30 Pieces of a Novel

by Stephen Dixon

  She turned around, had what looked like a miniature athletic bag in her hand, bright red with electric-blue straps and some words inside a circle on it—a basketball, he now saw—and said, “I’m going to wash up,” and he said, “I should too,” and she said, “Why, what do you have to do—you mean the toilet; you want to go first?” and he said, “No, my body—you know, wash my penis; I mean, it’s okay, but just to wash it anew—and also all around the anus and inside, sort of like that, if you want me to be honest,” and she said, “With what? Not with one of my washrags, I hope,” and he said, “Why? You just throw it in the wash after. But if it bothers you … anyhow, I wasn’t thinking of using a washrag, actually. My hands—lathered up—one hand, and if you have tissues in there, or toilet paper will do, which I’d dry myself with. And I won’t throw the tissues into the toilet bowl, so I’d need a wastebasket too,” and she said, “Good, my bathroom’s fully set up for all of that,” and he said, “Then good, we’re set. Now, before you go, and you should go first—my activity isn’t crucial—may I also hold you a little and maybe a kiss before? I suddenly want to,” and she said, “That’d be nice, I’d like it,” and smiled, stepped toward him, they kissed, he pressed his body into hers, ran his hand up and down her side, rubbed her back, on her rear end, clutched it, leaned over and stretched his arm down till he got his hand under her buttocks and between her legs, and she said, “Please, Gould, not so fast,” and he said, “Oh, my name,” and she said, “What about it?”—his hand was away by now—and he said, “Nothing; that you used it: a second, I think. It sounded nice, and I’m sorry, but I didn’t think I was going so fast,” and she said, “It was, for me, and I also want to wash up, as I said, and do some other things in there”—her head nodding to the bathroom—and he said, “Okay, all right, but so many rules here; whew. Don’t do this, do that; or not so many do’s, just don’t do this or that,” and she said, “I’m only telling you what I have to do first and what I don’t like done too fast—that’s so bad? Standing up and fooling around here, for instance. It’s nice for a minute, but maybe you even had in mind doing it right here,” and he said, “I didn’t,” and she said, “I’m glad, because we don’t have to, isn’t that true? The bed’s a much better place. And I’m tired; I already told you. So standing up and feeling each other after a while can be an effort when I’m this way,” and he said, “Come on, will you? Stop telling me—please, I mean—how to make love and how not to. I’ve done it before, I do have some experience. Okay, you do too, but understand that everything I’m doing here with you—if there’s any action that isn’t, I’d be surprised—is coming from some need or urgency of mine or something to touch and feel and paw you and the rest of it, now and later, so what the hell’s so goddamn wrong with that? Tell me,” and she said, “You don’t have to get vulgar and I think angry there, all of a sudden. And the truth is, too much talk too, okay?” and he said, “Listen, don’t now tell me not to talk or how to and then when to talk and more of the not-to-do-this stuff unless something I’m doing is physically hurting you—that I can respect,” and she said, “Right now your talking is hurting me, is that coming through?” and broke them apart and pushed him away a few inches. He said, “Hey, maybe this isn’t a good idea—this whole thing—how about that?” and she said, “I think you’re right,” and he said, “So maybe then I should get dressed,” and she said, “I think that would be the best thing to do, yes,” and he said, “Boy, that was one fast coming together and breakup,” and she said, “It was, though I wouldn’t exactly use either of those terms for it. Let’s just say something is definitely wrong, or had become that, and whatever was materializing between us tonight isn’t such a good idea now,” and he said, “Okay, everything’s wrong, even the goddamn terms and words,” and she said, “Please, don’t get angrier and make it into a big clamorous embroilment. And I’m really not trying to escape from this conversation—I just have to go badly, excuse me,” and went into the bathroom and shut the door.

  He started putting his clothes on. Should I? he thought when he had his shorts on. Or should I stay naked and, when she comes out, say, “I thought maybe you had a change of mind? I know I have, but if you don’t, fine, I’ll get dressed,” but then thought no, just go, they’re never going to end up in bed, and if she sees him sitting here naked … well, he could say something quickly why he is, that business about her possibly changing her mind and he didn’t want to get dressed when he’d only have to undress again—he’d say it jokingly—but she could get annoyed that he hadn’t started dressing and say something like “It’s no laughing matter, and your delirium about my changing my mind is in fact a bit depressing,” and he got his shirt and pants on and was sweating heavily and his stomach hurt and chest felt empty because he had so much wanted to do it with her and had even seen something good and happy and long-term from it for a while and he knows he’s going to kick himself to kingdom come once he leaves her place—a chance like this will never happen again, never—and was putting on a sock, thinking maybe he can come up with something to say to change things around, an artful apology, blaming it on his newness to this kind of male-female situation and which he swears—“I’m a quick learner”—will never be repeated, when she came out wearing a bathrobe tied tight at the waist. “As you can see, I’m almost dressed and would have been completely but I couldn’t find the mate to this”—pulling at the sock on his foot. “No, that’s not true; I just didn’t want to be entirely dressed and out of here by the time you came out, don’t ask me why,” and she said, “I see; it’s all right, take your time. And look, I want you to know—I don’t want you to think I was being a tease before. I meant to do what we were both heading for, but it was something you said, and the bad feelings I felt coming from you … a certain crossness—” and he said, “All right, all right, can it. Jesus!” and she said, “You don’t have to become insulting,” and he said, “How was I?” and she said, “Just now, in what you said: another example of what I meant about the bad feelings coming from you,” and he said, “I’m sorry, then. I’m feeling particularly lousy and frustrated about this evening—mortified too, in a way… morbid, even. I feel just terrible, to tell you the truth, but I’ll get over it, though the whole thing should have been avoided because it was stupid from the start,” and she said, “No, it wasn’t,” and he said, “No?” and she said, “I never would have asked you up or even wanted to see you a second time if I had thought it was,” and he said, “Well, you don’t feel any different about it now, do you? because I think I do,” and she said, “I’m sorry, no,” and he said, “Then it was stupid, and now even stupider than when I said it was. It’s got to be our vast age difference”—putting a shoe on—and she said, “You certainly do struggle with that theme, and so sedulously,” and he thought, Sedulously, what’s it mean?—oh, yes, and said, “Listen, I’m trying to be nice about this, polite, civil, because I feel so goddamn rotten about everything and I don’t want to feel even worse, but will you stop telling me about myself—will you just please stop?” and she said, “You’re angry again; I’m sorry,” and he said, “Angry? You’re sorry? Oh, I don’t know,” and had his other shoe tied now and said, “So long,” and left.

  Saw her a week later. It was late afternoon and they were going opposite ways again on the same sidewalk and he said, “Hi,” and she smiled and said, “Hi, how are you?” and he said, “Fine, thanks, and you?” and she said, “I’m in a rush to something very important now so I really can’t stop, excuse me,” and he said, “Don’t worry, I understand,” and walked on. He turned around a few seconds later and looked at her hurrying up the hill. God, what a shape, and so goddamn beautiful! If only he had gone along with what she was saying that night, stopped talking or only spoke softly, not got angry or vulgar, touched her where and when she wanted to, pretended to have more dignity, just held back, let her make the moves, call the shots, the rest of it, because it should have been obvious that was what she wanted, something he only real
ized after he left her place, then it would have happened. She was a little scared, or wary, had reservations, that much he knew when he was there—meaning she had to; it would only be natural; you don’t want to just jump in with an old guy, no matter how forward and out front she was in the apartment, bar, movie theater, et cetera, but he didn’t deal with it intelligently. And again, with someone so young and lovely. Ah, you’ve gone over it plenty, too much already, so don’t start killing yourself some more over it. That it didn’t happen, wasn’t successful, but got so close: no clothes, their bodies pressed together, kissing, his hand on her ass … forget it, and you don’t ever want to try it again with someone her age, not, as he’s also told himself too many times, that he’ll ever have another chance. They really don’t want to be doing it with you, that’s what it comes down to. They think they have the body and face and youth and spirit and who knows what else—the time; they got just about everything, far as they’re concerned, and instant oblivion also—and can dictate the terms because of that, if they do, for whatever fluky reasons they have, want to go through with it, and that can take care of the scariness and wariness and so on. So what’s he saying? He’s saying nothing. Or he’s saying little. But he just should have shut up. But also done what he did in the theater, and that’s pull his hand away from hers—in other words, something like that—or is that what he did? No, he just didn’t, when she wanted him to, kiss, but anyway, done what she wanted but with some reservations and reluctance or wariness himself till he got her in a position where she couldn’t call things anymore, where he had her pinned or locked but was inside her and nothing was going to stop it till he was done, and after that told her to screw off with her demands if she made any from then on or made them excessively. Because just to have done it once with her. To be walking down this street, after having just stared after her from behind, and thinking, I laid that gorgeous girl, and then to be able to go over it all in his head. But he didn’t think of that then.

  Saw her a few more times after that, and they waved or smiled at each other or both or said hi or hello and went on. Then he saw her when he was with his younger daughter. They were going the same way, she was at the corner waiting for the light to say WALK and he was a little behind her and got alongside her and said, “Hi,” and she said, “Oh, hi, hello”—and smiled—“how are things going?” and he said, “Couldn’t be better, and you?” and she said, “Same here, thanks. Well, I’ll see you,” when the light said WALK and she crossed the street, and he and his daughter crossed it a little more slowly. Then he yelled out, “Lorna, by the way …” and she turned around, and he said, “This is one of my daughters, Josephine,” and she waved and said, “Hi, Josephine, nice to meet you,” and continued on, and Josephine said, “Who’s that? One of your students?” and he said, “No, just someone I know from the block,” and she said, “I didn’t know you were so popular,” and he said, “I’m not.”

  Home

  WHERE’S HIS MOTHER? Didn’t expect his father to be here, he’s always too busy for things like this, but did his mother. Other kids are picked up. They run to their parents or just their parent or grandparent or older brother or sister. Lots of shouting of names, hugging, squealing, kissing, just what he expected to do with his mother, though no squealing; that’s for girls. He looks around and around. Half the kids were picked up the second they were brought to stand under the big Kodak sign. Most of the others were picked up in the next few minutes. “Mommy! Daddy! Nana!” and so on. Now he and a kid he didn’t like all summer are the only ones left from their division. Of all people to get stuck with, this one: Arthur. Not Art or Artie but Arthur, he had them all call him. “My mother said that’s the name on my birth certificate and the only name I should be called and not to answer to any other name,” or something. Good thing he also wasn’t in his bunk or on his team in color war. July first, camp started; now it’s August twenty-fifth. In a little more than a week, the day after Labor Day, he’ll be back in school. The thought of it makes him sick. Really, he has this sudden sick feeling in his gut at the thought of going back to school. It won’t be so bad the first day. There shouldn’t be too much to learn, the teacher will try to be nice, and he’ll see which kids he’s with, though they were told on their report cards last June which class they were promoted to, but he forgets who’ll be in his of the ones he likes. His best friend, Willy, won’t be in his class for the first time since second grade. His mother said it was just a fluke they stayed together this long in the same class. That it defied, she said, the law of averages—always big talk like that and with words he has to ask her the meaning of. She’s the reader in the family, the brain, and the one people say he takes after that way. But he gets his sense of humor and gabbiness from his father, they also say, besides his looks. Which, someone said in joking, he got shortchanged on or the worst of the bargain, his mother being thought of by most people as some kind of beauty when she was young and still a little today. Anyway, he forgets what he was thinking. School. In about eight days. No Willy in his class, but he’ll see him every day and walk to and from school with him unless Willy gets another best friend. But they’d still walk together, he’s sure, because he’s the only other boy on the block from their grade who goes to that public school. But his mother: where can she be? Maybe the subway got stuck or she took a taxi and the driver drove her to the other train station by mistake. What would he do if she stayed there waiting for him and all the campers here had gone, and the counselors and Uncle Sol, the camp director, wanted to go and she didn’t know where he was, maybe thought she got the pickup day wrong and went home to check because she’d left the camp schedule there—or didn’t have to go home at first, phoned and his dad wasn’t there; he was working, even though it was Saturday—so then she had to go home and the schedule said today and Grand Central Station and she was already two hours late and Uncle Sol by this time had got tired of waiting for her and left him there alone with his duffel bag—his trunk had already been sent home from camp by truck. But the camp would never do that. They’d stay with him till someone picked him up or they’d deliver him to the person his parents had told them beforehand about if his mother couldn’t come and get him or just didn’t show up. In other words, an emergency name and phone number. His father’s office, even. So, nothing to worry about, really.