What Is All This?

by Stephen Dixon

  “What for?”

  “Don’t give me the ‘what for.’ Just do as I say.”

  He shrugged, as if her last words had sounded more reasonable, and shut the door behind him.

  “Warren was listening,” she said. “It isn’t good for him—learning all about our difficulties this way.”

  “Don’t worry so much about him. He’s capable of accepting these things much better than you think.”

  That still doesn’t make it right. Jesus, he’s only eight.”

  Then maybe it’s inevitable that he knows. And maybe, also, if you’d listen a little more closely like him—”

  “All right, what is it you really called to say?”

  “Part, I told you. Also, that I probably wouldn’t’ve rushed out like that or even be here, for that matter—because the business could’ve waited—if it wasn’t for you. You know, in the things you do that burn me up so much and what you say and all.”

  “Come off it.”

  There you go again—you see? I knew this call wouldn’t be worth a plug nickel for all I’d get out of it.”

  “Because you’re not making sense, that’s why. If you used your brains first before you said something, you’d get somewhere.”

  “And somewhere I haven’t got by using my brains?”

  “I’m talking about the phone.”

  That nice apartment and car and all your clothes and your fur piece and my job and your forty to fifty pairs of slacks and everything else I got just by sitting around on my ass?”

  “You know I wasn’t referring to your work…or that you’re not a good provider. You are. That’s not what I meant.”

  “It’s pretty clear what you meant. But look, I called up with a nice gesture—to make things right. But if you have other ideas…I’m saying, if you don’t want things right again, or you don’t think things can ever work out between us again after that last fight, then fine. That’s just fine. That’s really fine and dandy with me.”

  “Oh, stop with all this defensive nonsense why you called. I’ll tell you once and for all why you called and save you the trouble. First of all—”

  “Now cut it right there, Bobbie, I’m warning you.”

  “You’re warning me what? Reason number one is you want me to apologize for our last battle as I’ve always done in the past, right?”

  “Wrong. I called because—”

  “Reason two is—”

  “Will you give me a chance to speak?”

  “—after I get you off the hook by saying it was my fault and I want you to come home, you’ll want me to phone your mother—just so the dear woman should worry none, know what I mean?—and tell her everything’s hunky-dory between us again, as I finally realized, sweet sensible repentant Barbara finally realized she was in the wrong. Number three–”

  “Enough with your stupid numbers. Are you going to listen to reason or not?”

  “Whose? Yours? That’s not reason. I don’t know what it is. It’s doubletalk. Because I’m sick and tired of kowtowing to you every time you’re in the wrong and refuse to admit it or you’re feeling sorry for yourself because you’re in the wrong and refuse to admit it. This row you’ll have to smooth over by yourself—and that’s with both your mother and me—because I’ve taken all I can from you.”

  “Who the hell’s asking you to call my mother? Why are you blowing this thing so out of proportion for?”

  “Because I can see it. Your standing there acting like you always do—like a spoiled pouting child waiting for an apology.”

  “When, always? Name one time before.”

  “August 2nd, 1969, at eight-fifteen in the afternoon. How the hell do I know, but there were plenty. My point is you never admit when you’re wrong, and I do.”

  “Now that’s a lot of crap if I ever heard any.”

  “Now that’s a lot of crap if I ever heard any,” then thinking how ridiculous it was mimicking him and how silly she must have sounded. She set the receiver down and ran her hands up and down her face.

  “What’d you say, goddamnit?” his voice muffled in the bedspread.

  “Bobbie?”

  “Excuse me a minute. Ken, I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Can’t it wait?” but she placed the receiver on the bed and went into the bathroom. She splashed water on her face, stepped on the scale, stepped off it and threw her robe and the head towel over the sink, and stepped on the scale again. She stared down and waited for the arrow to stop jiggling. Oh, give it up, she thought, her weight still fluctuating between 105 and 110. She put on the robe and went to the phone.

  “Sorry, it was urgent,” she said.

  “Urgent? You could’ve had two drinks at the 21 and gone to the John there for what your little urgency just cost me.”

  That’s right, you’re calling from San Francisco, aren’t you.”

  “Yes. And it’s not eight at night here and special low-evening long distance rates, either.”

  That’s right. I believe there’s a three-hour difference in our time zones, which means you still probably have light. What can you see from your window?”

  “Other windows.”

  “No great big beautiful bay and mountains and ocean and ships going to Tokyo and Bangkok and places?”

  “Windows. Actually, a curtain. I drew the curtain because of all those other windows. Come on, Bobbie, what do you say we cut out all this sarcasm and biting remarks for a while, okay? Let’s just say we’re both in the wrong as we were for our last squabble, and begin something from there.”

  “So now we’re both in the wrong. My, we are making progress. I’m sorry, Ken, but I’m not accepting any compromises.”

  “Okay, so I admit I was compromising—but only to get you off the hook this time.”

  “Just try unhooking yourself for a change, all right?”

  “Do me a favor? Forget I called?”

  “Whatever you say,” and she hung up. She went into the bathroom to dry her hair.

  The phone rang. Warren, reading a comicbook on his bed, waited for it to ring five times before he ran to her bedroom to answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, sweetheart, how come you didn’t answer sooner?”

  “Hi, Granny. Mom’s in the bathroom with that hair dryer going on. I’ll get her. Ma?” he shouted. “Grandma Ruth’s on the phone.”

  “How is everything at home?”

  “Fine. Dad called. He’s in San Francisco. Ma?” he said, interrupting her next question, “Grandma Ruth wants to speak to you.”

  “I said, Warren, your father called? How long ago?”

  “I’m not sure; not long. Ma?”

  “Did he mention anything about when he’s coming home—or your mother? Warren, are you listening to me?”

  Just then his mother pushed open the bathroom door and took the receiver out of his hand.

  “Hello, Ruth, what can I do for you?”

  “My God, Barbara, right away I can hear how angry you are.”

  “It might sound like that, but I’m not. How are you?”

  “But I can hear.”

  “All right, you can hear, you can hear, but how are things with you?”

  “Wonderful, thanks, but I’d like to know what’s this I hear about Kenneth and you. I haven’t the exact story, of course, but whatever it is, it can’t be more than a little fuss.”

  “It’s much more.” She waved Warren out of the room. He gestured he’d sit on the bed and wouldn’t speak or listen to anything said on the phone, but she continued to shake her head for him to leave, and he stamped out.

  “Why is it more than that?” Ruth went on. “A spat, like everyone has spats, and then it’s over. Be smart—make up. I know something about how a wife should act. She thinks she’s in the right—and even if she is, she should forget it or maybe just believe she’s right but not say so. For if it makes them happy and builds up their ego, why shouldn’t you give in sometimes, am I right?”

&nbs
p; “No.”

  “Don’t be a little girl, Barbara, angry for nothing, holding malice till it hurts. Do what I say and everything will work out fine.”

  “You honestly believe that?”

  “Answer it yourself, dear: what else could happen?”

  “Well, there’s always what I think of myself after that lie—there’s always that. And then tell me one thing that’s gotten better between us after I’ve given in to him because you said I should, my own folks said I should, just about everyone I know said it.”

  “If everyone’s said it, then it must be the right thing to do.”

  “Oh, artfully answered, Ruth, but I can’t believe you believe that deep down. Haven’t you been reading the papers? We’re wearing our own fashions, breaking down all the discriminatory practices. Women shouldn’t sell out to men anymore.”

  “Please, you can’t change him. That’s how he is, was, and will always be, so accept it.”

  Then it’s never going to be good again between Ken and me till he does change—and you can tell him that when he phones you.”

  “He said he was going to phone me?”

  “Also tell him not to constantly kick me in the face as to what the call’s costing him when I’m trying to talk over some very important personal things.”

  “He said that? That’s not like him.”

  That’s just like him. Your son’s the big sport when he wants to make an impression. Just come over here and I’ll show you all the nice things he’s told everyone we know he’s bought me.”

  “I can’t come over today, but thank you.”

  “I was only kidding—never mind. You’ll probably be speaking to him soon—I mean, grant to me that I know by now how he operates—so tell him where I stand, all right? Also tell him—let’s see; what should you say? That this time it’s different. That I often think it’s not worth the trouble being married to him anymore. And for sure he can’t come back to the apartment till he takes responsibility for these fights and separations and that he’s going to do something to prevent them in the future.”

  “So he’s responsible, so you’re responsible—what makes the difference in the end? After all, you’re husband and wife, married almost ten years and with a lovely home and a son to consider, so you’d think one of you would be big enough to accept the blame and then forget it. Because listen, Barbara—”

  “Ruth—please? No more,” and she said goodbye and hung up. She figured Ken would call within the hour. He’d walked out on her three times the past two years, after calling her the worst names possible, and always Ruth later called her begging for a “beneficial to both” reconciliation brought about by Barbara’s willingness to accept the blame. And always she said she couldn’t but would ultimately, just to end the matter and for the sake of their son, say something like “Okay, maybe it’s a little bit more my fault than yours; so it’s over; come home.”

  She had a good idea what would happen next. He’d call his mother, who’d tell him only a little of what Barbara had said and certainly none of the tough talk and give him advice how to handle this tricky situation. Then, nervously picturing the call he still had to make, he’d light a cigarette and smoke it down slowly. Finally—feeling emboldened by the cigarette and the shots of scotch from the bottle he always carried in his suitcase—he’d tell the hotel operator he wanted to place another call to New York. His approach would be like the ones he used in the past. He’d say he knew he wasn’t totally innocent for this most recent rupture, but could she tell him with a straight face that her hot temper and insults and inflexibility weren’t mostly to blame? It was always so easy for him, she had always made it so easy for him, that she could just puke when she thought of all she’d given up in herself since she married him. She lay on the bed, thought of taking the phone off the hook so she could avoid the inevitable ugly scene, decided against it, as he was going to call sooner or later so be done with the damn thing no matter how bad it might turn out, and tried dozing off for a few minutes and only reopened her eyes when Warren tiptoed into the room.

  “You sleeping?”

  She shook her head.

  “What are you doing lying down then?”

  “Resting, can’t you see?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No—I’m sorry. I’m actually just lying down here waiting for your father’s call.”

  “He say he’ll call again?”

  “No. But I have an intuition about such things—a feeling.”

  “What things?”

  Things like that. About what people will do who are very close to me like your father and you. That he’ll call.”

  “How long you think he will?”

  “I can’t predict it with any great exactness, not being the expert in these feelings that some people claim to be, but I’d say soon.”

  “Will you let me speak to him?”

  “You know it.” She inspected her nails. Most were jagged, uneven, the nails on the right hand bitten down so far the last few days and the cuticles looking such a mess, that she had to turn the hand over. She got out her manicure set from the night table.

  “Why’d you send me out when Granny called? She say I did something she didn’t like last time she took care of me?”

  “Why, did you?”

  “What did she say?”

  “Now you’re doing a bit of conniving like your father sometimes does, you know? Even at your age, which I’m not sure is so cute. I had personal things to discuss with her—nothing about you.”

  “What personal things?”

  The phone rang. Warren lunged for the receiver, said “Daddy, that you?”

  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  “He says, how’d I know?”

  “Tell him I had an intuition,” she said.

  “A what again?”

  “Here, give me it. Ken?”

  “What’s going on there?”

  “I was only telling Warren to tell you I was feeling slightly intuitive tonight.”

  “About what?”

  “Ask your son.”

  Warren stuck out his hand for the receiver.

  “What in the world’s that supposed to mean?” Ken said.

  The phone, Mom, the phone.”

  She mussed up his hair—he grabbed the receiver while she still held it to her ear—and said “Wait till I’m finished and I’ll call you to it,” and pointed to the door. He shook his head, slapped his hands against his sides when she continued to point and smile, and slammed the door behind him.

  “Now you made me get him mad,” she said.

  “Get who mad—Warren? What the hell were you two doing there, talking riddles?”

  “All I said before is that you should ask your son because he knows. In fact, he knows too much already for an eight-year-old.”

  “You know, I don’t want to appear dense—it’s a very unattractive pose for a man my age—but you’re really making a lot of sense to me, you really are.”

  “What I’m saying is that if you don’t want Warren to know too much about our difficulties, well, then I don’t have the solution. Maybe we should get a housekeeper or maid—somebody, at least, who will occupy him during his more restless moments and occasionally answer the phone. It’s just every time I’m left alone with him or the phone rings when I’m in the shower, let’s say, he uses answering it as a pretext for barging into our room and asking me a lot of embarrassing questions.”

  “So slap him down then, that’s all.”

  “Brilliant. No, I think the nanny idea is the best one.”

  “What nanny idea? You might not believe this—you probably never thought you had such a schnook for a husband—but I think I lost a little of what you’re saying.”

  “It’s all quite simple. What I want is for us to have someone look after Warren weekday afternoons and to answer the phone when I can’t, or maybe the alternative is to get a phone extension in the kitchen.”

  “Why an extension?” />
  “So Warren can answer it there and then tell me I’m wanted on the phone, without him having to come into the room to answer it. We can call it Warren’s personal phone—something he’ll like.”

  “His personal phone—right, I see.”

  “But it’s important, Ken.”

  “I know it’s important, but enough’s enough, agreed?”

  “But it sounds as if you don’t think it’s important. You’re not worried about the extra charges for the extension, are you?”

  “Now don’t start up on me again, Bobbie, and I’m not kidding anymore. And let’s stop all this silly jibberish, as I’m just not up to it now.”

  Then I don’t know, Ken. If we’re ever going to get any privacy around here with that boy…I mean, the only way I can see his personal questions and overcuriosity letting up on us is if we—”

  “Okay. For the seventeenth time—I heard, I agree. You say you want a nanny for the kid, fine, you’ll get one. We’ll bring her all the way from Ireland if we can’t find a good one here, and not steerage, but good accommodations on a plane or ship. And what else was that—an extension? You want a phone extension? Fine again, great, even two or three or as many as you think we need, and all push-button Princesses if you like, and any color you want, even pink. But now, you going to listen a moment as to why I called?”

  “I’m listening, dear, I’m listening.”

  MR. GREENE.

  It was a beautiful day, clear and dry, the orchards soaked by the early-morning downpour and smelling of fallen fruit and fresh buds. Life fantastic, I thought, when something hard was shoved into my back and a voice said don’t turn around.

  “Don’t turn what?” I said, turning around and seeing a man holding a handgun.

  “Didn’t I say not to?” and he split my head open with the gun butt, and while I lay on the ground howling for help but not sure if my words were coming out, and trying to divert the stream of blood running into my nose and mouth, he shot me twice in the stomach and once in the head.

  I woke up. Usually when I have dreams like this I’m somehow able to startle myself out of sleep before the bullets come, though not before I’m clubbed. But this morning I was awakened by the sounds of a sanitation truck being fed garbage. My wife stirred on her side of the bed and asked what time it was, though she knew as well as I that the city sanitation truck made a punctual seven o’clock visit to our apartment building every weekday.