30 Pieces of a Novel

by Stephen Dixon

  He makes love with his wife that night: first puts his hand on her breast, she puts hers on his—they were lying on their backs, room dark, still no stars or moonlight; he had to trace her face to find her lips—got on their sides to face each other and kissed and more deeply kissed and moved their hands down and now they were really started, he’d thought of Sage a lot before he turned the night-table light off while he was waiting for his wife to come to bed and a little of Sage during the beginning of the lovemaking and then just thought of his wife and now just thinks of a woman in the dark with more appealing—higher, firmer, but not larger—breasts, and legs stronger, harder, longer, slimmer than his wife’s, but the same beautiful face as hers—to him almost no woman has a more beautiful face and lovelier hair or skin—and next day Sage is intermittently on his mind: while he’s running his daily two miles, swimming in the local lake he likes taking his kids to, reading the newspaper, working on a manuscript, cooking dinner, and washing the dishes after and later listening to another concert on radio, this time an organ one taped in St. Paul. He doesn’t know what it is but she’s sure as hell captured his imagination, he thinks, which a woman, usually one young as she the last dozen years and up till now always one of his students, does from time to time, but never as intensely or for this long. He thinks of getting her phone number from Florida Information and calling her parents. That is, if they live there, because maybe the college she goes to is in that city or town—which is it?—and she lives in Palm Beach only when she’s away from home. Well, he’ll find out, won’t he? when he calls Information, and that would be the end of it if that’s what the situation is. But why call her parents? Not like the last time: to get them to come up and take their daughter away. Just to do something wild, idiotic, and unfuddydud-like, that’s all, something he once was or used to do or just didn’t feel constricted and tight about being or doing till around twenty years ago, which was a few years before he met his wife. And unfuddydud-like’s not the word; it’s “uncareful, unheedful, unforethoughtful, untimid, unsmothered, imprudent, unrepressed.” In other words, a reason or justification he just thought of but one connected to the memory of what he did with Sandy and her folks. In other words, if he hadn’t thought about Sandy in connection to Sage, he wouldn’t have thought of doing it. In other words, an excuse to be as stupid and reckless as he can one more time because he suddenly feels compelled to and it feels scary and exciting but damn good. But why be that stupid and reckless? Didn’t he just say? Anyway, don’t answer, for by questioning it he won’t do anything to be like it, for doing what he thought about doing is something you do without giving it those kinds of justifications and reasons and second thoughts, and more so at his age than when he was twenty or thirty or approaching forty. So it’s just for him, a release of some sort, last done so long ago it’s almost as if he never did it, stupid as it is. And when he gets, if he does, one of her parents on the phone, what will he say? What he has to, what will come out, and, unlike the last time, all unthought-of beforehand and unrehearsed, in any accent or voice he wants, even his real one, since neither they nor Sage know him, and probably the real one is the bravest to do and so in the end will give him the greatest release. If he gets their answering machine he’ll leave whatever message he’ll leave and call it quits with this wild, idiotic craziness or whatever it is. Or maybe he’ll do it as an experiment: once he speaks to one of her folks or their answering machine or the phone just rings and rings till he hangs up, will Sage then leave his mind for good or close to it? Or maybe tomorrow—probably tomorrow—this whole notion of calling will be gone. Is that what he wants? Of course it would be best, along with his not thinking of her so much if at all, for what’s he gain by it? But that’s not what he’s saying and he doesn’t want to think of it anymore now or it’ll all be spoiled. How’s that? Drop it; and he squeezes his eyes closed and stays that way for about a minute, and that seems to do it.

  He goes to town next day. “I have some photocopying to do and I’ll pick up a good bread,” he tells his wife; “anything else you might want?” hoping there isn’t, since he doesn’t want to make a bunch of stops, especially if what she wants him to get is before the place he wants to make the call from, and she says, “Nothing I can think of,” and he starts to leave, then thinks of it and also what a fake he is, considering what’s getting him out of here, and goes back to kiss her and then leaves, stomach churning nervously, even youthfully in a way, hasn’t felt that feeling in his pit for he doesn’t know how long, a feeling like—well, churning, nervousness, and of course he’s been thinking of Sage most of the morning, but that could be because he was thinking of making the call and how he would do it, which means he didn’t give himself a chance to forget her. Does he really have the guts for this? he thinks in the car: the brains, no, but the guts? Well, he’ll find out, and stops at a pay phone against the side wall of the first service station in town, has three dollars in change; if the call’s more he’ll forget it: he’d have to get change from the guy inside, and besides, it doesn’t make sense if it has to be so expensive. Looks in the phone book attached to the phone stand for the Palm Beach area code—it isn’t listed but West Palm Beach is—and he dials it plus the Information number and asks for Ottunburg and spells it, “I don’t know the exact address but it’s there, in the heart of the city, and I think this Ottunburg’s the only one.” He’s told that there are five Ottunburg numbers, all at the same address—Nelson F., pool, cottages two and three, and the children’s phone—and he says, “Give me Nelson, not the pool or cottages but the main house,” dials, sticks two-seventy-five in when asked for it, and a woman answers and he thinks it could be the maid or cook or someone, what with the spread they must have, and says, “I’d like to speak to Mr. Ottunburg, please”—not sure why he asked for him; if a man had answered he might have asked for Mrs. Ottunburg, probably to give himself a little more time—and she says, “He’s not home; who’s calling?” and he says, “Is he at work?” and thinks why’d he ask that? since he’s not going to make another call and not just because he has no more change, and she says, “He’s on a business trip, may I take a message?” and he says, “Is Mrs. Ottunburg in?” and she says, “This is she, who am I speaking to?” and he says, “Then this is for you too, ma’am. Your daughter Sage—who’s fine, by the way, best of health, no problems—is having an intense affair with a fifty-eight-year-old man in Bar Harbor, Maine, I’m sorry to have to report to you,” and she says, “My, my, not Sage,” and he thinks, She kidding him or what? because she doesn’t sound serious, which even if he didn’t expect her to that much he didn’t think she’d be mocking and he says, “Yes, Sage, a waitress, I believe, at the Popover Palace or something there in Acadia National Park—I never get to those places because I can’t stand the crowds,” and she says, “May I again ask who’s calling, since this is quite alarming, sir?” and he says, “I can’t divulge my name, I’m sorry, and I have to go now,” and she says, “One thing I do know, though, is that you can’t be the man she’s having this affair with—Sage would never take to someone so gross,” and hangs up.

  He knew it—didn’t he?—that it wouldn’t turn out right but was somehow worth the risk, or he didn’t know it but somehow sensed it; maybe that’s what the stomach pains were about, the nervous churnings: a warning not to make the call because he’d be embarrassed by it after, for it was crazy, really too crazy, and the call could be traced—he hadn’t thought of that before—people have the technical means now, the caller’s number showing up somewhere on the phone called, he’s read about it, remembers seeing in the article a photo of a little box like an electric shaver with numbers in a narrow window, and telephone operators have been using this equipment for years and the very rich would probably be the first home customers to have the device installed, not only because they could afford it, though he doesn’t know if it costs that much, but also because they might think that since they’ve more money to lose than other people they’re more like
ly to be the targets of cranks and criminals and solicitors over the phone and so on, but it was a public phone he called from—he’s in his car now, heading for a local produce stand that sells good bread—out of view of almost everyone, including the service station attendant inside, so he’s sure nobody saw him by the phone and there must be a dozen cars like his of the same color around the area, and even if someone did see him, just about no one around here knows him—he’s a summer renter who comes to town now and then just to buy a few things they can’t get at a big supermarket somewhere else and use the library and have his car serviced once a summer at the other station and maybe every other week a pizza and things at a restaurant with his wife and kids—and it was exciting, making that call, more in the expectation than the doing, and gutsy in a way, so he got that out of him … got what? Just proving he can do it, stupid as it was, but we all occasionally do stupid things, don’t we? or something like it—well, maybe not, and not at his age, but no harm done in the end, he’s sure: the mother will speak to Sage, maybe even today, maybe even use his call as an excuse for calling her, if she needs one—they might be very close, talk on the phone several times a week—and Sage could say “What man was he referring to? I know no fifty-eight-year-old man except one of the cooks at the restaurant, and he’s gay and I think is even married to his mate—anyway, they both wear the same wedding bands,” and her mother will believe her, that’s the kind of relationship they have, he could almost tell when she said, and now he’s sure it was said cynically, “My, my, not Sage”: absolute trust, honesty, et cetera, between them, daughter confiding in Mom and even Dad for years; Sage could then talk of her boyfriend—he’s sure she has one, it’d seem that every pretty girl at every summer job away from home like this would—saying she’s taking every precaution regarding birth control and disease, but about that silly call: “Don’t worry about it, Mom, I’ve had things like this to deal with before, you know that,” and her mother will say, “The price of being so beautiful. Remember what your granddad used to say to me—it doesn’t apply to you in this situation, so it isn’t a criticism, it just popped into my head—‘If you got it, don’t flaunt it.’ Do you know, I don’t think I know what the actual dictionary definition of the word ‘flaunt’ is—do you, my darling?” and Sage will say, “Why, though, are you telling me this?” and her mother will say, or could, could: “As I said, I don’t know; it just came to me, and it probably means wave, wouldn’t you think?—flutter, flap,” and Sage could say, “By the way, Charlie sends his love,” meaning her boyfriend, a waiter at the place, and her mother could say, “And give Charlie my very best and tell him to always be exceptionally good and, if the situation ever calls for it, protective of my lovely daughter,” and Sage could say, “Mommy, I can very well look after myself, so I don’t have to tell Charlie that. Besides, if he isn’t good, in all ways, out he goes,” and her mother could say, “Still, insist on the best treatment possible—you deserve it—but give as well as you get … oh, I am sounding trite today and not truly giving you your due … goodbye, my dearest,” and Sage could say, “One more thing. Who the heck could that man be who called you, and how would he know how to reach you? He must work here—someone who’s made a move on me or something and I told him, or said with a look, ‘No chance.’ I better find out. A person like that could do a lot of damage before the truth’s found out. You said he had a mature voice. Do you mean like an older man’s?” and her mother could say, “Yes, I think so, but I seem to forget now,” and Sage could say, “No, no older man would do that. It has to be one of the jerky boys here, acting old but doing it convincingly. Two of them are studying to be actors, but they’re too nice and sophisticated for that and we like one another, so I know it can’t be them. Maybe one of the busboys who has a crush on me—a couple do, or look as if they do—and he spoke to you in a faux older man’s voice. Or someone not even from here—why didn’t we think of it? Possibly from school, a fellow who has a grudge against me for some reason—a grad student, even—and he knows I’m here and probably having a great time. That’s most likely, and I think I’ve a good idea who it is. Good, I’ve solved it for myself, so you don’t have to be concerned about hiring a personal bodyguard for me,” and her mother could say, “The thought never entered my mind. Both your father and I know you can take care of yourself. But you can understand why a parent would get somewhat worried over such a call, though I gave no hint of it to that ugly man.”

  He buys bread and drives home. His wife asks what he did in town besides photocopying, and he says, “Oh, the copying; I forgot. But why, was I gone so long?” and she says, “Longer, I’d think, than it takes to buy a loaf of bread, if that’s what you have in there, not that I’m accusing you of anything,” and he says, “Ah, you know me. Thought I’d be back sooner after buying the bread”—pulls the Russian rye out of the bag—“but had a coffee at the Pantry; helped myself to a free second cup—you know, but not because it was free. Read part of today’s Times. It was just sitting there; a tourist must have left it. The world, for all the recent developments, is still, I can safely report, much the same. Went to the library to do the copying but got distracted at the seven-day shelf. There wasn’t anything for me, and I also didn’t want to take out another old video there. And then to the bookstore, but there wasn’t anything there I wanted either. Maybe one, but it was a hardcover and too expensive,” and she asks, “What?” and he says, “A novel; it looked good. Slaslo was his name, or Laslo: his first name, and not with a Z. Author I never heard of. But what do you say we go swimming? I still have two hours before I pick up the kids,” and she says, “Good idea, I’ll get ready,” and he says, “Unless you want to do something else, and even then we’d have enough time for a swim,” and she says, “You know me, usually willing. But maybe you could give me a rain check on it. I’ve been housebound for two days and I’m dying to get out.”

  The Miracle

  HE LOOKS AT the postcard she must have written last night before she came to bed; her handwriting’s changed from what it used to be a year ago—now it’s squiggly like the old often write and most of it in block letters and in places the ink’s weak and parts of some of the letters are missing and he can hardly read it—and he thinks, Oh, God, if only I had the power to just say, “May she be well again, poof!” and she was well from then on.

  There’s a thump against their bedroom door, the door swings out into the living room, she struggles out of the bedroom pushing her wheeled walker, one shoulder so much lower than the other that her shirt and bra strap have fallen off it, and says, “Back from taking the kids?” and he nods and is about to tell her what their younger daughter said on the way to the camp bus pickup spot when she starts teetering, one of her stiff legs shaking, and he rushes to her, holds her steady till he’s sure she’s not going to fall and her leg’s stopped shaking, pulls her shirt and bra strap onto her shoulder, and says, “Why don’t you use the wheelchair more? it’s safer,” and she says, “The bathroom door’s almost too narrow to get through, sometimes; you don’t remember when I got stuck between it?” and he says, “The time when I—?” and she says yes and he says, “Then I’ve the answer,” and waves his hand over her head and says, “Heal, I say let thee be healed,” and she says, “What are you doing? This is no joke, my condition, and I have to get to the toilet,” and he says, “I know … wait, or don’t wait, I can do it while you’re walking, and it could work, and I’ll skip the ‘thee’ and say ‘you.’ But you’ve tried everything else, haven’t you? Acupuncture, macrobiotics, chemotherapy, various other drugs the doctors have given you … what have I forgot?” and she says, “Don’t rub it in,” and he says, “Massage, physical therapy, bee-bite therapy for just a few stings, not equine therapy, was it called? for you were afraid of getting on a horse … swim therapy you’re doing now, and I know there have been a few others over the years. But faith, miracle, an out-and-out act of God or whatever it is but done through the intermediaryship of your husband,
Gould, son of Victor who’s son of Abe?” and she says, “Listen, you want me to pish right on the floor here and you’ll have to clean it up? Let me pass,” and he says, mock reverently, “By all that be holy, let this babe not only pass but be healed—at least let her walk again, I mean it, and on her own; this is serious, now, I’m not joking; please make her healed, my wife, Sally, let her be healed,” and looks at her, for his eyes were closed while he said the last part, and she snaps her head as if just awakened from something, she seems transformed—her face, the way her body’s no longer bent over and slumped to the side and straining but is now standing straight—and she says, “What”—startled—“what happened? I feel different, what did you do?” and lets go of one side of the walker, and he says, “Watch it!” and she says, “Watch what?” and doesn’t totter and lets go of the other handle and is standing on her own, something he hasn’t seen her do in three to four years and he doesn’t know how far back it was when he saw her stand like this for even this long, and pushes the walker away—“Wait, not so fast”—and she says, “I’m telling you, something’s happened, what you did worked, I feel totally different: strong, balanced, my legs not stiff but functioning normally again, I’m almost sure of it; I feel they can do everything they once did,” and he says, “No, please, don’t take any chances, what I did was just kidding around, as you said, but serious kidding, expressing my deepest hopes for you and that sort of thing, but I’ve no power like that, nobody does, nor am I an intermediary for any powers, all that stuff is malarky, bull crap,” and she says, “Watch,” and walks. One step, then another, and he says, “Hey, how’d you do that?” and she says, “It was only after what you did, and said, that I could; I had nothing to do with it,” and he says, “I can’t believe what I’m seeing, goddamn, two steps—by God, let’s dance,” and grabs her waist, and she says, “Hold it, I’m not used to it yet, I don’t think,” and he says, “The two-step, we’re going to dance it to celebrate those steps, you know how long it’s been since I’ve wanted to do it—not ‘want’ but could do it?” and takes her in his arms, spins her around, she spins with him; he doesn’t have to spin her, he finds, and he says, “The tango, that’ll be the best proof yet—big steps,” and puts his forehead against hers, gets them both into the opening position, and shoots a leg out and she does too, and they keep shooting their legs out together doing the tango till they get to the end of the room, swivel around, and in the same position do the same steps back, and he says, “This is almost I-don’t-know-what,” and she says, “It’s more than that—it’s miraculous, but I still have to pee,” and walks into the bathroom, door stays open as it always did when she went in with the walker or wheelchair, grabs the toilet-chair arms he installed, then says, “What am I doing? I don’t need these,” and lets go of them and pees, gets up, wipes herself—“Look at me, wiping while standing, something I never do anymore … I want to do all the things I haven’t done since I really got hit with the disease,” and goes into the bedroom and gets a shirt with buttons and puts it on and buttons it up, puts her sneakers on and ties the laces, goes outside and walks around the house and then into the field and picks lots of wildflowers and brings them back and gets on her knees in the kitchen and pulls out a vase deep in back of the cabinet under the sink and sticks the flowers in and fills the vase with water, then says, “I want to do some gardening, not have you or the kids do it all for me,” and goes outside and crouches by the flower bed that lines the front of the house and pulls up weeds, waters the plants, snaps off a flower, and sticks it in her hair; when it falls out she catches it with one hand and sticks it back, says, “See that? When I caught it I didn’t smash it with my hands. I want a real workout now,” and does warm-up exercises and then runs down their road, probably all the way to the main road and on it; anyway, she comes back in a half hour with the mail—“Got it all myself, even opened one of the envelopes to me without tearing the flap to shreds … but I’ll read it later. Who cares about mail now? I’m sweating like crazy and want to shower, but without holding on to the grab bars and sitting in the tub with the hand spray,” and goes into the house and showers standing up; he watches what little he can see of her where she didn’t pull the shower curtain closed and then undresses and steps under the shower with her, and she says, “Please, grateful as I am for what you did before and what you’ve done the last few years, covering for me with the kids, et cetera, this could be dangerous, two of us in a slippery tub. It’d be ridiculous for it all to end now with a terrific fall. But more than that, I just want to shower the first time like this by myself,” and he steps out, she soaps and rinses herself several more times and then shampoos—“Whee, this is fun and I feel so cool”—and gets out, dries herself, and dresses—“Now I want to try reading without glasses, since my awful eyesight was brought on by the disease too”—and opens a book—“I can read as well as I used to, I think”—sits down at her desk and types and says, “It’s no strain, fingers feel free and flexible, and I can type with more than one finger at a time, though I’m a little rusty at it … . I’m going to get some work done while I can, in two hours do what I couldn’t in ten, or even twenty,” and works a few hours, takes a break to make them lunch and eat, and after she works at her desk another hour she stands and says, “Oh, brother, my lower back aches but I’m sure this time only from typing so long and hard. This is great. I don’t know what you did or how you did it, Gould, but you certainly did,” and starts stretching till her fingers touch their opposite toes, and he says, “As a reward, other than for seeing you like this … ahem, ahem, excuse me, but just as a reward for all I’ve done—a single one?” and she looks up and sees his expression and says, “Oh, that,” and points to him and says, “You got it, anything you want within reason. I’m as curious as you to see how it goes, besides, of course, which would be nothing new for me, wanting to. But first let me wash the dishes, now that I can reach inside the basin, and clean the house and also see what the kids’ room looks like, as I’ve never been upstairs in the four summers we’ve rented this place,” and does all that and other things and then says, “Okay, I’m ready, and I worked so hard I had to take another shower,” and they get on their bed, he doesn’t have to pry her knees apart to get her legs open, she moves around agilely, jumps over him, jumps back, gets on top, and then turns them over so she’s below, later says, “Did I miss moving around like that and all the exuberance that goes along with it? You betcha. And to think I can do it like that, if all goes well or stays put, again and again and again,” and they fall asleep.