Late Stories

by Stephen Dixon

  “Abigail Berman.”

  “Very nice to meet you, Abigail. And I remember, at last year’s party, I wanted to talk to you— Would you like a refill on that wine?”

  “No, thanks,” and she puts the glass on a side table.

  “But some guy got to you first and before I knew it or could say a word to you, you left the party together.”

  “That would be Mike. He’s somewhere at this party. I met him here that night and I guess we’ve been a couple ever since.”

  “Lucky guy.”

  “Oh, yes? Thank you. But lucky gal too.”

  “But I mean real luck, too. Because who knows what could have happened if I’d gotten to you first. In other words, got there seconds before I would have, because I was really on my way. Sorry. That was dumb of me. Too much of what I was thinking came out. Parties are good for meeting new people and drinking too much and maybe even saying the wrong thing, and Christmas parties especially, it seems. And I haven’t drunk too much. I don’t want you to think that. Although I have had some. But enjoy yourself. I don’t think I ever acted so foolishly to a woman as I have with you just now. Of course I have, once or twice, but it’s not my typical way of behaving. As I said, enjoy yourself. Nice meeting you.”

  “It’s been interesting, but same here, Philip.”

  She sticks out her hand and he shakes it and walks away.

  What must she think of him. A first-class schmuck. He’s embarrassed by what he said to her. Almost everything. He should have planned it better, not that anything would have helped him. She’s already hooked up. Talking to her made him nervous. Just thinking about talking to her before he actually talked to her, made him nervous. He talked nervously. Not that many women have had that effect on him. He’s just dazzled by her, that’s all. Was from the time he first saw her last year. So he should have thought of that and been more careful in what he said. Should have talked about her Russian work and authors. Opened it with that. Maybe brought up Babel and Chekhov too. Said Brad told him about her work. That would have been all right to say. Doesn’t sound too much like snooping. Or maybe it would have gotten him in deeper. No, just about nothing would have. What he said got him in about as deep as he could go. He gets his coat from the bedroom and starts for the front door. Brad stops him. “Leaving so early?”

  “Yeah. Thank you. Got some stuff I gotta get done by noon tomorrow. Once again, great party. And that woman, Abigail. She’s really something. I talked with her. Very bright as you said. And still with the same guy she met here last year.”

  “That’s right, I sort of was matchmaker. A real couple. Will probably get married. Mike, her boyfriend, is head over heels for her and, according to him, the feeling’s mutual from her.”

  “Lucky guy.”

  “Yep, she’s a honey. And so everything else: smart, lovely and accomplished. She’s not standing behind me or anywhere near us?”

  “No.”

  “Not to say good-looking.”

  “Good-looking? Beautiful. Gorgeous. You said so yourself when we first talked about her.”

  “We talked about her?”

  “Shortly after your party last year. You called her a blond madonna.”

  “I said that? What do I know about madonnas? Sure I can’t convince you to stay?”

  “As I said, too much to do tonight in preparation to finishing it tomorrow. Thanks.”

  He sees her at Brad’s Christmas party two years later. He was invited to last year’s party but got the flu and couldn’t go. Doesn’t think he would have gone anyway. He was still embarrassed by what he said to her and figured she and her boyfriend would be there. She’s wearing a maternity dress. Four, five months pregnant; maybe more. She’s certainly showing, and not just a little. Sitting on a couch, drinking from a mug with steam coming out of it, so it’s probably herbal tea. At least a noncaffeinated tea, or maybe just hot water. He goes over to her. “Mind if I sit on the couch with you? All the chairs are taken and it’s been a busy day and I’m a little tired.”

  “Please. Sit.” She moves over to one end of the couch to give him more room.

  “I don’t know if you remember me.”

  “You do look familiar. Did we meet here last year at Bradley’s party?”

  “Actually, it was two Christmas parties ago that we spoke and three years ago when I first saw you here. To refresh your memory, though it’s hardly worth remembering. But I was the fellow who said your husband, though he wasn’t that then, and I have to assume he is now, since you’re wearing a wedding band and I saw him here, beat me out by a few seconds in introducing himself to you. And look what it’s come to. Marriage. Baby. Congratulations.”

  “Now I do remember. You got upset at what you said. I forget what my reaction was.”

  “You were fine. Seltzer. Do I have the last name right?”

  “Mike’s you do. Mine is still Berman. Abigail Berman. And thank you for your congratulations.”

  “You must be very happy.”

  “Deliriously so. Are you married?”

  “No marriage. No children. No prospect for now. But who knows? Well, I don’t want to bother you anymore.” He makes a move to get up.

  “You’re not bothering me. Why would you say that?”

  “It’d seem I’d have to be bothering you, with that missed-out-by-seconds line. It would bother me if I were you.”

  “Obviously you’re not. So. Nice to meet you again …?”

  “Phil Seidel. Philip. Either. Yeah, I better get moving. Unless I can get you something first.” She shakes her head. “Then it’s really time for me to go.”

  “As you wish, Philip.”

  “Of course it isn’t important one way or the other for you.”

  “Why are you talking like that? Be reasonable, Philip. Maybe we should end this conversation. Something doesn’t feel right where it’s going and I think it can only get worse.”

  “I’m honestly sorry. Excuse me.” He gets up and goes to the coat closet and gets his coat and starts to put it on. He sees Brad, opens the front door, closes it, turns around and goes over to him. “Once again—it’s become something of a habit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m doing the same thing I did at the last Christmas party of yours I went to. Leaving early. You know. It’s crazy. But I can’t be in the same room with that woman. Abigail Berman. Probably not the same party.”

  “Why? The gentlest person I know of? What could she have done?”

  “It’s me. If you must know, I’m absolutely taken with her. If only it had been me who got to speak to her first three years ago here. Haven’t I told you? Before Seltzer did. Seconds. Missed out by seconds. And not that he wouldn’t have worked his way in there somehow. He’s a pushy type, aggressive; I can tell.”

  “He’s not. You don’t know him.”

  “Anyway, there was always a chance something could have worked out between her and me. She was unattached then, am I right?”

  “I think so. She was ready, at least. But she ended up with a very nice guy and their marriage is a good one and now the child. Be happy for her.”

  “I am, I am. Not for her husband, though. He moved in on her too fast. Ah, what am I bitching for? Just jealous. That’s all. I see someone I think’s perfect for me, and I can’t get her out of my head. When it comes to her, I’m always talking silly. Did the last time, did this time. Gotta go, really, and thanks,” and he leaves.

  He gets a job in California less than a year later. Lives there for five years. Has girlfriends. Almost married one but they weren’t right for each other—he wanted someone more brainy and she wanted someone less—and she broke it off a short time before the wedding date. He’s not sorry either. Moves back to New York. He missed the city and never felt comfortable in California, and he lived in three different cities there. Next time he goes to Brad’s Christmas party is seven years since the last one he went to. Though it’s now known as Susan and Brad’s party, since they go
t married and already have three children. He still thinks about Abigail now and then, “the girl of my dreams” he’s referred to her a few times to other people, and hopes she’s at the party, but there’s probably not much chance of that. It’s been so long. She and her husband could very likely have moved away too. And not to talk to her—though why not if it comes to that?—but more just to see what she looks like and if she’s changed much. He’s kidding himself. He wouldn’t have come to the party if he didn’t think there’d be even a slight chance she’d be there. He’s actually anxious about seeing her and his stomach feels a bit queasy because of it when he rings the doorbell. It’s a much larger apartment than the one Brad had before, and in the same building on Riverside Drive. This one overlooks the Hudson and New Jersey rather than a sidestreet and airshaft the last one did. Some of the guests brought their kids, even infants. Never did before. And the party started at two in the afternoon instead of six or seven at night. She’s there. Her husband too. In different rooms. She’s in an easy chair, wheeled walker to the side of it. Her face is the same. Still youthful and beautiful. She’s by herself, just observing, it seems, some of the people there. Then she calls out to two young girls who come into the room. He assumes they’re her daughters. The older one looks a lot like her. Color and texture of her hair, high forehead, heart-shaped face, and he thinks the eyes too—greenish blue or bluish green. The other girl seems to resemble her husband—dark hair and eyes and small upturned nose. Without asking her, the girls seem to know what she called them over for. They place the walker in front of her, help her out of the chair and make sure her hands are holding the walker, and stay on either side of her till she tells them she’s okay, she won’t fall. She starts pushing the walker forward, when he goes over to her.

  “These beautiful young ladies yours?”

  “My daughters, Freya and Miriam.”

  “How do you do, young ladies. I’m Philip. And if I may say so, you’re a great help to your mom.” And to her: “I doubt you remember me. It was so long ago. We talked a little at one of these Christmas parties, but in Brad’s old apartment. Have you been injured?” touching her walker.

  “No, it’s for an illness. This is what I’ve quickly been reduced to.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. And I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “And I didn’t mention my illness to elicit sympathy. I’ll be fine. I trust life has been good to you since we last spoke, though I have to admit I have no recollection of our conversation.”

  “No reason you would. Party talk. And I’m much the same. Still not married and no kids. Still writing and teaching and going to Christmas parties and stuff like that.”

  “Doesn’t sound so bad to me, the last part. But I’ll have to cut this off, Philip. I’m a little tired.” And to her girls: “I know it seems we just got here and you’re going to be disappointed, but would you tell Daddy I’m ready to leave? If he wants, he can put me in a cab, though one of you will have to come with me.”

  “Nice to meet you again. ‘Abigail,’ it was, right?”

  “Your memory’s better than mine. Perhaps we’ll see each other at next year’s party, if there’s one, and can talk some more.”

  “I look forward to it. And I’m sure there’ll be a party next year.”

  The girls have left the room. She starts after them.

  “Can I help you in any way?”

  “No. This has to be done alone. It’s slow but I get there. Thank you.”

  Half an hour later he sees her and her husband and daughters at the front door, hats and coats on, saying goodbye to some people. He smiles at her when she looks his way, and she smiles back. At least, or so it seems, she doesn’t have any bad feelings toward him anymore. Maybe because she actually doesn’t remember anything about what he said the last time they talked.

  He calls Brad the next day. “Once again, great party. I forgot how much I missed it. Christmas parties weren’t the same in California. You need the cold and threat of snow. But tell me, how bad off is Abigail Berman? She sure seemed weak. Though maybe she was just tired, as she said. The holidays and all. It can get to anybody.”

  “I wish it was that. The worst kind of MS. Went downhill very fast, and still sliding. Exacerbating—something else. Chronic progressive. I forget the medical term. At our party last year she was able to get around with only a cane. The one before, she didn’t even need that and showed no signs of it except for her eyes, which were a little off.”

  “The poor dear. I feel so sorry for her. I only wish I was the one married to her, so I could take care of her.”

  “That’s nutsy, Phil. Don’t repeat it to anyone else. And Mike seems to do an excellent job.”

  “Of course.”

  He’s invited to the next Christmas party, but is out of town and can’t go to it. Very much wants to, mainly to see her again and have a real talk. About a year after it—Thanksgiving weekend—he sees her in a movie theater on the East Side. The movie ended a minute ago. He has his ticket and is waiting on line in the lobby to go into the theater and she’s in a wheelchair, on the other side of a rope separating them, being wheeled out of the theater into the lobby by her older daughter.

  “Abigail. Stop,” and he climbs over the rope and goes over to her. “Hi. Philip Seidel. From Brad and Susan’s Christmas party.”

  “Yes. How are you? And I remember you this time.”

  “I’m fine, thanks. Haven’t seen you for a couple of years. Nor your daughters. Hi, kids. Freya and Miriam. I’m almost sure that’s right. I hope you’re all doing well.” And to her: “I don’t know what to say. And I usually end up saying the wrong thing, so excuse me beforehand. But this chair. I hope it’s only temporary.”

  “It will be if they come up with a miracle cure for me. And I’m impressed you remembered my daughters’ names. As for the Christmas party. We’ve been invited, as I’m sure you have, and don’t embarrass me by telling me you haven’t, but I won’t be going to it. I’ve become a traffic problem, being in a wheelchair at a crowded party, people tripping all over me, besides other more personal inconveniences. My daughters will be there if their father takes them. It’s become a nice tradition for them, and they’ve even made friends with some of the other children there. So, if you go, give Susan and Brad a big hello from me. Now we should get home.”

  “Wait, wait, wait. What are you doing? It’s pouring out.” The doors in front of the waiting line open and people start going inside. “None of you have raincoats and maybe not even an umbrella.”

  “We’ll manage. My daughters know how to look after me.”

  “No. I don’t want you to. You’ll catch cold. The kids too. Here. It’s wet, but take my umbrella. It’s large enough for all of you.” He gives the younger girl his umbrella. “Wait. What am I doing? You stay here and I’ll get you a cab. There’s a whole fleet of wheelchair-accessible cabs now running around New York. At least let me try.”

  “Thank you but we were planning to take a bus. The crosstown here and the number 5 uptown. They’re all handicapped accessible now and they let the wheelchairs on first. You’re going to miss the beginning of the movie. Are you seeing the same one we saw?”

  “I doubt it. One I’m seeing’s not for kids. But the hell with the movie. Heck with it, I mean,” covering his mouth and smiling. The girls and she laugh. “And I only came to it to get out of the house. Anyway, I’m getting you a cab and paying for it. My idea, so my expense. It’s the least I can do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, to help you and the kids out best as I can. Stay here. I’ll signal you when I get one. But I’ll take the umbrella till I get a cab and get you into it.”

  “You’re a stubborn man, Philip. Okay. We’ll wait here.”

  “One question, though. If I can’t find a cab that can’t take a wheelchair any other way but folded up in the trunk, are you able to get out of the chair and into the rear or front passenger seat with a little help?”

 
; “No. Not without the danger of falling. And getting back into the chair from the seat would be even worse.”

  “I understand.” He goes outside, opens the umbrella and stands in the street in front of the theater looking for a cab that can take someone in a wheelchair. He’s out there for about fifteen minutes. Several regular cabs slow down or stop but he waves them on. Give up. He’s never going to find one. Shouldn’t have been so confident. Should have known it’d be tough. Now he has to go back there and tell her, but he knows she won’t mind. Not the kind of person to. She might even blame herself. Goddamn rain. If only it wasn’t coming down so hard. He goes into the lobby. “Sorry. No luck. Rainy night. I should have known. And now I’ve wasted your time. Here, let me walk you to the crosstown bus shelter. You three will get under the umbrella. As I said, it’s abnormally large, so you can all fit—and I’ll hold the umbrella over you.”

  “Please. You should see your movie. Go. Enjoy it. We’ll make do.”

  “I told you. That’s out. I just want you to get home as dry as you can be. I’ll even take the crosstown bus with you and then transfer to the number 10 downtown. I live right off Central Park West.”

  “Okay, if you want. I can’t thank you enough. For my daughters and myself.”

  Should he try to redeem his movie ticket at the box office? That’ll just waste more time and he also doesn’t want her to think he’s petty or cheap. Anyway, no. They walk the block and a half to the bus stop. Her daughters take turns pushing her and he keeps the umbrella over the three of them. Thank God the rain’s now only a drizzle. Still, he’s soaked, feels chilled, but he’ll be all right once he’s home. Few seconds after they get to the bus shelter, he sees a cab that can take a wheelchair and runs out into the street and flags it down. The cabby stays in the driver’s seat, releases the liftback door, and he pushes the chair up the rear-entry ramp to the one empty place where a seat would be. Then the cabby, without leaving the cab, goes in back to strap the chair down till it can’t move. The younger girl sits beside her and the older one is in the front passenger seat.