Late Stories

by Stephen Dixon

  Go to Sleep

  He wakes up and she’s not there. What did he think? Of course she’s not there. But he imagines she is. Or tries to. Sticks out his hand where she used to sleep. Feels along the mattress to the end of what was her side of the bed. Touches her. Her back. Runs his hand up her spine and smoothes her neck. Runs his hand down the crack of her back to her behind. Feels it. Rubs it. Circles his hand around one buttock, then the other. Can you feel me? he thinks. “Can you feel my hand?” he says. “You’ve been gone so long. It’s good to have you back. ‘Good’? There isn’t a word for it. Can you turn over on your back?” She turns over. He feels her breasts under her nightshirt. Feels between her legs under her panties. The last few years she wore diapers to bed. Or “pads,” they preferred calling them. He’d take them off her in the morning, even if they were dry, which they almost never were, after he got her out of bed into her wheelchair, wheeled the chair into the bathroom, and got her on the toilet. “I thought I threw out all your panties ages ago. They were in the second dresser drawer from the top, about ten of them. I asked you if it was all right. After all, you didn’t wear them anymore. Hadn’t for years, and we thought you never would. And they were old and no organization like Goodwill or Purple Heart would ever take them. Now you have a pair on. Did I miss one? I guess it means you think you no longer need the pad at night and maybe not even during the day. Good. I like panties on you better and I’m sure you do too. They must feel better. The pad, I think, could be a bit uncomfortable to wear and they’re not easy to get on and off. We must have talked about this before.” He moves nearer to her. He can’t see her face in the dark. Can’t see any part of her body. And she’s still under the covers. It’s a cold night. It must be around two or three in the morning. The quietest time outside. All the curtains in the room are closed. He drew them before he went to bed. Wanted to sleep late this morning because he hasn’t been getting much sleep lately. Tosses around in bed for hours some nights, or after his first few hours of sleep. Doesn’t know why. Maybe he should stop drinking an hour or two before he goes to sleep. What he does now, and has for months, longer, is drink right up to the time he goes in back, washes up, gets in bed and reads till his eyes get tired, and turns off the light. “Do you mind if I touch you down there? I know I did it before without asking, but that was just to find out what you had on.” He’s not touching her now and he says “I mean your crotch,” and he feels her crotch. The hair around it. Then her thighs near the crotch. “I’ve always loved your thighs. You never did. You thought they were too large. Or ‘plump,’ was the word I think you used, but I always thought they were just right. Or not that large or plump. Or whatever I mean. I’ve also always loved your hair down there. So soft. You didn’t; thought there was too much. And I know you don’t like me talking about your body like this. Never did. But I did it anyway, maybe because it got me excited. Of course because it got me excited; we both know that. I loved their smoothness. Softness. Hairlessness.” He feels her vagina. “I shouldn’t play around like this. But I do want to touch it. Do you mind? Say you do, and I’ll stop.” He pulls on her pubic hair a little. “That didn’t hurt, did it? If it did, I’m sorry; I’ll stop. If you want me to go on, you’ll say so, yes? Oh, this is getting us nowhere. Actually, I don’t know what I mean by that. And I’m sounding like such a creep, which I can be, something we also both know. Okay, I’ll take my hand away,” and he takes it away and then tries to put it back. She’s not there. He lies on his back. Removes one of the three pillows—between them, they always had four—he’d set up against the wall so he could sit back against them while he read last night before he went to sleep. Maybe lying his head on three pillows kept him from sleep. Maybe not. But maybe now he’ll be able to fall back to sleep. Just two, if they’re good pillows, and his are, should be enough for anybody. He clasps his hands on his stomach and shuts his eyes. No, she’s there, all right. She was before, why shouldn’t she be there now? He reached out for her hand. But she must have turned back on her right side at the edge of her side of the bed, out of reach. If he stretched his hand or moved a few inches closer to her, he could reach her. What would he try to touch first? Her left shoulder under the covers. Doesn’t know why. Just came into his head. And he’s sure it’s under the covers. Room’s too cold for her shoulder to be exposed. Then he’d move the front of his body into the back of her and swing his left arm around so his hand could feel both her breasts at the same time. If she said his hand was too cold for that—it had been out of the covers awhile—he’d take it away. He’d fall asleep like that. First saying “Do you mind if I hold you like this and am squeezed into you?” If she said nothing, he’d stay where he was, holding her breasts. Maybe she would already have fallen back to sleep. Maybe she wouldn’t want to speak. Maybe she’d just want to hear him. Maybe she’d like him squeezed into her from behind and holding her breasts with one hand and would think if she said anything she might ruin it. She might also like him squeezed into her back and holding her because it was making her warmer than she’d be without him doing all that. He turns over on his right side and moves closer to her or where she was. She’s not there. He was going to squeeze into her and hold her breasts with his left hand. Not fondle them, because that might disturb her sleep or her going back to sleep, but just hold. Of course she’s not there. What did he think? But turn the light on to make sure. Don’t be silly. No, turn it on. He turns over and with his right hand turns his bedlamp on. Are you ready to look? He thinks. He’s facing the opposite way from her side of the bed. “I’m ready to look,” he says. He turns around and looks. A pillow’s there. The fourth pillow, where he left it last night, the one he didn’t set up against the wall with the others to sit back against while he read in bed. Maybe she fell off the bed and is on the floor. That happened a couple of times. She broke her nose once falling off her side of the bed. There was a lot of bleeding; he rushed her to a hospital a few blocks away. This was in New York. They had to wait two hours for her to be examined and treated by a doctor in Emergency and by then the bleeding had stopped. She had a problem snoring at night after that. They were told it could only be corrected by an operation on some part of her nose, which he didn’t want her to have. “Too risky for something so minor,” he said. “And since I’m the one being kept up at night and the snoring doesn’t seem to inconvenience you any, it should be my decision. What do you say?” He gets on his stomach and looks over her side of the bed to the floor. She’s not there. A pillow is, he forgot it was missing, the one he removed from his side of the bed before. Maybe she got up very quietly and made it to the bathroom on her own somehow. Not the one in this room—he’d hear her and would have seen the light under the door when his bedlamp was off—but the guest bathroom in the hallway outside this room. “You in the guest bathroom?” he says, louder than he was speaking before. Listens. Nothing. Maybe she made it to the kitchen for something. Water. From the filtered water tap attached to the sink. Or maybe she was hungry and wanted something to eat. What’s he talking about? Water. Food. Ridiculous. He turns off the light. Gets on his left side close to the edge of his side of the bed and reaches for the radio on his night table and turns it on. They’re playing a piece he’s heard on the radio several times but doesn’t know what it’s called. Schubert. Has to be. Chamber music. One of the quartets? He wrote fifteen of them. Fifteen. He’s not familiar with them all but this one he is. He even thinks they heard it in Maine at the chamber music hall near where they used to stay. “Are you back in bed?” he says, without turning around. “Do you like this music? Will it disturb your sleep? Am I disturbing you just by talking? Do you want to snuggle again? Then do you want me to keep the radio on? If not, say so, and I’ll turn it off. I should turn it off. We’ll never get to sleep with it on. Schubert. One of his quartets, but which one I don’t know. I’m almost sure we heard it in Maine once, lots of summers ago.” He listens. Nothing. Turns the radio off and gets on his back. He reaches over to hold her hand. The
y often used to go to sleep that way, both on their backs. Sometimes she reached over to him to hold his hand in bed. Sometimes he raised her hand to his mouth when they were both on their backs in bed and kissed it. He’ll leave her alone. He’ll let her sleep or go to sleep. He’ll tell her in the morning if she’s still in bed that if he had snuggled with her anymore than he did last night he probably would have wanted to make love with her. She might say something like “Want to have a go at it now?” No, that’s not like her. She’d say something more like “Are you interested now?” He’d say “Yes. Want me to take off your panties before we start?” “Do you mean my pad?” she might say. “Whatever you’re wearing.” “Sure,” she’d say. “You’d have to, eventually, wouldn’t you? I don’t see how there’s any other way.” He’d pull her panties down her legs and over her toes. No. He’d unbutton the straps on either side of her pad and slip it out from under her and drop it on the floor even if it was wet. No. She’s not wearing anything there. She went to bed without anything on but a nightshirt. He pulls the nightshirt up to her neck. No. He pulls it up over one arm and then the other and then manages to get it over her head without hurting her ears and drops it on the floor. Sometimes even the bottom of her shirt would be wet but this time it’s not. Now she’s not wearing anything. He kisses her left shoulder, then her left breast. Her head’s on two pillows. She’s on her back. The covers are over both of them. No. She’s on her right side. He kisses her left shoulder, kisses her back. He lifts her left leg, plays with her down there awhile, and then sticks his penis in. It feels so good, he thinks. “It feels so good,” he says. “Shh,” she says. “What?” he says. But don’t be silly, he thinks. Maybe it was the bed making noise, or the cat. He gets on his back, pulls the covers up to his neck and shuts his eyes. Go to sleep, he thinks. “Go to sleep,” he says. “Sleep. Sleep.”