30 Pieces of a Novel

by Stephen Dixon

  HE’S WAITING FOR the light to change on Amsterdam, cars roaring north past him, on his way to see his mother, got off the bus on Broadway, unfolded the stroller, and strapped Fanny in; now she’s sleeping peacefully, head to one side, hair spilled over her face and both hands holding a shaggy stuffed animal, when a sudden breeze moves the stroller a little and he grabs the right cane-shaped handle with one hand and then a terrific wind and he’s about to grab the other handle when the stroller’s lifted a few inches off the ground and he lunges at it and misses and it’s blown into the avenue and lands on its wheels a few feet away and starts rolling farther into the avenue as he runs after it and he grabs one of the handles and looks around, he’s about ten feet into the avenue and no cars are near him and he pulls the stroller back to the sidewalk, cars and trucks going past fast and a couple of them honking at him no doubt, stupid man, taking a kid’s life in his hands like that, why doesn’t he wait till the light’s green before crossing? He clutches the handles with both hands, backs up to a store window, can’t believe it, where’d such a wind come from, how could it be so strong to lift a stroller with a kid in it? It means he can’t let go of the stroller for a second when he’s outside, or not till he’s absolutely sure the air’s calm and only when she’s about ten to fifteen pounds heavier, but never on the street no matter how heavy she is, never. It could have rolled farther and would certainly have been hit by a car or truck and that would have been it, she would have been mangled and crushed, all her bones broken, the worst that he could think of and then some, head split open, limbs torn off and carried a few hundred feet, or maybe the stroller, with her strapped in it, carried or dragged a block before the car stopped if it stopped, and then other cars running over it and maybe even dragging the torn-off parts. Light’s green but he stands there clutching the handles, shaking; wind’s died down to nothing, or nothing he can feel, maybe it’s because of where he’s standing, up against a building, but maybe he’s become numb, maybe that’s it, from what just happened, but get off this damn Amsterdam, he thinks, it’s a wind tunnel here, calm now, you think you’re free of it and can push your stroller where you please, when it can suddenly pick up with even worse force than before, and he starts to cross but an approaching truck gives him the long horn and when he looks across the street at the traffic light he sees he’s walking against it, “And with your kid,” the driver yells out the window, “you fucking idiot!” He gets back to the sidewalk and waits till the light’s green, always holding the handles tight. Then he starts across, eyes on the light and street, freezes when a car enters the avenue from the side street, but it’s going to let him pass, he can make out a hand inside waving him on, and he mouths his thanks and runs across to the sidewalk and up the curb cut and looks at her, but she’s slept through the whole thing, same position, hair blown over her forehead a different way, but not a peep.

  SITTING AT HIS desk and looking out the bedroom window, just really staring into space to help him think how he wants to word something he’s writing, when he sees her riding her bike onto the road from their driveway, and he yells, “Fanny! Fanny!”—regular windows and storm ones are closed but he yelled so loud she still might have heard him—and stands, and she keeps riding and now he can’t see her because of the bushes and trees, and a car honks and then tires screech and he runs out of the bedroom for the door—it could have been one car honking and another coming the other way or behind it, screeching—and the living room door, not the kitchen one he usually uses because it opens onto the carport and is closest to the driveway—but no bang, he thinks, didn’t hear one or a crash or scream so maybe she’s okay—and gets out of the house and runs down the few feet of grass and across the little footbridge separating the road from their property and a woman’s standing in front of a car in the middle of the far lane of the road, only car there and bike’s not, and he yells, “Where is she?” from about thirty feet away, thinking, Was she hit clear into the bushes or the creek? or she could be under the car or back wheels, bike too, though the woman’s expression isn’t troubled or horrified enough for that, and the woman says, “The poor dear, I nearly hit her. She came out of nowhere—I was lucky to have good brakes—and she got so frightened she ran her bike up that hill”—pointing to his driveway—“didn’t even jump back on it. You know her?” and he says, “She’s my goddamn accident-prone daughter—she knows never to bike onto Charrenton alone, she knows it … so where are you, you damn brat?”—looking around—and the woman says, “Please don’t blame her. I’m sure after that scare she’ll never do it again,” and he says, “Oh, you don’t know her—she’s always taking chances, thinks she knows better, always getting into near misses. Fanny! Fanny, goddammit, come back here! You’ve caused this woman and me some great grief, so I want you to apologize,” and the woman says, “Really, it isn’t necessary for me. And it wouldn’t be the right time for it. She’s probably cowering in seclusion like a scared rabbit. Just see to her, sir, I’m fine.” She left her bike leaning against a carport post; she’s not in the house and doesn’t come home for two hours. He goes out looking for her in the car a couple of times: nearby market, which he’s biked or walked to with her, homes of her best friends in the area. When she walks through the door he says, “Jesus, where the hell you been? And do you know what you did to that lady this afternoon?” and she says, “What lady? The one whose car almost hit me because I biked in front of her? I’m sorry,” and he says, “A heart attack you almost gave her—no warning—not to say why you did it, riding alone there, and so dangerously, when you knew you shouldn’t. But okay, I don’t think I have to say any more about it, you know not to do it again,” and she says yes. “Can I be excused now?” and he says, “Sure, go on,” and she starts for her room, and he says, “Wait a second, where were you the last two hours?” and she says, “Walking around—at the drugstore for a while—I was safe and dressed warm,” and he says, “Anyway, I don’t think you should be let off so easily, so I’m going to dock your allowance this week,” and she says, “What’s that mean: I won’t get it?” and he says, “That’s right,” and she says, “You’re not being fair, and I don’t care,” and storms into her room and slams the door. “Fanny, come back here. I’m not kidding, you either come back and apologize for what you just said and did or it’s going to be two weeks you’re docked, even three, and no bike riding for that time either,” but she doesn’t come. “All right, if you hear me, that’s it. The bike riding, I don’t know about, if you stay off Charrenton, but I’m not changing my mind about the allowance—three weeks.” Later he talks it over with his wife, how frightened he was. “Honestly, when I saw her biking onto the road and heard those car honks and tires, I thought she was going to get creamed,” and she says, “You were right the way you first approached it—the scare punished her plenty—so don’t make any more demands on her for it and without any fuss Saturday give her her regular allowance,” and he says, “No way, absolutely not, maybe a two weeks’ docking instead of three, but that’s as far as I’m giving in or else my word will mean nothing,” but on Saturday, when he’s driving her to a swimming lesson and she’s in the front seat, she says, “Excuse me, but can I have my allowance now?” and he says, “In the car, while I’m driving?” and she says, “Sorry, then when we get there?” and he says, “No, I can get it,” and presses the catch to open the compartment under the dashboard, gets three dollars out of it, and gives them to her, though all the time remembering what he swore to her the other day and also later told his wife he absolutely wouldn’t do.

  POPSICLE STICKS to her tongue; she gags, points to it; he says, “You can’t get it off?” and she shakes her head, and he says, “Pull gently, not hard, you don’t want to rip something,” and she tries but it doesn’t come off, and he says, “Wiggle it a little,” and she shakes her head and tears are welling and she looks panicky and is gagging again, and he says, “Jesus, what do I do?” and, to the vendor who sold it from a cart in the park, “What do you do
in a situation like this?” and the man looks as if he doesn’t understand, and Gould points to her and says, “Her tongue, the Popsicle’s stuck to her tongue and she can’t get it off,” and the man says, “Dry ice, the dry ice,” and raises his arms as if he doesn’t know what to do either; then, after pointing to his own tongue and then inside his mouth, speaks a foreign language Gould’s never heard before or can’t place, and he says, “Speak English, English, she’s gagging … choking,” and makes choking sounds and points to her, and the man says, “No can, don’t know, first time, ice cream, that’s all … police, maybe police, go to police,” and Fanny’s gagging and crying and looks at him as if to say, Do something, Daddy, or I’ll die, and he thinks she could choke to death if he doesn’t get it off her tongue in the next minute, and the only way he can think of is to pull if not rip it off and that’ll hurt like hell for her, and puts his fingers on her hand that’s holding the stick; she screams in pain, and he says, “Oh, God, what else can I do, sweetheart?” and slides her fingers off the stick, grabs the Popsicle part, and pulls it off her tongue and quickly throws it on the grass. Part of the skin or whatever it is of the tongue came off with it, and she’s screaming loud as he’s ever heard her, and he gets on his knees and holds her and says, “It’s all right now, darling, it’s off, it’s off,” and pats her lips with his hanky where some blood’s dribbling out, and a woman passing by says, “What happened to the little darling, she fall?” and he says, “She got a Popsicle stuck to her tongue—the dry ice, it must’ve been—but was gagging and I had to pull it off and some skin came with it,” pointing to where he threw it, and the woman says, “You should have put warm water on the Popsicle, that would have dissolved the ice,” and he says, “Where would I get the water? I’d have to walk her out of the park to Columbus, and that’s a good ten minutes from here and she could’ve choked in that time. But now what do I do about the skin and her tongue?” patting her lips again, and the woman says, “There’s a refreshment gazebo right down this path; they sell coffee, so they must have warm water. But the best thing for it now—and you’ll think me mad but it’s what I’d do for one of mine; after all, what you first want to do is get rid of her pain—is have her lick a Popsicle or frozen fruit bar, but one free of dry ice. That’ll anesthetize it,” and he says, “Which is better?” and she says, “Either, though plain ice, if he has it, would be simpler and, probably for her sake, best,” and he asks the man, “You have any regular ice?” and the man shakes his head he doesn’t understand, and he says, “Ice, like in a drink,” and curls his hand as if he’s holding a glass and then makes as if he’s drinking from it, “Ice, ice, as in a glass with soda,” and the man says, “No that ice, only dry,” and he asks him for a fruit bar, and the man says, “What kind?” and he says, “Any,” looks at the pictures of the flavors on the stand and says, “Lemon,” and pulls out his wallet to pay for it—the man waves no with his hands—wipes the fruit bar on his shirt till all the white icelike part is off, blows on it till the side he’s blowing on and wants her to put her tongue to looks wet, and says to her, “Here, touch this to the sore part of your tongue, sweetheart…. Fanny, calm down a moment, you have to stop crying—I know how much it hurts but both this woman and I and the man here think it’ll make your tongue feel better and take away the pain,” and holds it up to her mouth and she knocks it out of his hand and resumes screaming.

  HE’S LET INTO his in-laws’ apartment (always the same way: one of them looks through the peephole, then unlocks three or four locks and unfastens the bolt and chain), says, “So, how’d it go?” and his father-in-law says, “We had a terrific time together, didn’t we? … Fanny? Where is she? She was just behind me, wanted to greet you at the door. Fanny, come, please, your father’s here.… Well, this is a mystery,” and Gould looks around and down the narrow side hall to the kitchen and sees the window’s half open and says, “Excuse me, but are all the windows opened high like that? I thought I asked you only to open them on top and out of her reach and close them at the bottom to a few inches,” and his father-in-law says, “Oh, well,” and looks sheepish about it, “from now on we will; I can understand your concern,” and Gould runs around the apartment; his mother-in-law’s office window is open a foot, bedroom window’s closed, but the dining room windows are open at the bottom a foot and a half. “Fanny, no jokes on me now, will you please come out?” and his father-in-law says, “Don’t worry, she didn’t fall out; she’s a smart girl, I’m sure she’s only hiding,” and Gould runs to the living room, only room left in the apartment—except for the two bathrooms and there the windows are small, tough to raise, and pretty high, though she could step on the toilet seats to reach them—and sees her behind the sheer floor-length curtain climbing up to a window opened about two feet, one knee on the sill, other foot tangled in the end of the curtain but leaving the floor, and he thinks, I’ll never reach her in time, and doesn’t know if this’ll stop her or scare her where she’ll fall forward instead of back but shouts, “Fanny, come down!” and she stops in mid-position and turns her head to him and smiles, and he says, walking to her, “The window’s open, my darling, don’t you see that? You know what Daddy’s said about that. To stay away from open windows, never climb up to them, and if you see one in an apartment or house you’re in, to ask an older person to shut it. So come away from it immediately—get down, right now!” and she steps down, seems as if she’s about to cry, and he says, “No, don’t cry, it isn’t your fault and I’m not angry,” and takes her hands, kisses them, and presses her face to his belly, and says to his father-in-law, “Jesus, Phil, why do I even bother? Listen, please, and no offense—but you got to, you got to, for you saw what she can do,” and Phil says, “I’m truly sorry, it got hot; I thought it was too early in the spring to use the air conditioners and we hadn’t had them serviced yet this year…. I didn’t think what I was doing, that’s all—never again,” and she looks up at Gould and says, “Are you mad at Grandpa?” and he says, “No, why would I be? You don’t get mad at people older than you—no, that’s not true—but your grandpa’s the nicest guy in the world, much nicer than me, so I’d never get mad at him,” and squeezes Phil’s shoulder.

  SWIVELS AROUND, SHE’S not there, looks around and there are hundreds of people, kids and adults, woman carrying two small dogs, walking all around him, but he doesn’t see her, scans the area again; where the hell could she be? “Dammit,” he says, “doesn’t she know better?” Dashes into the store they just came out of and quickly looks around—“Anything I can do for you, sir?”—and he says, “My girl, this high,” and puts out his hand to show how tall, “blondish hair … well, blond, almost bright blond, and I was just in here with her and thought she came out with me,” and the man says, “Oh, they can get away from you very fast, can’t they,” and he says, “Yes, but did you see her, long hair hanging past her shoulders—combed down, kind of wavy—and about that high”—his hand out again—“and very pretty?” and the man says, “I don’t remember you from before, did I take care of you?” and he says, “No, we were just browsing; in fact, she dragged me in,” and looks around the store again, man’s saying something to him, but he runs out and stands about twenty feet in front of the store and starting from the last store to his left before the escalators makes a complete sweep of the area and then, a little faster, sweeps back again, then turns around and does the same kind of sweep of all the stores there and the little public rest section, thinking, What the fuck, where is she? Goddamn kid, why’s she always running off like this? Man, when I find her I’ll really let her have it! and goes inside the first store to the left of the one he was just in, a pipe and cigar shop, though he doesn’t think she’d ever go there—the tobacco smells, but he’s being thorough—looks quickly around and then goes into the next three stores to the left and then the stores to the right of the one they were in, five of them—in a large one, with lots of aisles, dresses, and displays concealing most of the place, he says loudly, “Fanny, are
you there? Fanny?”—and then outside in the public walking area he thinks, How far could she have wandered off? Maybe some guy grabbed or enticed her and is putting her into his car now, or just now taking her out of one of the ground-floor doors and walking with her to his car in the lot, or just approaching one of those doors and walking her somewhere, maybe to some out-of-the-way spot like where the garbage trucks pick up most of the refuse here, when he remembers the large square pool they passed in the center of the mall under the glass rotunda at the end of the long corridor they came in; she wanted to stop there and look at the fish in it, and he said, “Later, I came in for something, first we do the shopping; then if we have time we do the snacking and fun,” and runs to it, about three hundred feet away, keeping an eye out for her as he runs, and she’s sitting on a little wall around the pool and looking at the water, probably the fish inside, and walks the rest of the way to her. Jesus, does she ever get to me sometimes, he thinks, and says, “Fanny,” and she continues looking at the pool, hands folded on top of her purse on her lap—he forgot the purse, which he also would have mentioned to the man in his description of her—and he says, “Fanny, listen,” and she turns her head to him and says, “The fishies are so big here, can we take one of them home?” “From here? To home?” He sits beside her; what’s he going to do, teach her another lesson? He can talk about it in the car. “Don’t wander off. You wander off and it scares me. You don’t understand what can happen to you. You can be stolen. I hate telling you that, but you can. You’re beautiful, and little girls and boys are sometimes stolen by horrible men, and the more beautiful ones the most.” He said that to her once and she said, “By women too. At school I learned that,” and he said, “Your teacher told you?” and she said, “A policeman at assembly came in,” and he said, “So, he’s right,” and she said, “The policeman was a woman with a gun,” and he said, “Then she’s a policewoman, and she was right, but kids are stolen mostly by men.” So he sits with her and says, “Not that we can take one—the mall owns them all and we’d get stopped by a guard and maybe fined lots of money and perhaps even barred for life; the last thing I said’s an exaggeration—but which fish do you like best and would take home if you could?” and she says, “A big orange and black one with stripes; it was here before but now it’s gone.”