30 Pieces of a Novel

by Stephen Dixon

  HIS WIFE SAYS, “You know, Fanny’s standing in her crib and talking kind of funny and doing weird things as if she’s high,” and he goes in with her to look, and Fanny’s laughing but at nothing, it seems, and reaches out to pull his nose, and when he pushes her hand away she laughs giddily again, and he says, “Fanny, everything okay? What’s wrong, you feeling all right? I mean, you look all right and seem to be having a good time, much better than you did last night,” and his wife yells, “The aspirins!” and he says, “What?” and she yells, “The bottle!” and he looks where she’s pointing and sees an opened bottle under the crib and gets it and says, “Oh, my goodness, you think she took some? I must’ve left it here last night when I—” and she says, “How many were there last?” and he looks at the bottle and says, “I don’t know, I think a lot more than this,” and she says, “What do we do? She’s probably swallowed a whole bunch of them,” and he calls the pediatrician and her office says, “Take her to Emergency, but in the minute or two before or in the car try to make her throw up,” and gives several ways of doing it, and he tries and his wife tries and Fanny throws up, but nothing like chewed-up or dissolved aspirins comes out, and they get her in the car, in the backseat with his wife, Fanny still crying now because of the throwing up and what they did to make her do it, he driving with the flashers on and horn blaring most of the time so he can go through red lights, and he carries her into the hospital, nurses and aides put her on a gurney and rush her into the emergency room to pump out her stomach, and while they’re waiting outside the room he says things like “How could I have left the bottle there like that? I mean, I know why it happened and how. We had no children’s aspirins or Tylenol and we both thought it too late for me to drive around looking for a store open to buy some, or I thought so more than you though we both knew she needed something to bring down her fever, so I cut a regular aspirin in half, or even a little less than half, and pulverized it, and gave it to her on a spoon with sugar and water … but leaving the bottle there? On her dresser so close to the crib and no safety cap on it? I don’t even know if I screwed it closed, for Christ’s sake. How could I have been so thoughtless, so stupid, so everything?” and she says, “Shut up, shut up already, it’ll be all right, we got here in time. And if she really took too many she would have been sick to her stomach and thrown up long before she got so delirious, I’m sure of that,” and he says, “You don’t know,” and she says, “I know, I don’t know where but from someplace,” and a doctor comes out of the room and he says to him, “How is it, she’ll be all right, right?” and the doctor says, “What I don’t understand is why’d you ever leave aspirins around like that, and not even the children’s kind,” and he says, “I’m sorry, it was my fault, I was the one who suggested she take half an adult aspirin, gave it, and left the bottle there … but how’s she doing?” and the doctor says, “I don’t know if you realize this or not but she can die,” and his wife screams, and he says, “What are you talking about—you mean if we didn’t get here in time or had her vomit most of it up?” and the doctor says, “No, I’m sorry, but I mean now,” and goes back into the room, and he tries to follow and someone in the room stops him and says, “Please, we’re busy, this is crucial, you’re in the way,” and he makes a complete sweep of the room for Fanny but doesn’t see her past the three or four people working on her with their backs to him, and he goes outside and his wife’s in a chair weeping and he sits beside her and holds her hands and says, “If anything terrible happens I’ll die, I’ll die.” About fifteen minutes later the same doctor comes out and says, “Everything will be fine, parents. We got everything out and in fact there wasn’t that much in there that could have done too much damage. Probably the most painful and traumatic thing for her was having the tube stuck down her throat into her belly, but kids bounce back quickly with things like this though her throat will be sore, and you can take her home in an hour”—he looks at his watch—“yes, possibly even less,” and he says, “Thank you, thanks, but honestly, why the heck did you scare us like that, saying she could die?” and the doctor says, “At the time, based on the information you gave us, or the lack of accurate information, I thought it was the truth and I was angry, people like you—smart people, supposedly—leaving toxic substances around as if they were simply last night’s dried jellied toast,” and he says, “But it was an accident, a very stupid one but an accident,” and the doctor says, “Still—but all right, perhaps I went overboard in my reaction,” and walks away.

  THEY BUY HER a sled for Christmas, take it to New York with them just in case it snows; they get about six to eight inches of it that morning and he goes to Riverside Drive and 116th Street with his two daughters to test the sled out and says to Fanny at the top of the fairly steep hill, “I think for the first couple of rides you should go on top of me to see how the steering works and other things,” and Josephine, his younger daughter, says, “I want to go too, but just with Daddy,” and Fanny says, “But it’s mine and I know how to do it—I’ve been on the same kind on an even bigger hill in Baltimore,” and he says, “You went down alone, last winter? Because up till today, perhaps, we haven’t had any snow there this year,” and she says, “With a friend. And I did it well and all the steering,” and he says, demonstrating, “So you know to turn it left if you want to go this way and right to go this way?” and she’s nodding, and he says, “It still feels tight, because it’s so new, so you’ll have to turn the bar hard … and there’s one big tree at the bottom, so that, of course, isn’t the direction you want to go,” and she says, “Of course not, Daddy, and I’ll never get that far anyway,” and he says, “You never know; most of the snow seems flattened down by all the other sleds and disks and cardboard people are using,” and she says, “I’m not going to steer to that tree. I’m only going where there are no trees, and straight,” and he says, “If you run into any trouble—” and she says, “I know, I know,” and he says, “Just listen; if a sled’s stopped right in front of you and you can’t steer out of the way in time, roll off, just roll off,” and she says, “How do you do that?” and he says, “By letting go of the steering bar and rolling off into the snow and making sure the rope’s not caught around any part of you and letting the sled go on without you,” and she says, “Suppose there’s a sled behind coming right at me after I roll off?” and he says, “There shouldn’t be; there should be lots of spacing between the sleds going downhill,” and she says, “Just suppose,” and he says, “Then you’re in trouble if you can’t jump out of the way,” and she says, “What if I jump out of the way in front of another fast sled?” and he says, “The chances of that also happening? Well …” and Josephine says, “Can’t I go with you?” and Fanny says, “No, first time I want it alone,” and he says, “So, have we worked everything out? Staying away, when you’re sledding down, from the people walking back up the hill with their sleds?” and she nods and he jiggles the steering bar back and forth to loosen it a little but it seems to stay the same, good enough for steering but not sudden sharp turns, puts the sled down and points the front of it to the clearing at the bottom of the hill; she says, “You still don’t have it going far enough away from that tree,” and points it even more to the left and gets on the sled on her stomach, says, “Don’t push me, I might be not ready and I don’t need any help; I can do it with my boots,” and he says, “My, you’re the professional sledder,” and she says, “I told you, I’ve done it before,” and Josephine says, “Have a nice ride,” and he says, “Maybe I should go to the bottom of the hill first, just in case,” and Fanny says, “Why?” and he says, “You might go faster than you think, past the clearing and into the little sidewalk, or walkway, or whatever it is there, and there’s a lamppost by it,” and she says, “Nobody so far has gone that far, and if I do go all the way to the lamppost I’ll be all slowed down,” and he says, “So, you might as well get going, for I want to have a chance too with Josephine. And remember—” and she says, “I know, bring the sled up my
self and on the side, out of the way of sleds going down,” and he says, “Right,” and she says, “Goodbye,” and he says, “Wait’ll that man goes,” and the man to their right on his sled goes, and he says, “Give him about ten seconds … in fact, almost till he’s at the bottom … now it’s clear, he’ll be nowhere near you, and nobody else is going, so go on,” and she pushes herself off with her feet and starts down and picks up speed and is aimed straight for the clearing, nothing in her way, sled going faster than he thought it would with her forty to fifty pounds on it—must be a good sled, runners never used, so like ice sliding down ice—when it starts veering right and he yells, “Turn it slowly to the left, Fanny, turn it left!” but it continues going right and now it’s heading for that tree, as if being pulled to it, and he yells, “Fanny, turn the sled left or roll off—roll off, Fanny, roll, roll!” and she goes into the tree—he’s sure her head hit it first—and is thrown off, and he screams and runs down the hill and keeps yelling, “Oh, no, oh, my God, no!” and Josephine’s somewhere behind him shouting, “Fanny! Daddy!” and he reaches the tree, she’s on her back, doesn’t seem to be moving, he thinks, Oh, Jesus, her fucking head, her head! and gets on his knees, her eyes are open, looking at the sky, not at him, and he says, “Fanny, my darling, Fanny, it’s Daddy,” and lifts her head up softly, she’s bleeding a little from just above her eye, and he says, “Oh, my poor dear,” and her eyes move to him and she says, “I couldn’t roll off; I was too afraid to; I didn’t know how; I’m sorry,” and he says, “We got to get you up the hill; a doctor, a hospital,” and she says, “No, I think I’ll be okay,” and he says, “I’ll carry you, or get some people to help me,” and puts his arms under her shoulders and knees, and she says, “Are you picking me up? No, don’t, Daddy, I just need to rest here; all I feel is dizzy,” and he says, “You’re really not feeling worse than that? No big headaches, pressure, something hurting terribly? Because I should do something,” and she says, “I didn’t hit the tree that hard, or didn’t feel I did,” and he says, “Let me at least do this for you, to keep down the swelling,” because a welt’s forming around her eye, and wipes the cut with his hanky, no new blood comes out, and puts snow around her eye and on the cut, and she screams and says, “Snow’s cold and I’m getting wet, my face!” and he says, “Just stay with it a minute, that’s all it’ll take,” and a few people are around them now, and every so often a sled zips past or stops with a sudden directional shift just a few feet from them, and he says, “This damn tree, I don’t know how it happened. It’s as if there was a magnet or some other kind of powerful attractor that pulled her right to it from the opposite direction or whatever she was trying to do to get away from it. I feel like chopping it down,” and a man says, “She looks okay, talking, lucid, no bleeding from the nose or ears; those are good signs. Want me to help you carry her out of the park?” and she says, “I can walk by myself, but my sled—” and he says, “The back’s bashed, I don’t know why, you hit it from the front, but we’ll get it fixed,” and she says, “When?” and tries to get up, and he and the man help her stand and she starts walking and he’s holding snow to her eye till she pushes his hand away; has the sled under his other arm and says, “Jesus, what a trooper—I’d sure let someone carry me if I’d just been hurt, but no, not her,” and they trudge up the hill where Josephine, near the top, hands over her mouth, seems to be staring at them harriedly. “It’s gonna be all right,” he yells out, “she’s gonna be okay. She’s a big brave girl, hurt but in much better shape than your careless lunkhead daddy first thought.”

  IN THE CAR, heading for kindergarten, Fanny seated beside him with her lunch box and a tiny flexible Disney character on her lap, “Now we’re on the peaks of Tunisia, making for the wee seaweed-green beach,” and she says, “What do you mean? It’s freezing today,” and he says, “Imagination, you gotta try using it,” and she says, “Are we late for school?” and he says, “We’re going down a big hill, that’s all, and on time, and after coasting on the crest of it, or cresting on the coast of it—okay, the first one, you like accuracy, one tap for the brake, two taps for a little squeeze,” and taps her shoulder twice, a private signal between them, and she smiles and squeezes his arm, and he says, “What a babe,” when he realizes the brake tap didn’t slow the car any, and he taps it again, thinking maybe the first tap was too light, and it’s not slowing but going faster, and he jams his foot down and nothing happens, and he says, “Oh, shit, the brakes, they’re not working, what do I do?” and she screams and he yells, “Put your foot down—your voice—shut up!” and thinks, Emergency brake, and puts his foot on it and the car screeches and starts stopping, and he thinks, Curb, and steers the car right and goes over the curb—when he hoped it might stop the front wheels—and into the bushes and through about twenty feet of them, car slowing all the time, before a thin tree stops it. He looks at her. She’s crying but all right, no cuts or blood, window’s intact, no broken glass, and he says, “You didn’t bang your head or any part when we were stopping, did you?” and she shakes her head, and he says, “Oh, God, now I can cry too,” and starts crying and continues to for a minute or more, hands over his face, when she taps his shoulder and he doesn’t respond and she squeezes his arm twice and he thinks, The signal? and looks up, thinking what a crazy time for her to want to play their game, for when she squeezes him first he’s supposed to tap his foot on something twice as many times as she squeezed him—he doesn’t know how they came to that ratio, maybe their heights—and she says, “It’s over, Daddy, car’s stopped. If it won’t work now, can you walk me to school? I’ll be late,” and he says, “The engine,” and turns it off and has her come out his door because hers is blocked by bushes.

  HIS WIFE’S GIVING her a bath, he takes pictures of the two of them in the tub; then she says, “I’d like to shampoo but not in the tub with her; can you look after her till I come back or, if she wants to, just get her out and dry her?” and he puts down the camera, sits on the tub ledge, and his wife steps out, dries herself, and goes down the hallway to the other bathroom, and he says to Fanny, “Mommy wash you good or are you just in here for playing?” and she says, “Come in to play with me,” and he says, “I’d have to take off my clothes and I don’t want to. Anyway, I don’t like going into dirty water. I like for my water to start out clean and then for me to dirty it. Or if I’m giving you a bath but am in the tub with you from the beginning, then for us to make it dirty and soapy together,” when the phone rings, he yells “Sally, you in the shower yet?” and she says, “I’m on the toilet; let it ring,” and he thinks how he hates to let a phone ring—who knows who it can be, something about his mother or something important concerning work?—when there’s a big splash behind him—he’s been facing the door since the phone rang—and he turns around and she’s under the water, only her feet above it, and he shoves his hands in, water’s murky, he can’t see her, and quickly feels around and gets her under the arms and jerks her out and holds her up so he can see her face, and her head’s slumped and her face has the look of a drowned person, or what he’d think would be one, water running out of her mouth and nose, the eyes looking lifeless, and he holds her upside down over his shoulder and slaps her back and she coughs and he slaps it again and says, “Cough, cough some more,” and she chokes and he holds her right-end-up in front of him again and she spits more water out and he says, “You okay? Speak to me,” and the shower in the other bathroom’s going and she starts screaming and he says, “Jesus, you gave me a scare, what were you doing? Shh, shh, it’s all right, you’ll be okay now,” and hugs her to his chest till she’s only sobbing quietly. “And please, sweetheart, don’t tell your mother”—sitting her on the toilet seat cover and drying her body with a towel—“if you do she’ll never want to leave you alone with me anymore; you hear me, you hear?” and she nods, and he dries as much of her hair as he can and powders her and puts her bathrobe on her, she sobbing all the time. “What’s the matter?” his wife says, standing at
the door, hair wrapped in a towel. “And how’d you get your clothes so wet?” and he says, “Splashing … Fanny. And boy, that was a speedy shampoo. How’d you do it so fast?” and she says, “Was it faster than usual? Didn’t realize. I guess I didn’t think you’d want to be left with her so long; it can be boring if you’re not in there splashing with her. Why’s she crying? What’s wrong, dearest?” and he says, “Maybe she was in there too long and the water got cold, or the air was when she got out,” and lifts the rubber disk off the tub drain—regular stopper doesn’t work—and the water goes. “I fell in,” Fanny says to her, and he says, “Oh, just a little, and maybe that’s what the crying is, but I always had her hand.”