30 Pieces of a Novel

by Stephen Dixon

  So he didn’t call but she did. “Hello, is this Mr. Bookbinder?” and after he knew for sure who it was, he said, “Damn, I had a premonition you’d use that if you called—the ‘mister’ or ‘professor’ or ‘doctor’—which I’m not: I barely got through elementary college—instead of just my name Gould,” and she said, “I didn’t want to, honestly, nor thought beforehand how to address you. It simply came out, whatever that latency means. My subconscious should probably keep that a secret,” and he quickly tried to think what she’d just meant but said, “Okay by me. So, what’s doing with you?” and she said, “My goodness, plenty of things, but we’d mentioned something about meeting for coffee one day—do you still want to?” and they met. She was interesting: wide range of interests, knowledgeable about a lot, quick mind, some wit, articulate delivery, funny at times, charming, her parents send him their regards—the “life of the mind” came up twice in her conversation, and she seemed earnest about it—and she seemed to find him interesting: laughed at his jokes, said several times, “What you say makes a lot of sense,” looked into his eyes as if he were her equal; someone she could be interested in, or even involved with, is what he wants to say. He wanted to say to her right away, “Listen”—or after they got a coffee refill and second pine-nut macaroon horn they shared between them—“listen, what are you doing tonight?” He gave advice, after he asked about her graduate-school work, on some courses she was thinking of taking and some eventual career moves. “But the truth is, if I had to take those same courses I’d no doubt fail and be mustered out of the program, especially the long novels of Melville and that one you mentioned on Puritan literature,” and she said, “Oh, please,” and he said, “No, I haven’t the mind for that stuff. Bartleby and maybe Billy Budd, though I can’t stand the grandiloquent language of the latter, if I remember the book correctly and have the word right, but those two are about it. I don’t know: the brain; who knows where the hell it goes or, with me, ever was, but I couldn’t keep up in your class. And write papers on the long ones? Forget it. It’s a fluke that I’m teaching. But if you notice, I only do short things and very clear and modern and interpretable … so it’s a good thing I’m retiring in two years. My younger daughter will be out of college then, and that’ll be it for half-tuition remission from my university, and I bring down the entire profession. Now your father: I don’t know how many years he’s been professing or has left in it, but there’s a teacher, a scholar, a learned man, with eclectic interests and the ability to compress and express them, just like you. I used to feel a little stupid sometimes talking to him, not that he was ever high-hat or pooh-pooh or self-important. He just knew what the hell he was talking about and had good ideas. Me, I’m a fake,” and she said, “No you’re not,” and he said, “Oy-oy-oy, now you’ll think I brought it up to get sympathy or lower my level or show I’m vulnerable or some other ulterior reason, but just ask him. I’m talking about teaching and understanding the subtleties and particulars of literature and making the connections and seeing its big reach. He’ll tell you. But let’s change the subject; it’s too much about me.” Politics: some things about the coming presidential election they both read in the Times and a couple of liberal weeklies. Then they analyzed the mind of the lit professor turned U.S. senator who killed his wife and her lover a month ago: ran over them when he saw them walking hand in hand across a street. What could have induced him, so much to live for and all that, and they had three young kids? The story goes he was having an affair of his own with a young staff worker and had had several before with all kinds of women and wasn’t living with his wife—they were getting a divorce, had amicably worked out a settlement and this was her first man since they broke up—so why? She said, “Male honor—that another penis had superseded his?” and he said, “Are you speaking metaphorically … hey, how about that word?” and she didn’t smile and said, “Both,” and he said, “Anyway, no, I don’t think so, or just a little, and what do I care about that vile jerk? I’m only interested in what happened to his wife and kids and, to a smaller extent, the poor schmo he killed. I’m sorry, I don’t always mean to direct us, but the conversation’s gotten too morbid, so can we change the subject again?” “Do you like movies?” and he said, “Sure, some, who doesn’t? though I prefer the older foreign ones in black and white—late fifties, early sixties, long before you were born—but I bet you like the new ones a lot,” and she said, “Only if they’re good.” Has he seen …? and he said no, but does she think it’s worth going to? If she does he’ll make a point of it, and she said if he’s serious about that she’ll go with him, since she wouldn’t mind seeing it again: it was probably among the best five or six movies she’s seen in her life, and he said, “Oh, it was that good?” and she said, “Are you playing with me, because I don’t like it,” and he said, “No, why, something I said, or the way I said it? Oh, I won’t lie; I was playing—patronizing—and I’ll try not to do it again. It could be I just don’t know how to express myself well in social matters also, or have degenerated the last few years, no fault of anyone’s but my own, so please excuse me,” and she said, “And stop flattering yourself too,” and he said, “What? Okay, if you say so, I won’t. So what’s our next topic?” and she said, “That’s not how I engage in conversation,” and he said, “Of course not, I was only saying,” and she said, “And the truth now: you weren’t being a touch sardonic to me then?” and he said, “No, why would I, I wasn’t, but if you don’t mind I think that should be my last apology for the time being. All right, that said, when do you want to meet for that movie, if you still do? And it’ll be dutch treat, okay? since I know you’d object to my paying,” and she said, “I wouldn’t—I’m only a grad student without a major stipend—but fine with me,” and after he left her he thought they almost blew it then but that could be because they’re both a bit unsure and maybe even nervous about meeting again because they think it’s the wrong thing. Is it? No, it’s simple, it’s nothing.

  They went to the movie two nights later. Met her at it, got there fifteen minutes early to buy the tickets and have the excuse, “Got here early so thought I’d save some time in line by buying the tickets beforehand—not to save time so much but more to make sure we got seats—I hope you don’t mind,” and she said, “No, I told you, if you mean about buying both tickets. Do you want to be reimbursed?” and he said, “It’s not necessary,” and she said, “Excuse me, I shouldn’t have put it like that,” and took out her wallet, and he said, “Please, put that away. So, where do you want to sit?”—as they entered the seating area—and she said, “Anyplace you do but not too near,” and he said, “Should we have stopped off at the candy counter?” and she said, “I don’t eat in theaters—distracts from what I’m seeing, besides making too much noise,” and he said, “Same here: the snacky stuff and not sitting too near. In fact, because of my eyes I like to be pretty far back. So maybe, if that’s not what you want, we should sit separately and meet after,” and she said, “The back’s good.” They sat, movie started, she took his hand a few minutes into it. He couldn’t believe it. He’d already decided—when he walked to the theater—that this would be the last time he’d see her except for chance meetings. He’d gotten too anxious about this movie date; it would lead to nothing and he could see himself falling for her a little, but not making a fool of himself—keeping it a secret from everyone—and it would be upsetting. He’d think of her a lot, want to call her, but wouldn’t. He’d planned to say nothing about it after the movie and when he accompanied her back to her building or however they’d leave each other, and if she said anything like, “Want to meet again?” he’d say, “It’s probably not a good idea and I’d rather not go into why, though believe me it has nothing to do with you. Meaning nothing you did or said, since for you I’ve nothing but admiration and respect,” or not go quite that far, as it might come out sounding like a line to inveigle her into a relationship, and he was sure she’d say, Okay, it that’s what you want,” and shake h
is hand good night and that’d be the end of it. So they were watching the movie, right at the start after the opening credits, his hands on his lap, when suddenly she was holding one. He didn’t see or feel her hand crawl to it or anything. His right, her left, she just took it and squeezed, about thirty seconds after she started holding it, and he thought, still facing the screen, She’s squeezing my hand, what does that mean? and then she squeezed it harder and he thought it’s probably a signal for him to look at her, the second one harder because he didn’t look at her after the first, and he looked at her and she was smiling at him and looking as if she wanted to be kissed, and he thought, I can’t do that, it’s enough she’s holding his hand and squeezing it. It was a dark scene on the screen so the theater was fairly dark, and her head turned just so toward him and lips parted a bit and that smile that said, Kiss me, we could do it now, just once if that’s all you want, but come on while we’ve time and the theater’s dark and people around us can’t see, and if you do kiss me I’ll kiss you back if you don’t pull away right after, and he thought, Not here, probably not anywhere, there are some things you don’t understand; at least they have to be talked about, and how would it look?—people will see and think, Look at the old fart and the young beauty, first I thought she was his daughter or even his granddaughter, then they’re kissing on the lips, maybe doing worse things below, how could he and, even uglier to think of, how could she? He smiled at her, faced front, didn’t squeeze her hand but continued to let her hold his. Occasionally glanced at her and she was always watching the movie. She gently squeezed his hand a few times and then so hard his knuckles hurt, and it wasn’t during an especially tense movie scene as the other squeezes since the first one had been so seemed she wanted him to look at her again and he did, and her head was like it was an hour before: turned and with the mouth open and smile just so, and he mouthed, What? and she squeezed his hand and tugged it a little toward her and he pulled it back but left it in hers and said, “What? What?” and she said, “Oh, what?” and someone behind them said, “Shh,” and he mouthed Something wrong? and her expression said, With this look and smile and my neck arched and head turned so and mouth parted in a preparation-for-kiss position, you say you don’t know what it is and that something could be wrong? What’s wrong with you? What was wrong with you before? Or maybe I should ask, What do you see or sense wrong in me? You embarrassed? What don’t you like? Our ages? Me? My looks, mind? People all around? That I made a move on you? That I’m stopping you from watching the movie? Listen, it’s going to happen, mister, you better believe it, here or somewhere else, now or later, this kissing. And probably tonight or another night this week—unless you confess beforehand to being gay, impotent, perverted, or having a sexually transmittable disease—we’ll be in bed also, so you better get ready for that too, and she turned to the screen, and he thought, Suppose she was thinking some of that, he hasn’t yet told her about his wife and why they separated. And there’s her father, mother, all the other things. What else is she expecting him to do besides kiss her here, kiss her later on the street, at a bar, a big long one in an elevator? Dance with her at some preppy club? Double-date with her friends? Hold hands with her the entire way while they walk to wherever they walk to after the movie? Last time his older daughter was in she took his hand on the street and held it at her side and they walked that way for about a minute till he raised their hands to his mouth, kissed hers, and took his out of it, and said, “This’ll sound awful to you. But as much as I loved holding hands with you when you were a girl, probably as much as I loved anything, some people will get the wrong idea now. They don’t know you’re my daughter so they’ll think what they think, and half of it won’t be nice things, and I don’t want them to,” and she said, “What of it? We know how we’re related and that there’s never been anything like that, so why let the petty small minds run you?” and he said, “You could be right. Ideally, you are. But there’s a certain public decorum I have to hold to. I get uncomfortable easily, for both you and me, even if I know I’ll never see these people again, or if we do there’s very little chance we’ll recognize each other, so what else can I say except that I hate it to be this way. Maybe if we wore signs—HIS DAUGHTER, HER FATHER—and arrows on the signs pointing to the other person, which’d mean we’d always have to walk in the same position to each other. No, that’s silly and nothing will work. Anyway, you’re all grown up, and I’ve been wanting to say something about this since you were around thirteen, so walk with me normally from now on and save the hand-holding for when you’re with one of your beaus,” and she said, “Beaus. Oh, boy, that’s a word,” and he said, “You mad over this?” and she said, “It’s a bit sudden, but no.”