Stephen Dixon - Late Stories

“Jesus, another one. I can’t believe it. You’re number four.”

“Four of what? I don’t get it.”

“The fourth person to come over to me — and how long have I been here? Fifteen minutes? — and ask after my wife and doesn’t know she died.”

“Oh, my goodness. What a shock. She was such a wonderful person.”

“Please don’t say anything.” He looks like he’s about to cry. “I knew I shouldn’t have come. Goddamn fucking mistake,” and he walks away.

Goes over to Brad. “You didn’t tell me Abigail Berman had died.”

“I didn’t know you knew her that well.”

“I didn’t. But you knew how I felt about her.”

“No. I must have forgot. How did you?”

“Come on. You even criticized me for it. Thought I was acting like a love-sick fool. I was completely taken by her. You’re probably the only one I told.”

“So something did once happen between you two? Even once snuck in a kiss or something?”

“Nothing. I told you. It was all in my head. Was I in dreamland? You bet. Not that she would have been interested in me. Well, now that I think of the last time I saw her. . It was at a movie theater on the East Side. I guess before she really got sick. She was with her kids. I got them a cab because it was pouring out and I was afraid she’d catch a cold and even worse. And she might have. She was in a wheelchair and her kids were pushing her and she said something that seemed to indicate she’d be in that chair the rest of her life. What a loss. I mean, I can’t believe it. What I’m saying is. . well, I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m glad, though, Mike was a good husband to her. Looked after her when she got sick. Couldn’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t anything like that. He only did so much for her at the beginning and then couldn’t take it anymore when she could only get around in a wheelchair and had her first bout with pneumonia. He left her. Probably around the time you saw her at the movie theater. Her teaching days were over, so she became entirely dependent on him. He gave her enough to keep her comfortable. And kept giving it, though he didn’t have to for too long, so she could stay in the apartment with the kids and have an aide when she needed one, which eventually became round-the-clock. He quickly got hooked up with someone and got Abigail to agree to a divorce so he could remarry. She’s here. Nice woman. Quiet, but accomplished. A pediatrician. Abigail didn’t want the divorce, she told Susan. She thought she’d lose some of his benefits, but he took care of that too.”

“What a scumbag. Why’d you even invite him to the party?”

“Why wouldn’t I? You’re an old friend, he’s an old friend, and he’s always been a terrific dad. What went on between Abigail and him was their business. Who knows what I’d do if I was in the same situation?”

“I would have become even closer to her, if it were me. If I were Mike. If I were married to her and she had got the same disease. Any disease. I could kick myself that I didn’t move faster that night.”

“What night?”

“The first Christmas party you invited me to. What was it, twelve, fifteen years ago? A long time, when I first saw her at your old apartment. And maybe when I bumped into her at the movie theater, she was already split from him.”

“It’s possible. Everything went very fast.”

“So I could have made a move on her then. She needed someone like me. Got her phone number. Called. Taken her out for lunch. Pushed her in her wheelchair to it. Later, taken care of her. Even married her. Put her on my health plan.”

“Don’t talk silly. Enjoy the party. There’s a woman coming tonight I want to introduce you to. She’s divorced, has three young sons, two of them twins. And is quite attractive and smart and considered tops in her field, and with a terrific sense of humor.”

“No, thanks. At least not for tonight. And I know I’m usually hustling out of your party early, but I have to go. I feel so bad for her. Abigail. And I don’t want to see that prick of a guy’s face ever again. I could really kick myself. Kick myself till it hurts. Shit. Thanks for inviting me all these years,” and he puts down his glass, gets his coat out of the closet and leaves.

I’m all confused. What if she hadn’t gone to Emergency that last time? She didn’t want to go. I told her she had to. “Listen, you’re sick. You can’t stay at home. We can’t chance it. You have what seems like pneumonia again. After four times in two years, I can recognize the signs. You’ve been talking gibberish. I don’t mean to be mean. Not gibberish. Just that at times you don’t make any sense. For a few moments you didn’t know who I was. Like the last time you went there, they’ll move you to ICU and put you on antibiotics and a couple of IVs to keep you hydrated and fed, and you’ll be cured in a week. Maybe two. I don’t want to lie to you to convince you to go. But no more than two weeks, I’m sure, and this time no post-hospital rehab in some critical-care center.”

“I’m not going to the hospital. Don’t take me. Don’t force me. Don’t have the emergency medical people strap me down on a stretcher and drive me there. You have no right. If I’m a patient, I have my rights. I don’t sound confused to you now, do I? I can hear myself talking and I don’t.”

“No, you sound good. But you don’t look well, my sweetheart.” I put my hand on her forehead. “You have a temperature. That I can tell just by touching you. Your forehead’s burning. And your face is red, especially your nose. All those were signs of pneumonia before. An infection in your chest. Your lungs.”

“What before? What are you talking about? Am I sick, do you think? Then I have to stay home. The hospital will kill me.”

“Even there, see? You’re saying things you don’t know you’re saying. I’m saying, they make little sense. Let me call 911. The EMS, or whatever the fuck its name is — the ambulance truck. They’ll come and the paramedics in it will examine you right here in your bed and maybe they’ll say you don’t need to go to Emergency.”

“I’m not going to Emergency. If I have to die, I want to die here, but in my regular bed.”

“You’re not dying. You’re going to be all right. Can I call Marion and have her come over and look at you and speak to you?”

“Why would you call Mary Anne?”

“It’s Marion. She was once an Emergency room nurse and she’s become your best friend here. You know she’ll level with you. If she says you should go to Emergency, will you go? I won’t force you. We’ll do what you want. You get to make the final decision, but first let Marion have a look at you.”

“Call Marion. Call. Call anybody you want. I don’t care.”

“So I’m going to call.”

“Isn’t that what I’m saying? Call her. Call my mother, call my father, call the police. But what I’m saying is what I’m saying. Nothing will make me go.”

“Even if Marion says you should?”

“You’ll just get her to side with you. But we’ll see.”

“Let’s hope she’s in.” I put my hand on her chest above the breasts. “You’re warm here too, and sweaty. More signs. I don’t know what I’m going to do if she doesn’t answer.”

“I hope she doesn’t. I want to stay here. If I am sick, I know I’ll get better staying home. I at least won’t get worse.”

“Okay. I’m going into the other room and calling. I’ll be right back.” I went into our bedroom. Abby was in our older daughter’s room, which I had set up like a hospital room. Hospital bed, oxygen if she needed it, other equipment and machines and supplies to take care of her for various things. I dialed Marion’s cell phone, her only phone. It wasn’t a working number. I went back to Abby. “You okay?” She just stared at me. “Are you feeling all right?” She continued to just stare at me. “I tried calling Marion. Thought I knew her number by heart. Do you remember it?”