Stephen Dixon - Late Stories

“You don’t need to go any further. I’ve had similar feelings myself sometimes. And don’t blame yourself, remember, since I was the one to ask you to come here to help me convince Abby to go to the hospital.”

“Thank you. I still feel guilty for my part in it, but what you just said makes me feel a whole lot better.”

“I have to say I don’t feel any guilt. What I thought then, and I haven’t changed my mind about it, was that we had no other choice.”

“That might be true too.”

So where was I? My tendency is almost always to get off the track. Guilt. Hospital. Abby dying before she had to. I’ve said to myself the last two nights when I was in bed and trying to go to sleep: “I did something terrible to you at the end.” And the first night: “The you is you, of course.” And both nights: “I helped keep you alive for years and then I hasten your death and maybe even have caused it.” That’s what I’ve been getting to and finally got there. I failed her. I failed her. I should have done what she wanted. Abby. I should have said “You don’t want to go to the hospital, you want to stay home and not leave our house and take your chances here, then that’s what we’ll do. Anything you think is good for you is good for me too.” Should have said that. Also: “Anytime you change your mind about it, if you ever do, and it’s all up to you, I’ll take you to the hospital in our van, not the big EMS truck. The hell with that. Who needs another uncomfortable ride? I won’t even call 911. I’ll just make sure you’re dressed warm enough for the outside, because I don’t want you catching a cold on your way to the hospital. Then I’ll get you in your wheelchair and wheel you up the ramp in the van, fasten the wheels to the floor, get your seatbelt around you and maybe a little blanket over your lap tucked in at the shoulders, and drive you to the hospital’s Emergency entrance. We could even wait, if you want to, for the kids to get here from New York, and we’ll all go together in the van. And I’ll stay in the room with you every night there if you want me to, or hire an overnight private nurse to stay with you if that’s what you’d prefer. And everything will be all right. But we’ll only go if you want to, I promise. If you don’t ever want to go, and I know I’ve said this before, that’ll be fine with me too.”

He’s almost sure he’s done this one before. Or one very much like it, but which definitely included Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony . He was driving a rented car in Maine. She was asleep in the front passenger seat. Last stretch of the trip from New York to the cottage they rented in Brooklin for two months. Route 175, he thinks it is, or 174. There was also 176 nearby, and 177 or 172 not too far from 174 or 175. They’d started out early that morning, alternated driving every hour and a half or so. She got tired at the wheel last time and had been sleeping for two hours with a towel across her chest and arms to keep the sun off her or because she was cold. He wanted to wake her to make sure he took the right road out of Blue Hill to get to Naskeag Point Road, where the cottage was, but thought it best to let her sleep. That way she’d have more energy to help him get the cats and the groceries and all their things into the cottage and clean and set up the place for the night. And he thought he knew how to get there from all the times they did it last year, their first summer together, when they rented the same cottage for two months. So it’s 1980. Second to last week in June. They always, even after they got married and had their first child, liked to get there and settle in before the renters and owners of vacation homes really started populating the area the first week of July. In the fall he’d start teaching in Baltimore and she’d finish up her postdoctorate at Columbia and continue teaching there another year. Two courses the first year, one on Dostoevsky. She had about ten of his books and a couple of biographies and several books of criticism of his works in a carton in the car’s trunk.

She woke up, looked at her watch and said “That was a good nap and a much needed one. I didn’t get much sleep last night, anxious about getting the car and setting off on time. Oh,” she said, looking around, “we’re almost there. You remembered the way. Did you notice any changes in Blue Hill?” and he said “It all seemed the same — restaurants, stores, galleries — from last year. Still no bookstore or simple sit-down lunch place like the one in Bucksport, which I was hoping for. I can’t stand fancy restaurants up here or ethnic ones. French, German, Thai — anything like that. They all seem out of place. Just give me a plain haddock burger, with lettuce and tomato, and not greasy, and made from today’s catch. Or a fresh crab roll and some crispy onion rings and the local cole slaw. And, of course, to share a slice of blueberry or raspberry pie with you.” “Well, Blue Hill caters to a fairly ritzy crowd, but give it time. Maybe the economy will flop and you’ll get your wish. Mind if I listen to the news? It’s almost five.” “Could I see what’s playing on the Bangor classical music station? I haven’t listened to anything for two hours. I didn’t want to wake you.” “You and music,” she said. She turned on the radio and went up and down the dial till she found something. “No, that’s the sister station in Portland, I said. It’s too faint to be the Bangor one. A little further up or down — I forget the exact numbers, but it’s still in the nineties, and it’ll be playing the same thing,” and she found it. Same music that was on the Portland station, but clearer. An orchestral piece, he thought, early twentieth century, he guessed, and one he didn’t think he’d heard before. “It’s lovely,” he said. “All right if we keep it to the end or until it starts getting too brassy or schmaltzy or loud? If it stays as good, I want to find out who it’s by and what orchestra and conductor.” “Anything,” she said. “The news isn’t going away, and they’ll just repeat it at five-thirty, if I remember from last year.” They let it play till the end. Sibelius’s Fifth . Lorin Maazel. Vienna Philharmonic. “That final movement was one of the most stirring and luscious things I’ve ever heard,” he said. “And that ending. Chord, silence, chord, silence, etcetera. Really unusual for a finish. Thanks.” “Now can we listen to the news?” “You didn’t like it? You were just putting up with it for my sake?” “I liked it, I liked it, but obviously not as much as you. I remembered I’d heard it before. But forgot who composed it and what number it was. When I finally realized it was by Sibelius, I was going to guess number seven. So I was off by two. I went to a concert where it was played. Bernstein. My favorite conductor. Same orchestra. In Vienna.” “You went alone?” “No. Going to hear Sibelius would never be my idea.” “The Russian poet, who I remember you said liked to ski in Austria?” “No. My boyfriend in Paris. We took a trip.” “Don’t tell me about it. And I’ve never heard it before. All the music I’ve heard and some pieces on the radio twenty, thirty times, and never that one? How can it be, a piece that great? I’m going to get it when we get back to New York.” “That’s a long time,” she said. “Think you’ll remember?” “Maybe there’s a record store in the Ellsworth Mall on High Street.” “There is, if it’s still there, in the rear of a paperback bookstore, but they don’t carry classical music. I’ve tried. When I had a working record player at the cottage, before we met.” “We should have brought mine up, with some records. Yeah, but that’s we said we’d do last summer, and look at us, we again forgot. We’re stuck with just a radio for good music. If you want, you can switch to the news now. It’s coming up.” “No, the announcer just said they’re going to play my favorite Bernstein piece: Symphonic Dances from West Side Story .” “What a coincidence,” he said. “You and Bernstein and the West Side.”