30 Pieces of a Novel

by Stephen Dixon

  In the movie now he looked front, she pulled her hand away from his—a sign she was angry or disappointed, maybe—and he whispered close to her ear, “Really, did I do something wrong? Anything I said I should be thinking about apologizing for?” and she whispered, looking serious, “Why, because I removed my hand from your sweaty palm? It was getting physically unpleasant, just as mine must have been getting to yours, and I thought I might be annoying you with it and distracting you from the movie.” “Shh,” the person behind them said, or another one; “please, the movie. You want to talk, do it outside.” He mouthed, Later, and smiled, and she nodded but didn’t smile, and he thought, Jesus, I’m such a creep, I can’t believe it, and they watched the movie and discussed it on the way to a pub, she called it, she knew around here and wanted to go to for a drink before heading home, and standing at the bar in it he felt funny, all the young people standing around them, just as he thought he would a week ago. He’d suggested when they came in they get a table—his main reason: not to stand at the bar with all the young people, though what he told her was, “We can relax and talk better”—but she said, “A table’s too formal for just a piddly beer. And I’ve been sitting all day at my desk at home, and then at the movie, so I’d like to stretch my legs.” Some men around her age at the bar or walking past them seemed to want to make a pass at her. Anyway, were definitely interested. Kept looking over, tried to catch her eye directly or through the long bar mirror above the liquor bottles. One handsome young man sitting at the bar stared at her through the mirror now. When they came in she looked around briefly, seemed to nod hello to someone in a standing group but he didn’t see who, and then only looked at him—“Chins,” she said, clicking her beer stein against his glass of wine, and drank from it and said, “We done discussing the movie?” and he said, “Unless you want to talk some more as to why they make these things so noisy, jumpy, and uncomplex,” and she said, “I don’t. Now tell me what happened in the theater. And don’t say ‘What do you mean?’ I won’t allow you to give yourself extra time to think up an evasive answer, though of course my going on about it now has given you that time. How come, to put it bluntly—oh, I hate phrases like that when it’s obvious I’m being blunt—you didn’t kiss me? Was I—and I don’t like babbling people either but feel I have to finish this, so forgive me—asking for so much? Or you simply didn’t want to, or thought it the wrong place, or the shusher behind us stifled you, or what? There, you’ve had lots of time to think up a clever evasion, and meanwhile I’ve exposed myself as an unattractive babbler, but say something,” and he said, “I have to talk here? How do you know we’re not being monitored? This looks like the kind of joint that might do that—state-of-the-art slick and insipid singles bar with its newest gimmick being to entertain its masses through hidden recorders. One of the drinkers nearby could have one under his shirt or up her armpit and then management lowers the deafening music a few dozen decibels and plays our conversation back over the same sound system and everyone laughs himself silly,” and she said, “You’re not talking, then,” and he said, “Okay, I talk. ‘Didn’t want to kiss’? You said that, lady? Well, let me think about it, not with any excuse-making goal but to see my reluctance then as clearly as I can,” and he looked at his glass and thought. This is the approach. He can have it both ways and also appear thoughtful. He can protest his unresponsiveness yet give all the arguments for not getting involved further: the age difference, her family, he has a daughter also twenty-three and maybe even a few months older than her, she’s just a student, she should be going out with much younger men, same frame—frames?—of reference, and “just a student” meaning he’s a teacher, she’s a grad student, it wouldn’t look right or seem good. Other things he’ll come up with: what could it lead to? That it’d embarrass him being affectionate to her in front of people, and kissing? Out of the question. Meaning in front of people, not that he wouldn’t like to. Mention the hand-holding incident with his daughter. That he’d think himself a hypocrite he could only be kissy-poo alone with her? No “kissy-poo” reference. Besides sounding awful, he doesn’t want to ridicule the act of kissing her, because then he’d be ridiculing her; she was the one who practically put her lips to his. Anyway, something like that, and if she accepts his reasons and respects his reactions but says it still doesn’t make any difference to her—she’ll go along with however he wants to conduct himself in public, within reason (she’s not going to be passed off as his daughter, for instance)—then what? Then—well, he doesn’t know. Does he want to see her again? Yes, he thinks so. Yes or no? Yes. Sleep with her eventually? Yes, surely. Sleep with her tonight if she lets on that’s what she wants and actually does all the asking or prompting? All depends: his place or hers, roommate, type of building she lives in. But his building. People in it have begun to know him. If one’s waiting for the elevator with them or the next morning is already in the car when they get on it to ride down? They could walk down—it’s only the seventh floor and he could say it’s good exercise and how he almost always goes downstairs; that’s the truth—but someone could see them going through the lobby to the street, and what if a neighbor’s waiting for the elevator when they leave his apartment? So? Means nothing in the morning: student of his who dropped by early to deliver a late paper and they just happen to be leaving at the same time. Doorman? Why would he care? He’d see them come in at night and think, Hey, what a doll, lucky old fuck, or maybe that’s another one of his daughters. But he’s way off track: first the negative arguments. “I’ve thought about it,” he said, “even if the music’s hardly conducive to thinking—that bang bang screech bong,” and she said, “It’s not anything like that and don’t digress; tell me what you thought,” and he said, “For one thing, I’m still married,” and she said, “This is what you sunk into deep contemplation for? Because I thought you were separated, the two of you marching lockstep to an amiable divorce,” and he said, “Where’d you hear that? I never told you. Maybe your folks did, but I never told them either, though it’s true,” and she said, “I’ve only spoken to them briefly since we met, and not about you—I forgot to,” and he said, “Ah, best you not, right now: what would they think? Anyway, you’re right about the divorce—you must have just assumed it, or something I said—but you don’t know the reasons for the amiability. My wife’s quite sick. She wanted to divorce because of that. Sort of sacrificing herself. Thought she was being a drain on me. I took care of her as much as I could but couldn’t anymore. She was that sick—still is—but even worse—she’s eleven years younger than me—moved back with her elderly parents and they’re taking care of her now with a nurse, the kids coming around often but not to help, and she doesn’t want to see me anymore when she’s so sick, because—” and she said, “I didn’t know; that’s terrible,” and he said, “It’s awful, yes, except it isn’t true,” and she said, “What isn’t?” and he said, “What I said, all of it, except the separation and amiable divorce procedure. I don’t know what came over me to do that—I’m sorry,” and she said, “Wait, what you just—” and he said, “Yeah, made up. As I said, I don’t know what—” and she said, “But why? Something wrong with you, a screw loose, to play with my emotions like that?” and he said, “Listen, I can understand why you’d be mad, but maybe we should tone it down here,” and she said, “Okay, but answer,” and he said, “No screw loose. Oh, I’m normal, so like everyone else who is, minimum of a little. But I’m nervous with you, so maybe my nervousness makes me feel a tiny bit extra screw-loose, giddy, say dumb things, even turned me into a liar,” and she said, “Okay, okay. Not entirely satisfactory and I’m not sure what to say, but okay, okay. What’s the real situation between you and your wife?” and he said, “Separation and eventually a divorce, all quite amiable and compatible. Twenty-eight years, which includes the four we lived together before marriage, and she got tired of it, felt we had little to say to each other, et cetera. No common interests left, now that the kids were grown, though the younger
is still in college, so we should separate for a while and if it’s what we continue to want … I’m sorry about that bizarre story. As I said, where it comes from, who knows, since she’s healthy as all hell, and that excuse about my nervousness around you can’t be all of it. I think, maybe, and this is just speculation, and I don’t want to go into another long solitary thought session to try and figure it out”—and she said, “What were you saying?” and he said, “I didn’t want to talk about a separation, one we’re trying out, because then you might think Sally and I could go back together,” and she said, “So, fine, if you did, but what’s it got to do with our silly kissing?” and he said, “I suppose little, that what you’re saying?” and she said, “Well, does it? Just for curiosity’s sake, where’s the separation stand now?” and he said, “Oh, that’s another thing. She met a man, is very happy with him, lots in common, so we’ll probably end up getting divorced and she remarried. I don’t know what could stop the divorce—certainly I wouldn’t, if it’s what she wants—thus the amiability,” and she said, “Fine, and you don’t seem too torn up by it,” and he said, “I’m not, but you know …” and she said, “Which means what, the long stretch with her is enough to stop you from stepping out some too?” and he said, “You mean with you?” and she said, “Not only, but for argument’s sake, yes,” and he said, “No, but our respective ages, you bet. Every time I think I knew your parents twenty years ago—” and she said, “Fifteen, probably less,” and he said, “And now you’re all grown but still forty years younger—forty-one; that’s a chunk,” and she said, “I’m not looking for anything long-term. I’m just interested in you, would like to see where it goes. We stop when we want to, even at this pub’s door. We for certain don’t have to get serious. We have fun, talk a lot, do what comes naturally if that’s what develops, see movies, read, stay away from my parents, go to the beach if you like beaches—” and he said, “I don’t. I like mountains. Beaches are too bare and hot.” “Then I could never go out with you.” “Good, you shouldn’t. And I look ludicrous in a bathing suit with my shirt off.” “What are you saying? You’ve a nice build.” “How would you know?” “I can see through your shirt, the way you fill it out, and your big arms.” “Maybe the arms are the last to go. But I’m gray. I’ve gray hair on my chest and, if you want to get personal and frank—can I say it?” and she said, “Say anything you want,” and he said, “Around my pubes, on them, but there, and in some spots, white.” “What of it? Maybe I do too.” “You couldn’t.” “I could be prematurely gray, coloring the gray away in my head hair, maybe everywhere else too, or the places where I don’t shave it off. You never know.” “Listen, let’s walk and talk and, if it rains, run for cover.” “It’s not supposed to rain, but were you speaking metaphorically?” and he said, “No, I thought I read it in a weather report.”

  They walked and talked. She took his hand, he let her for a minute and then pulled it away, patted the hand that had held his, and said, “I might meet someone—this is home territory, the whole Upper West Side is—or you might. They won’t know what to think. That concerns me; what can I tell you? They’ll maybe think you’re with your grandfather. And if they see us crossing the street, that you’re helping him across, and if they do think that, we’ll be lucky,” and she said, “Don’t be maudlin. And how can anyone think I’m helping you across if I’m not holding on to you?” “I see you, I see my daughter, what can I tell you?” and she said, “And I see you and I don’t see my father.” “You have to.” “Don’t tell me what I have to see. And you don’t see your daughter in me either. Besides, you need as much help getting across the street, and look it, as I do. Please, don’t be such a schmuck. You’re too old for it; it’s unbecoming and to me unattractive,” and he said, “Listen, I can’t take a girl forty-plus years younger than I, a young woman—a woman, all right, a woman—calling me a schmuck. ‘Unattractive,’ fine. When I was your age or ten years older that might have hit me, but not now.” “I meant in an ugly way, that ‘unattractive,’” and he said, “Still, I don’t care. But you don’t know what that ‘schmuck’ does to me.” “Then what should I call you, ‘my darling’?” “Of course not; it wouldn’t be true.” “I know. That’s why I said it,” and he said, “Good, then you also know now I’m slow.” “Really, Gould, we should talk some more about this and your perspective on it, but not while we’re walking. Would you care to go in someplace quieter and less crowded this time for another wine and beer?” “Coffee,” and she said, “I could make us coffee at my place.” “Oh, jeez, I don’t know. Haven’t I turned you off sufficiently where you’d rather have seen the last of me?” “You’re doing your darnedest but it hasn’t reached the point where I see anything too difficult to overcome.” “Nicely and graciously put, but I don’t deserve it. Okay, your place, so long as you know there’ll be no commitment from me to go further. ‘Urgency … push.’ I’m not saying it right—I’m doddering—but you must know what I’m getting at.” “Just coffee. If it only comes to that. Because I don’t like any prearranged restriction if there really seems no call for one.” “Listen. Suppose it went further—I’m definitely not saying for today—and you hated it, were even repulsed by it because you suddenly saw how old and doddery I was, and then we’d have to walk around each other on the street after that when we met, not wanting to say anything to the other or even approach him—” and she said, “So? First of all, we wouldn’t stalk around, or what you said. What does it mean anyway? You make it look like two snarling panthers—lions, cheetahs, one of the feral cat families—because one’s in the other’s territory, by gosh—or maybe cheetahs and panthers only go roaming—but the other doesn’t want him there.” “That’s not what I meant. I was talking about potential embarrassment, uncomfortableness.” “So I got it wrong. My turn to be incoherent. Sorry. But we’d just—and my ‘sorry’ was for insinuating you were being incoherent; you weren’t, or not much. But if I now have it right, we’d just say hello, talk politely a little, ask after the other’s family—I feel I know enough about yours to do that, or would by then, and I also know how much you love talking about them—and then go our two ways, something that shouldn’t be new in relationships to either of us. We all come across people we don’t particularly want to meet, but we deal with them civilly, don’t we?—no inclination to hurt or get revenge? But tell me why we’re talking like this. It’s ridiculously premature. For now, let’s just have coffee. Or if you want—I feel I’m pushing you too much on this, as you said, or did I get that wrong too?—maybe we should go home, you to yours, me to mine, so long till the next time, if we meet on the street or in the market or one of us wants to call and the other doesn’t object to receiving.” “No, coffee and dessert, on me and at a coffee bar, please.” “You paid for the movie tickets and drinks.” “I like to pay; I do it without argument or for reward,” and she said, “If we’ve settled on coffee and dessert, I have some Mondel’s chocolate lace cookies in a tin, just a few days old … well, I’ve given myself away: but at my apartment? I also have a new espresso machine never used: cappuccino, espresso, the works. And brandy, which I use for cooking, but it’s good stuff, if you want to cap the night,” and he said, “Do you have a roommate? Only because I don’t want to converse with anyone else tonight under forty,” and she shook her head. “I live alone. I thought I told you that,” and he said, “Not that I remember, but we’re both pretty aware by now of my deficiency that way,” and she said, “Well I do, my big luxury; the espresso machine was a housewarming gift from my folks, along with a Bokhara rug.”

  They cabbed to her place. He looked at his building as he went into hers. He forgot to ask if it’s a student building, lots of young students around, and if there’s a Columbia University security guard at the door, but there wasn’t, and nobody in the lobby or at the elevator, and what would he have done if there was? He’d have gone in with her. She was the one who wanted to cab. “But it’s only ten blocks,” he’d said, “and I like walking a
nd it’s a nice night,” and she said, “I’m tired: my feet. I haven’t been on them all day, but they hurt. I’m older than you think, physically; I also have a waitress job three days a week,” and he said, “Oh, you didn’t say,” and wondered where it was and what would happen if he went into it by accident in the next few days and saw her there, or let’s say if they said, later tonight, It isn’t a good idea to see each other again, and then sometime in the next few days he went into the restaurant, sat at a table alone or at the counter—he prefers counters to tables when he eats alone: it’s quicker and also easier to read a book on them—and she turned out to be his server. In the cab she’d asked if he had any siblings and he said, “One, a few years younger, but he died when I was a boy,” and she said, “So did mine, an older sister by two years, but she was killed by a hit-and-run when she was nineteen,” and he said, “I didn’t know; I’m very sorry. I only remember one girl from my dinner at your house, and I’m almost sure it was only once, so maybe it wasn’t even you I saw then,” and she said, “You forget it was I who first recognized you. It could be that Sue was sick that night and had to stay in her room or was on a sleep-over. Anyway, we’ve something very deep in common,” and he said, “But my loss was almost sixty years ago. It was in Central Park. We were standing by the bridle path. I was supposed to be looking after him, and a horse went nuts, tossed its rider, and kicked my brother in the head, and he suffered for a long time with a blood clot and seemed to recover, and then, like an old man shooting an embolism or whatever they shoot, died doing his rudimentary schoolwork at home. I think he was drawing the cover of his book report.” He thought, riding up the elevator and staring at the gash in the ceiling panel and cable moving above it, Why’d he lie about his brother, and what’s going to happen now with her? He’s not prepared for it. What does he do with a young woman? Not prepared with a bag either, but she probably has a packet of them in her night table or another kind of protection. If it comes to that, as she said, if that’s what she meant. It’s been so long with any woman. But a young one with such a young body, everything flat and firm, it seems. And he hasn’t made love with anyone but his wife since he met her—has kissed a few but hasn’t even touched one on the breast, and he thinks every kiss he did was when he was a little high and standing in someone’s kitchen. All his hand and finger movements will be the ones he did with his wife thousands of times. He knew what she liked, how she wanted it done, and if he didn’t, she told him, so he thinks he’ll probably do things to this girl’s body as if it were his wife’s. If he ends up inside her, he’ll come in a minute. No, he knows how to hold it back if he wants to, or for a few minutes after it seems he’s going to come soon, but that was with his wife and after many years with her. It’s going to happen though, sex, if not tonight then soon with her. If there’s a chance for it tonight, will he do it? Yes, because when she decides to do it—his age and looks again—that might be the only time she does. She’ll give him the smile, he’ll kiss her this time, it could even start right after they close the door and hang up their jackets: she’ll start rubbing his back, he’ll rub hers, they’ll be standing and embracing at the time—best it starts up after their jackets are off and maybe even their sweaters: more maneuverability, fewer layers to tug up and go under—then the legs, sides, behinds, they’ll feel around and this piece of clothing will be off and that one and soon all of them, and it’ll be many kisses later and he’ll be worrying if his breath stinks to her, if she’s imagining it stinks because he’s old, if she isn’t already turned off by him, his skin, wrinkles, and flab. But she’ll still be kissing—lips and tongue don’t change, he doesn’t think—and maybe thinking she’ll do it with him this once, what’s the harm? a different kind of experience, et cetera, and she’s already a little excited, see him on the street after that, say it just wasn’t going to work, that’s why she didn’t call or answer his answering-machine messages, but no regrets—and they’ll go to the bedroom and so on and then he’ll have done it, first time with someone since his wife, if it, please God, comes to that.