Stephen Dixon - Fall and Rise

“Not at all. Why, my remarks?”

“For a while I didn’t know what I was getting into with you, pre- and post-phone. Some of the things you said — they might be amusing or right for some people, and maybe any other time in my life or hour of the night I might respond more favorably to them, so what am I saying?”

“No, you’re right. Fact is I was thinking the same thing before you said it. That I might’ve sounded too fancifully bizarre — I’m being euphemistic here so you don’t think too unfavorably of me. Or am I now doing the same thing? — but too soon saying these things and maybe for any time.”

“Well, let’s not get down on yourself too hard. Just have a good shower and snack and a pleasant sleep. If you like Mandelbrot — do you know what it is?” He nods. “Some of my mother’s homemade ones are in a coffee can in the refrigerator. I’ll probably be up earlier than you but I’ll patter around. I don’t think Sammy will get out of my room, but if he does and ends up on your bed, don’t be alarmed — he doesn’t scratch. I’ve no shades on any of my windows, so if it gets very bright out it might wake you. Any idea what the weather report is for tomorrow?”

“No, and go ahead and wake me. Do everything you’d normally do if I wasn’t here. All I want is a few hours sleep. Also, and I know it’s a little late in the conversation for this, but you never said how your evening went after you left Diana’s. The wedding reception?”

“I didn’t. Thought I had. Anyway, you probably still want to talk and I don’t. If you want to chat later in the morning and I don’t feel too rushed to get busy with my work, we can do so over coffee.”

“Fine. Do you have to use the bathroom, because I’m going to be in there a while.”

“Give me a minute and then it’s yours. Oh, one more thing and then you’ll be set. Around five or five-thirty a man might yell ‘Mike’ from the park side of the drive a few times and possibly startle you. Either he’s crazy and doesn’t have a dog or he does have one and it runs away from him and gets lost every other day. Otherwise, have a good night.”

“Goodnight.”

She’s dreamed. How old is she in it? — that’s always the first thing she asks about her dreams. Same age she is today. She and Dan were on a beach. It seemed like the same beach she rents a cottage on every summer for one or two months, lots of pebbles and shells and huge smooth tocks sticking out of the sand or the water near shore. Then it seemed like Coney Island, a gray colored sand but without people or wire trashcans or lifeguard highchairs on it, and no pebbles, shells or rocks. The sky was clear, weather was mild and the sun was setting in the East. He was in bathing trunks and a tank top, she in a light sleeveless cotton dress, more like a young girl’s dress with blue forget-me-nots all over it and a big bow at the waist in back. She have one like it as a girl? Doesn’t recall. They were holding hands. The Boardwalk and Parachute were behind them — still no other people — and she pointed to the Parachute and said “I once got stuck at the top of it for half an hour when there was a fire in the gear box thirty feet above me and it scared me so much I couldn’t speak for a week and could never go on an amusement park ride again, not even the merry-go-round or one of those dumb bumping cars I used to love.” All that happened. She also couldn’t get into an elevator for months or on a plane till about ten years ago and even today when she drives a car over a high bridge her pulse speeds up. He said “Don’t look at it then,” not that sympathetically; “let’s just count birds.” They turned back to the water. Both were barefoot and her feet were sinking into the muddy sand, making her shorter and then much shorter than he. She held a finger out to point at birds and he held a pen and pad in his free hand. A bird flew past. She said “There’s one — a tern. How many are we up to now?” He said “One,” and let go of her hand to write the number in the pad. She said “It seems we’ve been here much too long for just one tern.” “There’s a second bird,” he said; “quick, what is it?” “A sandpiper, but they usually travel in twos or schools.” “Prides,” he said. “Plagues,” she said, “or maybe not. I can be very morbid, so you better watch out for me.” He said “I’ll do more than that; a gaggle of mores. I’ll look out for you, look after you, look forward to you, look into you, look up to you, but I’ll never look down my nose or look through you, or so I say.” “Never mind,” she said, “but tell me: why are we counting birds?” “We were asked to for the betterment of our environment, yours, mine and the child’s.” “Never mind, and look; there’s a third one — a murmuration bird,” and she took his pen and wrote the number and name in his pad. He hugged her, she didn’t resist. He said something like “Stabilize your mouth, I’m going to navigate you,” she opened her mouth wide and moved her head closer to his. He kissed her neck and fiddled with her dress bow and shoulder strap. She said “Will you get your hands and lips off me? I don’t know you and I do mind.” He let go, held his hands out to her in a strangulation pose. She backed away and he dropped to his knees, put his face to the hole her feet had made and screamed the most horrified scream and she thought he’d just found his child dead in its crib, and woke up.

What to make of it? The dream, if just the scream and dead child thought, certainly woke her up. But what of the rest? Multiple meanings of tern? Fiddling with her bow only in there for a laugh? All the baby talk with Marietta could explain the dead child being in, but what does that dropping-to-his-knees scene mean: child she wants but might never conceive, being stillborn? Her wanting to kiss him, then resisting, related to what happened with Peter before? Was the mud she was in primeval? The strangulation pose supposed to be what she thinks sex would be like with him? The sandpiper flying past the piper of passing time? Nothing she can now think of makes her think the dream was very self-revealing or profound. Engaging, moving, cinematic, even tragic, and her favorite kind stylistically, one that for the most part moves forward and tells a story. But when the meaning doesn’t come at once or after some thought, she lets the interpretation of it drop till it pops out on its own. Now that’s interesting.

She gets up, her mouth dry from all the drinking tonight. Bathrobe on, shuts the bedroom door to keep Sammy in. Bathroom still steamy from what must have been a long shower. Doesn’t have to pee but will on her way back so she won’t have to get up again tonight. Heads for the kitchen for a glass of water. Living room’s dark except for the street lights but ample light to see. He seems to be sleeping, hardly breathing. She holds her breath, doesn’t even hear him then. He can’t have anything on underneath since his pants are folded on the floor beside the bed and he said he lost his undershorts. On top of the pants his neatly folded shirt and beside them on top of a newspaper folded in half his shoes side by side with what appear to be socks inside. Why’d he move the shoes in? Probably from some infixed sense of order or he didn’t want her to feel his things were strewn all over. He’s on his stomach, covers down to a little above his waist. Room’s fairly cold, so won’t do for his chill. She goes to the side of the bed he’s not facing. He has big shoulders, fairly big back muscles which seem unusually tight for a man sleeping, even flexed. Big tuft of hair on his back just below the neck, also hair that comes up almost to the tops of his arms. He smells from her hair conditioner, so he must have shampooed. Same smell she smelled when she passed the bathroom. All right by her if it made him feel better, but maybe he should have asked if he could use them. She pulls the covers up to his neck, he doesn’t move. She goes into the kitchen, runs the tap water to get it cold. What’s she doing? — she has enough bottled spring water to take a bath. She gets it out, in the refrigerator light pours out a glass. Shuts the refrigerator door, drinks. Too cold to drink all at once, truck roars past. At this hour and that sound could only be a Times or News delivery truck, hopes it didn’t wake him up. Thinks between sips he’s a very bright guy, a terribly nice guy, well just a bright nice lively guy, that much is clear, with a tendency to get into scenes. Also a lot better looking than she remembered him, grubby as he was when he got here, with a sense of neatness and cleanness about himself, and that while he was here, big contrast to Peter, he didn’t make any kind of pass. In the morning he’ll ask — she’ll sit down for toast and coffee with him — if he could see her again, and what will she say? Say yes, see what he’s like once he gets over his nervousness about her and evening fatigue and lingering tipsiness, meet for tea, maybe the second time for a long walk and lunch, and if he gets as pushy as he was on the phone, stop him, and if he continues to be pushy after that, drop him, since that’s not the type of man she ever especially liked and certainly not what she wants to start up with again, so just, and this has to be the main thing, go slowly with him from date to date and if it works it works, what more is there to say other than she thinks this is what she’ll still think if she remembers it when she wakes up again later today, and sets the glass upside down in the dishrack, tiptoes to the bathroom without looking at him, pees nothing much so doesn’t flush it, more not to waste water than not to wake him, gets down in a crouch and slowly opens the bedroom door, grabs Sammy just as he’s about to scoot out through her legs and kicks the door shut and carries him with her to bed.