Stephen Dixon - Friends - More Will and Magna Stories

“And I’ve told you. If it doesn’t satisfy you, what can I say?”

“Forget the lunch invitation.”

“Think I would have come even in a chauffeured-driven car? You’d put poison in the food. For both of us. You’re suicidal. You hate life because you can’t write and you’ve never really been published and so you want to take everyone with you.”

“You didn’t call that night, right, to say how much you loved the first half of my novel? What did you call for — to put me off-guard?”

“What are you talking about again that I called? You’re crazy, baby. See a doctor,” and he hangs up.

Will calls Floyd and says “Floyd, it’s me, give me a few seconds, but you know Gabe’s out of his head, don’t you?”

“No I don’t,” and he hangs up.

Will calls back and says “It’s me again, I shouldn’t have said what I did, but do you have Pearl’s number?”

“Haven’t I made it clear? I don’t want to talk to you.”

“All right, you don’t, and no doubt for good reason, but do you have her number or the name of her husband and city they live in if she isn’t in the Manhattan directory and neither of them live here?”

“They live here, I don’t know if she still has her old name or is in the book. But his is Charnoff, spelled the way it sounds I’d guess, a Mt. Sinai doctor, Gabe said, and since he also teaches there and has an office on upper Fifth, I’d say he lives around there too. You going to call her and make her feel like hell too?”

“You might disagree with me, but I want to know what happened with my manuscript back then, but once and for all. I just want to know how much he read and could possibly have stolen from it. If I find out in his favor, I’ll apologize up and down the line to him. To him and you — a public apology if I have to — in the sky, any place, that he wasn’t out of his head but it was me.”

“No you won’t. Your problem is even if you find out the truth—”

“I swear it’s not. Listen, I’m sorry and I know we’ll be good friends again after this but probably not that soon. Goodnight.” He hangs up before Floyd can say anything else, dials Information, gets Charnoff s home number and calls. Pearl answers.

“Pearl, this is Will Taub, Gabe’s old friend — it’s not too late to call, is it?”

“What happened? Don’t tell me he died?”

“No, though he’s pretty sick though, but that isn’t why I called.”

“How sick is he? In the hospital?”

“He’s at home. You want his number? He doesn’t live where he used to when you knew him, but I have it right on me.

“Why would I want his number? Last time we spoke he insulted me something awful. But I was concerned how his health was. He was killing himself the way he drank and didn’t eat, not that I’d ever want to speak to him about it or anything else again. What I’m saying is, no matter what went wrong between Gabe and me, I can still have sympathy for him.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean anything by it. How are you, by the way?”

“I’m fine, and you?”

“Fine too. But let me tell you why I called. Did you read his novel — the only one of his published?”

“Sure. Clash! Why?”

“Well, it was my feeling after reading it that Gabe took a lot of material from my unpublished novel Flowers , which I gave him one night to bring to a publisher downtown after you two had had dinner at my place. Do you remember?”

“I think so. We went by subway. That was before I bought my car for school.”

“That’s right — the subway. Well, Gabe claims he only read twenty pages of my novel and then wanted to throw it out the subway car window he thought it was so bad. Do you remember that? He said you would. Because what I remember is that later that same evening he called me up — at two or three in the morning — and told me he read half my novel so far and loved it and needed more time to finish it before he took it to the publisher, which was White Nights, though that I wouldn’t expect you to remember.”

“I don’t remember him wanting to throw anything out the window but himself a few times.”

“I’m talking about your subway ride home.”

“I know, but how do you expect me to remember that? It was six years ago.”

“Four years ago — five at the most.”

“It’s too small an incident to remember.”

“Then what about Gabe calling me later in the morning — that two to three a.m. call — and telling me on the phone how much he loved my novel? Do you remember that?”

“Of course not. I was probably asleep when he called.”

“Do you remember, then, before you went to bed, Gabe staying up late to read my novel, and maybe in the morning—”

“I don’t remember any of that. I do remember having dinner with you and I think her name was Lucille—”

“Louise.”

“Louise, Lucille — I was close. And that we took the subway home. I don’t know why I remember the subway. Maybe because it was very cold—”

“It was in the middle of winter.”

“Then it had to be cold and I probably hated the long wait in the subway station and wanted to take a cab. But that’s all I remember of that night— all . So now, after so many years, it seems silly for you to call me and worry about such a matter.”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry if I might have disturbed you with my call, but the matter seems important to me.”

“Believe me it’s silly. Because when you get right down to things, what’s the difference about your old manuscript? From the way I knew Gabe then, and from what you and others have said about his condition since, he’s much worse off than any of us now, published book or not. So forget whatever he might have done to you and just be thankful you have your health and also the time to write more.”

“Maybe you’re right. Take care, Pearl, and goodnight.”

“No, be honest — I want you to answer me direct: am I right or not?”

“You are.”

“Good. Speak to you soon.”

Key’s still in the lock, my hand still on the key when I’m grabbed from behind, his hand over my mouth same time he turns the doorknob, and pulls the key out, pushes me into the apartment and kicks the door shut.

“Don’t scream or I’ll kill you,” he says.

Light’s out. Normally I open the door, stick my hand past the jamb and turn the light on, first thing when I get home from school. So the room’s dark, both his arms around me now, hand still over my mouth, my lips hurting from the pressure of his grip, shoulder bag he took from me and now holds, his mouth even closer to my ear.

“I mean it. Don’t say a word. Do or try to get away from me or anything I don’t want you to and I’ll kill you. I’ve killed others. Women and men, I can kill you.”

I shake my head. My hair brushes his face.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He takes his hand away from my mouth a little. He could clap it back on in a second if I screamed. I’m not going to. I believe what he says. The way he grabbed and now holds me and way he speaks.

“I’ll do what you say.”

“That’s a good woman. Now where’s the rest of your money? Lead me to it.”

He puts his hand back on my mouth and I start walking to the bedroom closet. I don’t want to go to the bedroom with him but that’s where the money is. If I said I didn’t have any money he’d probably say I was lying. Everyone has some money at home. A ten, a five, and all of mine except for what’s in the shoulder bag is in the closet in a box. Better to give it and maybe he’ll get right out. So I start for the closet with him holding me from behind, arm around my chest, other hand on my mouth, my shoulder bag he’s holding bouncing against my side.