Stephen Dixon - Letters to Kevin

It never came out. Oh, maybe if I had stayed there for a month or year or even near to the end of what could be a long lifetime — maybe then, when I was old and bent, it would come out and explain why this and that happened or just hand me a note with all the answers on it or just one answer for them all and then clump back inside.

Because it’s possible that creatures like that thing with the big finger live on for centuries if not eons, and so have lots of time to spare and can deal with matters whenever they like and without feeling the years are flitting past and nothing’s getting done. While I didn’t want to spend most of my life waiting for this thing to take a week to finish picking its teeth after a twenty-year-long snack or something, before it got up to answer my knocking at the mountainside. For I still wanted to see you before you graduated grade school and got married and became a great-grandfather, and also to do a few more things with my own life too.

So I walked away from the mountain. Headed in the direction where I saw smoke from a few miles off. Maybe there was a person there who could give me some answers about that mountain. I also sat down at a cool spot to write this letter, which I’ll mail to you first chance I get.

All my best,

Rudy

Dear Kevin: It took half a day to reach the place where the smoke was coming from. It was a small cabin in about a quarter-acre clearing in the woods. There were no fences, paths, garden, graves, pets, cars, bikes, wash, trash cans or antennae or really any sign of life other than this simple cabin with its one window beside the front door and smoke curling out of its chimney. I knocked on the door. Nobody answered. I knocked much harder. Still no one answered or came to the door. Now where there’s continuous smoke from a chimney there’s usually someone tending a fire. Unless the cabin was burning away slowly from the inside or the wood was throwing itself into the fire. So I pounded and kicked the door. Someone pounded and kicked back. I knocked twice and someone knocked back twice. I tapped three short taps and a long one, and the person inside did the same. “Anybody in?” I said. “Anybody in?” a voice said, neither male nor female, just scratchy and maybe old. “Then someone must be in,” I said. “Then someone must be in,” the voice said. “All kidding aside,” I said— “All kidding aside,” the voice said— “No, I mean really, all kidding aside. For you see—” “No, I mean really, all kidding aside. For you see—” “I could use a hot meal and a night’s sleep in a real bed.” “I could use a night’s meal and a real sleep in a hot bed.”

“Who’s mimicking me?” I said.

“Who’s mimicking me?” the voice said.

“Nobody’s mimicking you. You’re mimicking me. And you’re doing a pretty bad job of it with that ‘night’s meal and a real sleep in a hot bed.’”

“Nobody’s mimicking you. You’re mimicking me. And you’re doing a night’s job of it with that ‘real meal and a hot sleep in a pretty bad bed.’”

“Okay. Who is this me I’m speaking to then?”

“Okay. Who is this me I’m speaking to then?”

“A man.”

“A man.”

“Well, listen here, man, you opening this door or not?”

“Well, listen here, man, you opening this door or not?”

“You want me to open the door, I will.”

“You want me to open the door, I will.”

I waited for him to open the door. He didn’t. I tried the doorknob. The door was locked. Then the man tried the doorknob. The door didn’t move.

“Can’t you get out?” I said.

“Can’t you get out?” he said.

“How can you say ‘Can’t you get out?’ when I’m outside?”

“How can you say ‘Can’t you get out?’ when I’m outside?”

“You can’t be outside if you’re inside behind the door.”

“You can’t be outside if you’re inside behind the door.”

“We’ll see.”

“We’ll see.”

Ileaned my typewriter against the door and the case against the window, so if the door or window opened I’d hear the typewriter or case fall. Then I ran around the cabin. The only door and window were in front. Both were locked, with the typewriter and case still up against them, so the man couldn’t have gone out to see if I was the one who was outside. The window shade was

down. I couldn’t see in the cabin. Smoke was still curling out of the chimney. “I just ran around the cabin and proved to myself that I’m the one who’s outside,” I said. “I just ran around the cabin and proved to myself—” “But you couldn’t have.” “But you couldn’t have.” “Look. If you’re locked in there or afraid to come out, tell me and I’ll help you.” “Look. If you’re locked in there—” “All right,” I said. “I know what you’re going to say.” “All right,” he said. “I know—” “I said all right, all right, I know.” “I said all right, all right, I know.” “Have you anything else to say?”

“Have you anything else to say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing.”

“Then goodbye.”

“Then goodbye.”

I walked into the woods, sorry I wouldn’t have a hot meal and place to sleep tonight and some answers about that mountain. Then I ran back and kicked the cabin door and said “There, I just proved who’s outside. Because I just walked into the woods, heading west, following the sun, feet on the earth and mud in my shoes as I moved, brushing away shrubs, pausing to sip from a brook, pick a berry off a bush, a root out of the ground, trail the tracks of a deer, things you could never do as long as you stay in the cabin.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Ah,” I said.

“Oh,” he said.

“Something wrong?”

He kicked the door. “Just a little bellyache, but I’ll be okay.”

“Sure you won’t need a doctor?”

“Sure you won’t need a doctor?”

“Why? I wasn’t the one who complained of an ache.”

“Why? I wasn’t the one—”

“Forget it. You did, and my arguing is useless, so I’ll really have to be leaving for good now. See ya.”

“Forget it. You did, and my arguing is useless, so I’ll really have to be leaving for good now. See ya.”

“Fine. Where you leaving to — somewhere else in the cabin?” and I laughed.

“Fine,” he said laughing. “Where you leaving to — somewhere else in the cabin?”

“I didn’t start laughing till I finished my sentence.”

“I didn’t start laughing till I finished my sentence.”

“That’s a lie.”

“That’s a lie.”

“And it wasn’t your sentence originally but mine.”

“And it wasn’t your sentence originally but mine.”

“Just as that last sentence was.”

“Just as that last sentence was.”

“Anything you say.”

“Anything you say.”

“Ditto.”

“Ditto.”

“And ditto your ditto.”

“And ditto your ditto.”

“It’s obvious you’ll never make any sense to me, so goodbye.”

“It’s obvious you’ll never make any sense to me, so goodbye.”

“Okay — goodbye. Now where you going?”

“Okay — goodbye. Now where you going?”

“Well, I’m going through the woods again. Where are you?”