30 Pieces of a Novel

by Stephen Dixon

  He gets the summons a month later, saying he has to appear in court on a day a month from now, and his wife says he should get a lawyer, and he says, “No, I thought it over and I think it’s better I go without one and declare my innocence and take the consequences. Since it’s only my word against hers, unless she comes up with a witness who’s prepared to lie, and I don’t see how she could get one, I’m sure nothing will happen to me. Besides, I don’t want to pay for a lawyer, and I feel confident about it because I’m a good defendant. I don’t come across as guilty and I do as penitent for even the minor crimes or misdemeanors or whatever that other people are guilty of,” and she says, “I don’t understand,” and he says, “I meant—what was I talking about before?—what are you referring to, I mean?” and she says, “What did you mean by ‘penitent for other people’s crimes and misdemeanors’?” and he says, “Just that I make a good case for taking on the burdens of the world, so to speak, the mini to major minor ones; is that any clearer?” and she says no, and he says, “Let me see. That these crimes and things exist—preying on women and girls in subways, for instance, as she accused me of—and I can’t believe she went through with it and didn’t do what I’m sure the policeman that day was suggesting and that’s to drop the charge—but anyway, is wrong, though don’t look at me as someone who does them,” and she says, “If you think that makes it clearer, you’re mistaken,” and he says, “Don’t worry, I’ll get it right by the time I have to appear,” and she says, “I don’t know; I’m worried,” and he says, “Don’t be; I’ll look well, speak well, dress well, and they’ll know right away I couldn’t have done it, besides there being no witnesses.” He’s wanted to tell her, a few times, that he thought of her rear end a second or so before he pushed into the woman, but that’d make him out a liar and then she’d insist he get a lawyer. And he doesn’t know if he really did it intentionally because he thought of his wife; he only might have or he might have seen the woman’s curvy body from behind and some impulse took over—of course some impulse, but that’s something he’d also never admit to her, except maybe after this was long over with—and he brought up the image of pressing into her simply to have a greater impetus to push into the woman. Oh, it’s getting too confusing and it happened so fast that day and he forgets so much of it and maybe he should forget it for now. That wise? Why not? Because one day of ignoring it won’t hurt and some good idea or strategy about it might even come out of his unconscious in that time. One thing he wants, though, is his wife to come to the courtroom with him; she’ll make a dignified impression and it’ll be in his favor, he thinks, for the court to know she’s behind him. He’ll ask her tonight or tomorrow when they get up, and he’s sure she’ll agree.

  They go to the courtroom that day and the woman doesn’t show, nor did she notify the court she wouldn’t be there, and the court clerk says he’ll send them both a second notice to appear in a month or so, and if she doesn’t appear and gives no reason beforehand why not then the case will be dropped, and Gould says, “The transit policeman who took down the report from her and me said it’d be dropped the first time if she didn’t show up and gave no reason why she didn’t,” and the clerk says, “That’s not how it’s done and the police officer couldn’t have told you that. They handle these cases every day, so they know better,” and his wife says, “Excuse me, sir, but I believe the policeman did tell my husband that. Anyway, it’s exactly what Gould told me the day this all took place and he came home after the incident. Or called from downtown, rather, his voice quivering, he was so distressed at what that woman had accused him of; and I could tell by his voice and what he said, besides knowing him so many years, that he didn’t do,” and the clerk says, “I’ll put it to you this way, Mrs. Bookbinder. If the police officer informed your husband that, he was wrong,” and she says, “All right, that’s good enough, I’m no one to tell you your business and the law; thank you.”

  He doesn’t get another summons to appear or any notification why. He wants to write the court about it—to find out if the whole thing’s been dropped, for one thing—but his wife says, “Best to let it disappear by itself entirely. By writing them you may encourage them to think they dropped something they shouldn’t have, and next thing you know the second summons will arrive in the mail, and this time she’ll come to the proceedings, and who knows what could happen then?” That night she says, “There’s something I never asked you but several times wanted to,” and he says, “No, absolutely, I didn’t intend to stick my damn thing against the woman’s rear end; it just happened. You know trains,” and she says, “Boy, you really know you’ve been married a long time when your spouse starts answering your questions before you ask them,” and he says, “I’m sorry, finish; what was it?” and she says, “I don’t have to; you said it. But if you had, you know, done what she said you did, it does happen, and though it would have been wrong it wouldn’t have been the worst thing that ever took place. It’s not as if you pulled it out and waved it and then mashed it into her. People get crazy urgencies sometimes. We’re not all made perfectly forever, so occasionally we follow, no matter how good and sensible and moral we are, our most immediate fancies and urges,” and he says, “You mean impulses,” and she says, “Yes, but the rest too. You’re a horny guy a lot—lascivious, might be a better word, sexy—you don’t try to be; it’s the way you’re made. I know that because of how you behave with me and also the way you look at other women sometimes, eyeing the pretty or shapely ones when they pass, staring at their breasts and butts, and at the time who knows what you’re thinking?” and he says, “When? When do I do that?” and she looks at him, and he says, “All right, I do it sometimes,” and she says, “So I’m saying if you had done what that woman asserted you did, once in ten to fifteen years on a subway or bus, I don’t think it would have been that terrible a thing to do, since I’m sure these urgencies or impulses have been in you to do it lots of times, not that that excuses it,” and he says, “But I didn’t do it; I’ve never done it. The idea may have popped into my head a few times, but it’s not the way I act to women—taking advantage of the uncomfortable conditions of a crowded subway car to get a quick feel or rise,” and she says, “Anyhow, that’s good to know, that you have that kind of restraint while still being a very horny and lustful guy sometimes,” and he says, “But you knew that, didn’t you, about the restraint?” and she says, “No, I told you, I wouldn’t have been surprised or even angered if you had done that to a woman on a train once or twice in the last twenty years, but not to a girl.”

  The Paintings

  HE’S COME TO like Bolling’s painting so much that he wants to get another one. Lots of people have also told him how much they like it. They’d walk into the living room for the first time and see it on the far wall above the piano and say, “My God, that’s fantastic!” “Exciting” is another word they’ve used; “Takes my breath away” a typical expression. “The colors, those lines, the strength. The whole thing looks as if it’s about to soar through the ceiling.” “Saw? To cut? I don’t understand.” “To rise or fly through it. It has that kind of winged quality, in addition to some mystical or spiritual one where it can go through something without breaking it. I don’t know what the painting means or is supposed to be of, but I love it. Is it as good up close?” and whoever was appreciating it this way would approach it and always say it was. “Who did it? Where’d you get it?” “It’s a long story.” He didn’t like to go into it. “It looks very expensive.” “Maybe it’s the way it’s framed.” “Do you mind my asking what something like this would go for?” someone once said, not a friend of theirs but someone who came with one. “It was given to me by the artist.” “You’re so lucky. You didn’t even have to pay for it? I can see why you did such a nice job framing it.” “That was Sally’s—my wife’s—idea. If it had been up to me I would have done the cheapest job possible, which means the simplest. Four wood strips and that’s it, or not even that but just getting it stretched.
” “If I was interested in buying one this size, or a little larger, where would I go, to the artist or his gallery or agent?” and he said, “I’m sure the painter’s wife would be happy to sell you one, since I don’t think the painter had a single sale—you see, he died—but she’s in New York. I can get you her phone number, even call her for you to set up a meeting. She’s right in the city,” and this person said, “Nah, I hardly ever get up there, and when I do it’s always rush rush.”

  It had been nailed to his New York apartment wall for about a year after Bolling had given him it: “For all you’ve done for me, I want you to have any painting of mine you want.” Gould said, “Come on, let me give you something for it. An artist should be paid. But a little painting, one I can afford,” and Bolling said, “Not a cent, and take the biggest if that’s the one you pick. I’ve come this far in not selling one, don’t spoil my legacy for the future. Who knows? Maybe being tagged with that—like Van Gogh, minus one, since Theo sold one of his and could have sold others if brother Vincent had been more cooperative or sent him more…. I forget what the circumstances were, or if I meant ‘minus’ or ‘plus one’ then. I’m losing my memory and figuring-out head, as you can tell. I used to know that art history junk backwards and forwards. But what I think I was saying was that maybe being tagged as a never-ever-seller will help the sale of my paintings after I’m dead.” Gould said, “What’re you talking about, you’re not dying,” and Bolling said, “Who said I was? I said ‘after I’m dead.’ You can say that about anybody alive.” “So you have plenty of time to sell your paintings,” and Bolling said, “Okay, joking’s over, we all got a big laugh out of it. Now choose a painting and then give me my pain shot so I can get back to my nap,” and Gould and Bolling’s wife unrolled about twenty oil canvases on the furniture and floor—“Don’t be afraid to step on them,” Bolling said, “the paint’s so thick, nothing could hurt them”—and Gould pointed to the one he liked most. “You sure that’s the one? You’re not choosing it because it’s the second smallest? If you got to know, it’s among my three top favorites of those, but I didn’t want to say anything to influence your decision against it. Before you change your mind, give me your pen. I’m going to do something usually only reserved for book authors, which you should appreciate,” and with his wife guiding his hand, Bolling wrote an inscription in the right bottom corner.

  Gould nailed it to his wall that day. Bolling died a week or two later, and a year after that the painting fell off Gould’s wall and he tried nailing it back up and it fell again with even more plaster coming off, and he tried to stick it up with duct tape but the painting was too heavy and he didn’t want to put more tape on because the painting’s paint came off with it, so he rolled it up and stuck it in a closet. When Sally and he got married and moved to Baltimore four years later, she said she wanted to get the painting framed. He said maybe they could just nail it to the wall—his New York apartment walls weren’t made out of the right kind of plaster for that and there were already nail holes in the painting’s corners—but she said, “You’ll see. It’ll look better stretched and with a relatively simple wood frame. It’ll also be good for the painting: fewer creases and cracks, things like that.”

  The painting’s of the sea, sky, mountains, and a huge waterfall, or that’s what the plunging blue and white looks like, of one of the Balearic Islands. Or one of the Canaries. He’d have to look at an atlas. But how could he find which group of islands it is if he also doesn’t know the island’s name or the name of the town the scene was painted from? It starts with an N, the town, or a D, and he thinks it ends with an A. It’s the one Robert Graves lived on for many years. So he supposes he could get the names of the island and the town from a book about Graves. Anyway, Bolling lived there with his wife for two years, same time Graves did but he didn’t know him, he said, small as the town was, or know him enough to say more than a passing hello when he saw him out walking or in a store or café, “and by then the man may have been demented, or that’s what some people said, though he was living with, and no doubt screwing—because you could see by his swagger and look what a lusty guy he was—some young attractive American gal. So of course all the expatriate male writers on the island, no matter what nationality or how they felt towards him, wanted to screw her too because she’d done it with Graves. And if he won a Nobel, which some literary chiefs were predicting, an even greater feather in your cap and maybe more luck in your writing….