Stephen Dixon - Fall and Rise

“The name of the man who’s supposed to come over but never will? Daniel Krin.”

“Krin. No. Well, we beat the band for Dan.”

“It won’t be Dan but—”

“Seriously, Helene, you can’t know how wonderful almost everything is in having a baby. Even to doing it in one room while the kid’s sleeping peacefully in another. I mean, he sleeps in our room at night, but sometimes, in the afternoon, when Bob—”

“I’ll consider it if at the time we have two or more rooms.”

“And breast-feed it too.”

“At the same time or different? Anyway, if the man comes, baby comes and then the milk comes, I will.”

“You’ll be such a relaxed mother, it’ll just spill. I’ll start saving the money to fly in for your wedding. Not with Dan-the-man so much, but you know what I mean. If you gear yourself up for it to happen, it’ll happen, listen to me. Before Bob there were plenty just as highly desirable and a couple even more so — I don’t kid you and I never did him. But I wanted to go to grad school, travel, work, kick it up a little and so on — you know me — till I said it was time to, since I was approaching thirty-five and beginning to risk Down’s for the kid and along came Bob. Whups — sleepytime yawn. And look at this. Bob — and it seems to be a straightout nonfake — fell asleep holding the bottle to Nick’s lips and Nick’s asleep too, on Bob’s chest. So it’s one big sleepy family. But he has to be burped. Minimal ten minutes or we get a magnum of gas. But before that I’ll get my hard-wrung expressed back into the refrigerator, get the Polaroid and flash attach and snap a few pictures of these two. So, my dearest dream of a generous friend — refrigerator, pictures, burps, then rock Nick in his carriage a bit and probably one more diaper change — I’ve got a lot to do so really must say toodle-ee-oo.”

“Much love to Bob from me and a big kiss on the tuchis for Nick.”

“That a way to go.”

“Hey, come on there, get this wagon moving — move it along,” man in the subway car says into his newspaper. He stands up, slaps the paper against his leg, opens the window by his seat and sticks his head out of it and says “Hey, come on there, get this — conductor. Hey, conductor there, what’s going on? We’ve been — hey there, you. The one in the blue coat. Yell to the conductor there we’ve been parked in this station for the last two days…With the Parka — that’s right, the blue one, you. Yell to the conductor there I want to see him. That we — damn it. Conductor, hey, conductor. What’s with this train? Get it moving, get it moving. When are we supposed to be here to, next Thanksgiving parade?”

“Any minute,” a man yells from where this man’s yelling to. “We got a light up ahead to stop and haven’t got one to go.”

“Then get that light. Call them up and tell them to put on that light because a mistake’s been made and nothing’s in your way. Get that light and go. People like me have to get to work or lose our jobs. Jesus,” and he sits, looks around, realizes he’s sitting on it, pulls his paper out from underneath him and starts reading it.

“Will you please close your window?” a woman across from him says.

“What are you worried for? The doors are open and not going to close.”

“When the train starts the doors will close. Will you please be so kind as to close the window you opened?”

“It’s only a little fresh air.”

She gets up, says “I knew you wouldn’t,” makes sure the four shopping bags at her feet are positioned against one another and the seat so they won’t fall, says “Excuse me if it’s no trouble” to the man, he moves over a couple of feet, and squeezes the levers at the top of the window but can’t get the window to move. “Mister,” she yells to Dan sitting at the other end of the car. “You’re my last hope here and not because you’re the only one left. Could you please help me close this window — it’s stuck.”

“If it’s stuck I don’t see what I could do to close it.”

“Give it a try. It might be my strength.”

“A try then.” He goes over to the window, says “Excuse me” to the man, who’s moved back under the window and now moves again to the side, presses the two sets of levers in, window won’t budge. “Seems really stuck.”

“Now you see what you did?” she says to the man.

“What I do? Fifty years of this train going down the drain and you’re blaming me? And you got heat — feel it,” and he puts his hand on the seat. “Heat, so you won’t freeze.”

“I’m an older person. My bones are brittle. I get frozen faster than you.”

“Then move to another car. There’s actually too much heat coming up, making me want to take off my sweater, so it’s nice mixed with a little fresh air.”

“But I like this car. It’s cleaner than most and who knows what’s in the other cars. And this one was the perfect temperature for me without the window opened, which is why I walked through the whole train before I came back to sit here. I have a long way to go.”

“What else can I say? I pulled a window down, now it won’t go up. Point of issue has to be finished, for if he, a big strapping man, can’t close it, there’s nothing more anyone but a train mechanic can do.”

“Maybe you have a special way with those window clickers.”

“I don’t. I put my fingers on them like you did and him.”

“Ask him to try to use his special touch again,” she says to Dan.

“I’m sure there isn’t any.”

“There isn’t,” the man says. “But what’s the difference? This train’s never leaving here, so we should all stop crying. It’ll be another one they’ll tell us to get off of and then it’ll roll out to wherever they go, probably to the next uptown station to pick up passengers, who’ll think ‘Hmm, why’s the train so empty?’” He stands, yells out the window “Hey there, we’ve been here fifteen minutes if you want to know the exact figure — either tell us to get off and you get another train here to take us, or get this one moving. Conductor there — I talked to you before about it…oh go to hell with yourselves, you’re all a pack of meat and never gave two craps for the next guy,” and he leaves the train.

“Maybe you can give it a last good try,” she says to Dan. “Sometimes the first times unloosen it.”

Dan shrugs, tries the window again, strains and gets it up two inches.

“That’ll help but not by much. That all it’ll do?”

“That’s it.” His fingers are black and sticky from some crust on the levers and underneath the top window frame. “Maybe this is the problem,” showing her his fingers. “A grime, like glue. Probably down the sides of it — where the window slides up — too.”

“I’m going to another car. I know of one almost as warm if no one there opened the windows. Want his paper? It’s Saturday’s.”

“He might come back for it.”

“With all he did we don’t deserve his paper?” She crams it into one of the shopping bags, picks up two in each hand and a long umbrella and plastic raincoat that had been behind them and goes into the next car. Odor about her. Lots of junk in the bags. Small pots, rolled-up clothing, wooden hangers, loose toggles, stacks of letters, tied-up twine and string.

Conductor rushes through the car holding a flashlight. “Anything wrong, sir?” Dan says.

“We’ll be moving in a minute,” and goes into the next car. Dan sits, shivers, tries the window, rubs what grime he can off his hands under the knee-part of his pants.

“Hold the door,” a man shouts, running down the stairs. He runs into the car, “What luck it was still waiting,” pats his chest, “This isn’t good, I shouldn’t be losing my breath like this,” sits.