooms. She’s in an easy chair, wheeled walker to the side of it. Her face is the same. Still youthful and beautiful. She’s by herself, just observing, it seems, some of the people there. Then she calls out to two young girls who come into the room. He assumes they’re her daughters. The older one looks a lot like her. Color and texture of her hair, high forehead, heart-shaped face, and he thinks the eyes too — greenish blue or bluish green. The other girl seems to resemble her husband — dark hair and eyes and small upturned nose. Without asking her, the girls seem to know what she called them over for. They place the walker in front of her, help her out of the chair and make sure her hands are holding the walker, and stay on either side of her till she tells them she’s okay, she won’t fall. She starts pushing the walker forward, when he goes over to her.

“These beautiful young ladies yours?”

“My daughters, Freya and Miriam.”

“How do you do, young ladies. I’m Philip. And if I may say so, you’re a great help to your mom.” And to her: “I doubt you remember me. It was so long ago. We talked a little at one of these Christmas parties, but in Brad’s old apartment. Have you been injured?” touching her walker.

“No, it’s for an illness. This is what I’ve quickly been reduced to.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. And I didn’t mean to pry.”

“And I didn’t mention my illness to elicit sympathy. I’ll be fine. I trust life has been good to you since we last spoke, though I have to admit I have no recollection of our conversation.”

“No reason you would. Party talk. And I’m much the same. Still not married and no kids. Still writing and teaching and going to Christmas parties and stuff like that.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad to me, the last part. But I’ll have to cut this off, Philip. I’m a little tired.” And to her girls: “I know it seems we just got here and you’re going to be disappointed, but would you tell Daddy I’m ready to leave? If he wants, he can put me in a cab, though one of you will have to come with me.”

“Nice to meet you again. ‘Abigail,’ it was, right?”

“Your memory’s better than mine. Perhaps we’ll see each other at next year’s party, if there’s one, and can talk some more.”

“I look forward to it. And I’m sure there’ll be a party next year.”

The girls have left the room. She starts after them.

“Can I help you in any way?”

“No. This has to be done alone. It’s slow but I get there. Thank you.”

Half an hour later he sees her and her husband and daughters at the front door, hats and coats on, saying goodbye to some people. He smiles at her when she looks his way, and she smiles back. At least, or so it seems, she doesn’t have any bad feelings toward him anymore. Maybe because she actually doesn’t remember anything about what he said the last time they talked.

He calls Brad the next day. “Once again, great party. I forgot how much I missed it. Christmas parties weren’t the same in California. You need the cold and threat of snow. But tell me, how bad off is Abigail Berman? She sure seemed weak. Though maybe she was just tired, as she said. The holidays and all. It can get to anybody.”

“I wish it was that. The worst kind of MS. Went downhill very fast, and still sliding. Exacerbating — something else. Chronic progressive. I forget the medical term. At our party last year she was able to get around with only a cane. The one before, she didn’t even need that and showed no signs of it except for her eyes, which were a little off.”