Stephen Dixon - Late Stories

“The poor dear. I feel so sorry for her. I only wish I was the one married to her, so I could take care of her.”

“That’s nutsy, Phil. Don’t repeat it to anyone else. And Mike seems to do an excellent job.”

“Of course.”

He’s invited to the next Christmas party, but is out of town and can’t go to it. Very much wants to, mainly to see her again and have a real talk. About a year after it — Thanksgiving weekend — he sees her in a movie theater on the East Side. The movie ended a minute ago. He has his ticket and is waiting on line in the lobby to go into the theater and she’s in a wheelchair, on the other side of a rope separating them, being wheeled out of the theater into the lobby by her older daughter.

“Abigail. Stop,” and he climbs over the rope and goes over to her. “Hi. Philip Seidel. From Brad and Susan’s Christmas party.”

“Yes. How are you? And I remember you this time.”

“I’m fine, thanks. Haven’t seen you for a couple of years. Nor your daughters. Hi, kids. Freya and Miriam. I’m almost sure that’s right. I hope you’re all doing well.” And to her: “I don’t know what to say. And I usually end up saying the wrong thing, so excuse me beforehand. But this chair. I hope it’s only temporary.”

“It will be if they come up with a miracle cure for me. And I’m impressed you remembered my daughters’ names. As for the Christmas party. We’ve been invited, as I’m sure you have, and don’t embarrass me by telling me you haven’t, but I won’t be going to it. I’ve become a traffic problem, being in a wheelchair at a crowded party, people tripping all over me, besides other more personal inconveniences. My daughters will be there if their father takes them. It’s become a nice tradition for them, and they’ve even made friends with some of the other children there. So, if you go, give Susan and Brad a big hello from me. Now we should get home.”

“Wait, wait, wait. What are you doing? It’s pouring out.” The doors in front of the waiting line open and people start going inside. “None of you have raincoats and maybe not even an umbrella.”

“We’ll manage. My daughters know how to look after me.”

“No. I don’t want you to. You’ll catch cold. The kids too. Here. It’s wet, but take my umbrella. It’s large enough for all of you.” He gives the younger girl his umbrella. “Wait. What am I doing? You stay here and I’ll get you a cab. There’s a whole fleet of wheelchair-accessible cabs now running around New York. At least let me try.”

“Thank you but we were planning to take a bus. The crosstown here and the number 5 uptown. They’re all handicapped accessible now and they let the wheelchairs on first. You’re going to miss the beginning of the movie. Are you seeing the same one we saw?”

“I doubt it. One I’m seeing’s not for kids. But the hell with the movie. Heck with it, I mean,” covering his mouth and smiling. The girls and she laugh. “And I only came to it to get out of the house. Anyway, I’m getting you a cab and paying for it. My idea, so my expense. It’s the least I can do.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, to help you and the kids out best as I can. Stay here. I’ll signal you when I get one. But I’ll take the umbrella till I get a cab and get you into it.”

“You’re a stubborn man, Philip. Okay. We’ll wait here.”

“One question, though. If I can’t find a cab that can’t take a wheelchair any other way but folded up in the trunk, are you able to get out of the chair and into the rear or front passenger seat with a little help?”

“No. Not without the danger of falling. And getting back into the chair from the seat would be even worse.”

“I understand.” He goes outside, opens the umbrella and stands in the street in front of the theater looking for a cab that can take someone in a wheelchair. He’s out there for about fifteen minutes. Several regular cabs slow down or stop but he waves them on. Give up. He’s never going to find one. Shouldn’t have been so confident. Should have known it’d be tough. Now he has to go back there and tell her, but he knows she won’t mind. Not the kind of person to. She might even blame herself. Goddamn rain. If only it wasn’t coming down so hard. He goes into the lobby. “Sorry. No luck. Rainy night. I should have known. And now I’ve wasted your time. Here, let me walk you to the crosstown bus shelter. You three will get under the umbrella. As I said, it’s abnormally large, so you can all fit — and I’ll hold the umbrella over you.”

“Please. You should see your movie. Go. Enjoy it. We’ll make do.”

“I told you. That’s out. I just want you to get home as dry as you can be. I’ll even take the crosstown bus with you and then transfer to the number 10 downtown. I live right off Central Park West.”

“Okay, if you want. I can’t thank you enough. For my daughters and myself.”

Should he try to redeem his movie ticket at the box office? That’ll just waste more time and he also doesn’t want her to think he’s petty or cheap. Anyway, no. They walk the block and a half to the bus stop. Her daughters take turns pushing her and he keeps the umbrella over the three of them. Thank God the rain’s now only a drizzle. Still, he’s soaked, feels chilled, but he’ll be all right once he’s home. Few seconds after they get to the bus shelter, he sees a cab that can take a wheelchair and runs out into the street and flags it down. The cabby stays in the driver’s seat, releases the liftback door, and he pushes the chair up the rear-entry ramp to the one empty place where a seat would be. Then the cabby, without leaving the cab, goes in back to strap the chair down till it can’t move. The younger girl sits beside her and the older one is in the front passenger seat.

“I guess I can take my umbrella now. I don’t think you’ll need it anymore. Actually, keep it. To get into your building from the cab. I’ve got another just like it. Promotion ones, from a bank,” and he folds up the umbrella and puts it on the floor next to her.

“Maybe you can come with us as far as your downtown bus stop.”

“I’d love to, but doesn’t seem to be room. And I’m getting wet, standing here, even for me. Bye-bye, my friends.” He shuts the door. She says something to the driver. Probably their address. Cab starts up. “Wait.” He runs around the front of the cab and knocks on the driver’s window. Window’s lowered, and he gives him a twenty and a ten. “That should take them anyplace in Manhattan. And help them into their building.” Cab drives off and she and the kids smile and wave at him. He waves back and gets in the bus shelter. Damn, should have gone with them. Even diverted the cab first to his building, which isn’t too far from the Central Park West crosstown bus stop. Made room some way. Just to be with her more. Even with one of the girls on his lap. Nah, she might have minded that and the girl too. But get home fast. He goes into the street and flags down a cab.

He gets a teaching job in Baltimore. Two years later he’s in New York for the Christmas holiday and goes to Brad and Susan’s party. He hopes she’s changed her mind about not going to it, if she’s in town, and is there and this time they can really talk. That night it rained and the movie theater and he had so much trouble getting her a cab. Did any of them come down with a cold, after? What’s he thinking. She wouldn’t remember that. “But how are you? It’s so good to see you again. And your kids,” if they’re there. He gets to the party early, just in case she gets there early and is planning to leave early. Hangs his coat in the coat closet and gets a drink and looks around for her. Easy to spot too, if she’s still in a wheelchair. Even if she’s with people or seems deep in a conversation with someone, he’s going to go right over to her. He sees her husband. “Mike Seltzer. Phil Seidel. Maybe you remember me. We spoke here a few years ago. You were with your wife and kids. I don’t see them. Is she here? How is she?”