Late Stories

by Stephen Dixon

  They’re having lunch in a restaurant, she comes back from the restroom and he says “I have something to tell you. It’s very serious and I’m willing to take the consequences, which I know will be awful, but I can’t hold it in any longer. You probably already know what I’m about to say,” and she says “I think so, yes.” “I didn’t want it to come out. I knew nothing good could come from my saying it. But there you are. I’m sorry.” “I’m sorry too,” she says, “but you’re right. You know yourself that something like that could never work out. For one thing, and it’s the main thing—you’re really very sweet and smart and generous and I like you, but there’s the age difference. For instance, say something did develop between us: when you’d be eighty-two, five years from now, I’d still be a relatively young woman. And in ten years, you’d be eighty-seven and I’d only be entering, or would have entered it a couple of years before, early middle age, but I wouldn’t be considered old.” “Like me now,” he says. “Funny; doesn’t feel like it. Maybe you think I’m bullshitting you for argumentative reasons, but I feel young—thirty years younger than I am, and maybe just entering middle age, not that I’m sure when middle age begins, ends, and how many years it is. Anyway, we shouldn’t see each other anymore. I know I couldn’t. No more lunches and no movies and dinners we talked about going to—Gertrude’s for fried oysters; Petit Louis for whatever they got, and so on—terminatively postponed. And don’t phone me. No emails either. No communication between us. I want to try to get you out of my head as fast as I can. I’m done with my lunch, by the way. I can’t eat anything now.” “I can’t either,” she says. He pays up and they hug outside the restaurant and go to their cars. She emails him about eight months later. Nothing between them since the last time at the restaurant when she ended their friendship or he did. He did. In it she writes that both her daughters are fine and a delight to her. She’s officially divorced now and she’s okay by it. She thought she’d take it harder. Her writing’s going only so-so, and she’ll explain why momentarily, though she still managed to publish two stories since the last time she saw him, and if he’s interested she’ll tell him where he can find them. But more important and why she’s writing him: she’s been diagnosed with the same disease his wife had. “I’m scared. You told me how horrid it got for her, especially her last five years. They tell me it’s a very bad case and that I’m pretty well along with it. Unbelievable as this seems to me, I’ve even begun using a walker. There I am, shuffling, shuffling. Not the one with wheels, but I guess that comes next. I’ve had to cut my teaching load in half for next semester, which cuts my billfold in half too, I’ll tell you, but what can I do?—I only have so much energy. I’ve tried to keep my illness a secret from everyone but my mother and chairman and dearest friend, but now it’s so obvious—shuffling, shuffling—I can’t hide it anymore. I hate hitting you with this bad news. But we got close as friends, so I thought it wrong not to let you know or for you to hear it from somebody else. I also in the future might come to you for advice, since you lived with it with your wife for twenty years, right to the end, you said. So. Maybe we’ll talk. Love and hugs. Ruth.” He calls her that night. They talk about her illness, what medications she’s on and doctors she’s seeing and experimental treatment she’s participating in, and then he says “Listen. This is all very gloomy and dispiriting, I know, but there could be a positive side to this also. At least for me, and I hope for you too. I thought this over since I got your email, so here it is. I still feel warmly to you. I think I once told you that you’re my favorite person on earth, other than for my daughters.” “I don’t recall that,” she says. “Maybe it was in one of my over-the-top emails to you, when I was still stupidly fantasizing a, shall we say, romantic relationship with you, or I just thought of saying or writing you it. But what I’m saying is I can take care of you if you ever need me to and help you out with money too. I have enough, and I have more than enough time to help you.” “I wouldn’t want your money,” she says. “Thank you, and I mean that, but I’ll make do.” “But how about what I said about taking care of you, if it had to come to that, which it could? And this is not a one-shot offer. I’d do it till I’m too sick and weak to, which I don’t see myself becoming.” “This is very interesting, what you’re saying,” she says, “because my greatest fear is that eventually nobody will take care of me except people I pay to, and I’ll have little income and savings for that. My mother’s too far away and she’s getting old and I wouldn’t want to burden her. Same with my kids, though too young, and my sister’s even farther away than my mother and has her own growing family to attend to. Friends have said they’d help. But other than driving me to places and bringing me food when I’m no longer able to prepare it and things like that, I can’t expect much more from them—certainly not the dirty work. Claude, God bless him, has said he’ll take on more of the parental duties. But nobody but you has offered to help me the way you said you would, or has the experience to, when things get really bad for me. So, yes, unless I come up with a better solution, and I doubt there’s one, I’ll take you up on your offer.” “See how things work out? You can even, in time, stop renting your house, which’d save you a bundle of money, and move into mine with your daughters. I’ve plenty of room and will make even more room if I have to. But up till then, and again, only if it comes to that, I’ll be here for you any time you want and for as long as you want or need me to. I’ll marry you, even. Not ‘even.’ I’d want to. It’s in fact what I’d love to do. And we can share the same bed if you’d let me share it with you, although that doesn’t have to be part of the arrangement if you don’t want it to. All up to you. But all right. Or have I once again blown it with you by saying too much too early? And forget the bed and marriage part. I don’t want to chase you away.” “We’ll see about all of that,” she says. “Tell you the truth, I’m kind of drawn to the idea of that sort of companionship too. So, my dear, while I can still cook, would you like to come for dinner tomorrow night? I’m going to make something Moroccan—my specialty. I think you’ll like it.” “What do you drink with Moroccan other than tea?” and she says “I like ice-cold beer. But if you prefer wine, a chilled semi-sweet sauterne would be good.” “Then I’m there with a couple of bottles and dessert. Is six okay?” “Six is fine.” “I also want to say,” he says, “that starting tomorrow I’ll do everything I can to get you completely well again so you won’t have to need me or anybody else.” “That’d be appreciated,” she says, “and it’s nice of you to say it. But you know as well as anyone it’s not the kind of disease where that can happen.”

  She goes to an academic conference in San Diego, comes back and emails him. “Hurray, I’m home,” she says. “Too many writers at the conference, but it was still fun. I missed you. I didn’t think I would. I didn’t even think I’d think of you. But I did, a lot. Why didn’t you email me while I was away? I’ll be sitting at my computer the next three hours, grading papers I put aside to go to the conference, so take me out of this drudgery and write me soon as you can.” He reads her email ten minutes after she sent it and writes back “Why, did I promise to write you? I thought of it, then thought you’d be too busy, and I also didn’t think you’d want me to. But call me, please? When you have time. I want to hear with my ears those missed-you words directly from you. Or I’ll call you. Are you still there? Over and out.” She writes right back: “Let me call you. I started it. Shut off your computer and let’s just talk.” He shuts off his computer and stares at the phone, which is on the table the computer’s on. About three minutes later, she calls. “Hi,” she says. “Sorry for the delay. I had to find your number before I could call. So, I’ll repeat what you want me to say. Are you listening?” “I’m listening,” he says. “But you don’t have to repeat it. You might think that too silly and it’ll reflect badly on me.” “No, I want to. I missed you. I thought of you a lot. I didn’t think I would, but I did. I know I never showed it before—affection, I mean, other than a friendly
affection … does that phrase make sense?” “Yes.” “Is it a phrase?” “I think so,” he says. “Some writing teacher I am. But I now think the way I think you think and that’s that we have something going here. Do you still think that way, if I’m right about what you think?” “You’re absolutely right in every way you said,” he says. “So when could we next see each other?” “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” she says. “Claude’s got the kids for the weekend. You can pick me up or I’ll pick you up and we’ll do something. Movie. Dinner. Anything you want.” “I can’t wait,” he says. “Movie and dinner. Why not? Now you’ll want to get back to your papers.” “Yes, that’s very considerate of you to think that. We’ll talk tomorrow—by email or phone—to see what time.” “Tomorrow,” he says. “I really can’t wait, but will have to. Oh, I’m so happy now.” “I am too,” she says. “Happy that you’re happy and happy for me. It’s exciting. But now drudgery calls. I’m hanging up, okay?” “Okay. Me too.”

  He can tell by her emails and how she acts and what she says when she’s with him that she isn’t interested in him the way he is with her. She’s funny, dry, conversational, doesn’t seem to want to be hugged or touched by him and only offers her cheek to be kissed. But he could never hide his feelings for very long with any woman he was interested in. He’s been a good boy, you can say, not letting anything slip out that might reveal how he feels about her. But he’s tired of just this friendship and wants more. Real kissing, lovemaking, exchanging endearments, that she’d only be seeing him, and so on. He’s not going to get any of it, so should he just tell her how he feels and make that the last time they see each other? Or should he not say anything and continue to meet her for lunch every other week or so as they’ve been doing? He’ll say something, get it out, say it all, in fact, and that this should be the last time they meet. “It’s been fun,” he’ll say, “but it’s become hard for me to see you when I feel this way and get nothing of the same thing back. Oh, saying hello when we first greet each other at the restaurant isn’t so bad. But near the end of the lunch, when I know it’s going to be over soon and I won’t see you for another two weeks, and definitely when we say goodbye and you head for your car, are very difficult for me to take.” That’s what he’ll say, or something very much like it. So they meet two days later. Another of their lunches. They talk about the books they’re reading, movie she saw, what her daughters are doing, her cat, the novel she just turned in to her literary agent, what they should order. “Want to split a sandwich and salad again?” she says. “Or just a side salad and each of us a cup or bowl of soup and the sandwich we’ll share.” The food comes. “Dig in,” she says. “My soup looks good,” he says. “Want to try it?” She says “You don’t have to ask me twice,” and he passes his soup to her, she takes a spoonful, says “Delicious.” “Have some more,” and she says “One dip’s enough. I have a whole bowl to devour. I’m afraid you won’t want to taste mine. The shrimp in it.” “Right,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to chance it. I’m a three-time loser.” “Wise move, then. Though I’ve never heard of a four-time loser.” “That’s good,” he says, “good. But look. I have to tell you something. And I hope what I say doesn’t disturb you, but I have to get it out.” “You didn’t like the story I gave you the last time.” “Damn,” he says, “I forgot to bring it with me. No, I liked it a lot. I’m surprised I didn’t already tell you. It’s a terrific story, and I’m not just saying so—probably the best of yours I’ve read. But it’s this—and I’ll mail you back the magazine first thing tomorrow.” “Save it for when we next meet,” she says. “There’s no hurry.” “Okay. We’ll see. But listen to me. I’ve never been one to hide my true feelings. Not that I haven’t tried, but I always fail. It’s just not me.” “What are you trying to say?” She puts her spoon down. She looks serious. “What I’m saying is I’m glad the feelings I have came. I haven’t felt this way since Abby died. And it feels good, but also disappointing, because nothing can come of it.” “What?” she says. “You must know by now. This will have to be the last time we meet.” “I must know that this will have to be the last time we meet? Why? I like our meetings. I look forward to them.” “I’m saying because of my feelings for you.” “You mean they’re more than just friendly? If so, I’m glad. Because if you’re about to say you have strong feelings for me in an amorous way, shall I say, and I know this is no joking matter so I’ll try to keep the jokes at bay, and also the rhymes. But I have, and I was afraid it might backfire on me so I never expressed it, similar feelings for you. Now, is that what you were going to say? If so, I’m glad. I’m repeating myself, but I am. The big question is why you would have these feelings for me.” “Don’t be silly,” he says. “Sorry. I meant that in a nice way. I could ask the same of you, but sure, I can say. You’re beautiful, wonderful, smart, kind, a terrific writer, funny, joyful—all those words. Did I say ‘smart’? I did. Exuberant too. More. You make me happy. I think of you almost constantly. I see you in my head most of the time I’m not with you. I feel you’re perfect for me. The other way around, I don’t know. I want to be with you always, and other things. What about you?” “Well,” she says, “I wouldn’t go as far as all that with you, but much of it is the same. Do you mind if I take your hand? Hold it, I mean?” He puts his hands on the table and she takes both and kisses one. “Oh, dear,” he says, and starts crying. “God, you’re such a softie,” she says. “Another thing I like about you.” “My age doesn’t bother you?” “Are you kidding? No more than my age bothers me. Now,” she says, putting his hands back on the table, “we should get back to our food. Then we should pay up and leave an extra generous tip—this time you have to let it be my treat entirely. It’s not fair, you paying all the time,” and he says “This time you get whatever you want.” “And then we should go to one of our cars—where did you park?” “In the parking area right out front. Got a good spot.” “Then we’ll get in my car, since I’m in the enclosed parking area upstairs and it’s more private, and seal this with a few big kisses and an enormous hug.” “I can’t wait,” he says. “Neither can I,” and she picks up her spoon, he hasn’t started yet on his soup, and eats. “I don’t think I can eat anything now,” he says. She says “Nothing’s going to stop me. You know me by now. Always hungry.”

  They meet for lunch almost every other Wednesday or Friday, the two weekdays she doesn’t teach, and always at the same restaurant. It’s a five-minute drive from her house and a little more than that from her kids’ schools, and after lunch she usually picks up one or both of them. The restaurant became their only one for lunch after the first time they went to it. Good imaginative food and great coffee at moderate prices, not that a more expensive place would bother him. It’s a cheerful and attractive place too, always crowded at the hours they go but with a low noise level, and plenty of tables and counter space, so they never have to wait to sit down. He also likes that you seat yourself wherever you want and the service is informal and fast. Almost every Saturday or Sunday for the past two months—if it’s a Saturday, he doesn’t go Sunday, and the reverse—he goes to the restaurant alone. It’s only ten, at the most fifteen minutes from his house by car. He goes there mainly to bump into her. She told him she’s often there on weekends, sometimes just to buy bread and muffins at the restaurant’s bakery there, most times for lunch with her kids or a friend. When he’s there alone, he sits at the long food counter, which has a clear view of the rest of the restaurant, opens a book in front of him or, if it’s Sunday, the Times book review section, orders a cup of soup and a coffee and looks up every thirty seconds or so to see if she might have come in. If she did, he planned to get her attention by waving at her and then, if she was alone, invite her to join him—at least for a coffee—at a table or the counter if there was an empty stool next to his or two empty stools next to each other somewhere else at the counter. If she was at a table when he came in, he planned to go over to it and say something like “What a nice surprise,” or “It seems we can’t get
enough of this place. Well, it’s that good,” and if she was alone or with her kids or someone, hope she’d invite him to join them. If it were a guy she was with, he wouldn’t sit down with them if asked to. He’d say “No, you’re busy, and I’ve got some things to do too,” and go to the counter, order, read, and try not to look up at her again. He probably wouldn’t even stay in the restaurant if she was with some guy at a table. He’d just turn around, hope she hadn’t seen him, and leave. Anyway, he goes to the restaurant one weekend day a week for two months with what he knows is only a small chance of seeing her there. Then—it had to be a Saturday because he’d brought along a book to read—he’s sitting at the counter buttering the chunk of bread that came with the soup and wishing he’d instead asked for a dish of olive oil he could have got for the bread—and sees her standing on the bakery line. He puts down the knife and bread and waits for her to turn his way—he’s about thirty feet from her—and when she does, he waves at her. She doesn’t seem to see him, maybe because she’s not wearing her glasses, and looks away. He waits for her to look his way again, but she doesn’t. He goes over to her, says “Hi. What a surprise.” She says “Oh my gosh, it’s you. How nice.” He stands with her on line. She’s here alone, meeting no one; her kids are with their dad. He says “Same with me. Had nothing to do. Been to the gym already and wrote myself out for the time being and decided to take a long break and have some soup. Care to join me? I’m at the counter, but we could get a table.” She says she could eat something and the counter’s fine with her. Even preferable sometimes. “You can rest your arms on it and there’s more room to put your things.” She gets an Irish soda bread—“It’s great toasted, and Saint Patrick’s day is this week. Not that I’m Irish, though my hair might be”—and three cranberry muffins and two croissants. “Did you know they also make brioches?” she says. “Better than any I had in France. I practically lived on them there, and the five kilos I put on showed it—I was the only adult in France to gain weight—but they don’t have them today. Boo.” She pays up and they go to the counter. A man on the stool next to his, without being asked to, gets up and moves to another stool so they can sit together. “People are so thoughtful in Baltimore,” she says. “It’s a good city to bring up your kids.” She digs into her shoulder bag and gets out her glasses. “Now I can see who I’m talking to. I’m so absentminded. I forgot I took them off and I also don’t know why I did. Usually I lose them when I do, unless it’s when I put them on my night table when I go to sleep.” She looks at the menu, says “Remember. Keep your mitts off my check.” “Got you.” “I mean it.” “I know. But I’m thinking, what a coincidence, seeing you here. What are the chances of that happening?” “With me,” she says, “since I come here so often—restaurant, bakery, sushi bar, confectioner’s stand, juice and smoothie bar?—it should almost be a given I’d run into you every time you’re here.” “Truth is,” he says, “you once told me you come here a lot, so I was sort of hoping you’d pop in. And I’d say half a minute after I had that thought, there you were, buying bread. I’m glad, of course. It’s been a busy day so far, but too quiet. I haven’t talked to anyone, and I’m not saying this to get sympathy, since I spoke to my daughters on the phone last night. If I hadn’t bumped into you I might not have said anything to anyone all day, except the server here with my yellow lentil soup and coffee and a pad of butter, which they always forget, for my bread. Just writing and exercising. What a dull day sometimes.” “The writing part doesn’t sound too bad,” she says. “I get so little time to.” She turns over his book on the counter so she can see the front cover. “Oh, I read this. I think you assigned it to us in class.” “Maybe I suggested it, since I never gave the grad students anything to read other than what manuscripts they were critiquing the next week. Did you like it?” and she says “I don’t remember a single thing about it. Maybe I didn’t read it if you didn’t assign it. It was fourteen years ago and we had plenty of other work to do.” “This is my third time with it,” he says. “Since I hardly ever reread a novel, it’s got to be one of the few I really like. And actually, and this might get me in trouble, and it has nothing to do with books, I’ve been sort of fibbing to you. I left my house hoping you’d be here and thinking, because I figured weekends would be when you come here the most, that I very well might.” “Might what?” and he says “You know. Bump into you here.” “Oh. Okay. You’ve got a confession, then I got a confession. While I was driving here I asked myself am I going there to buy baked goods and have a cappuccino to go or stay? Or more to possibly run into you, since you said once that this had become your favorite place for lunch.” “Did I?” he says. “I don’t remember, but I must have because it’s the truth.” “Wait. There’s more. I also thought that if you were here I’d fib, as you put it, that my running into you was unplanned. Why I took off my glasses when I left the car, I don’t know. Absentmindedness again, perhaps. Because how would I be able to run into you if I couldn’t see you?” “Maybe you thought I’d see you,” he says, “and would go over to you and say ‘Hi. What a surprise,’ which’d make it seem even more like an accident on your part. But let me get this clear. You’re saying that at least part of the reason for your coming here was in the hope of bumping into me? If I got it right, that’s infinitely better than anything I ever hoped for today. I’m overwhelmed. I might not sound like it—I know I don’t. I know what my voice sounds like—though that might come from my shock at hearing what you said—but I am.” “Good,” she says. “You’re overwhelmed and I’m happy and relieved.” “I’m happy too. But for the same reason I also might not sound like it.” “Good,” she says. “That’s what I want you to be. Okay. And now that we got that out, they have my absolute favorite soup today—winter squash with couscous and kale—which seems to be the favorite of half the people who have soup here. So before they scratch it off the menu and replace it with one I like but not nearly as much, let me order it. Then we can really talk, although maybe not here.” The server asks if she’s ready to order. She says “Bowl of winter squash soup, Portobello mushroom sandwich cut in half—you’ll share it with me, I hope,” she tells him—“field green side salad and a cappuccino.” “I’ll take another coffee,” he says. “And please make sure the check for my order and his coffee goes to me.” “If that’s the case,” he says, “I’ll have a cappuccino too. Only kidding. Just another coffee, please. Regular. No milk.”