30 Pieces of a Novel

by Stephen Dixon

  In the cab she stares out the window at the city and he says, “You said you’d tell me why my mother didn’t pick me up,” and she says, “Did I? I forget. Well, on second thought, better she tell you when you see her,” and he says, “Is she all right? My father? Either one sick with something? That what happened? Because that’s what I’m starting to think,” and she says, “She’s fine, in the pink, and as far as I know about your father, he’s healthy too, or at least she didn’t say anything that he wasn’t,” and he says, “You’re holding back something; I can tell by your voice,” and she says, “Okay. She told me if you were really smart and persistent and getting more worried by not knowing than knowing, and I was an absolute moron in being cagey and sly, that I could tell you this, so don’t think I’m overstepping my boundaries,” and he says, “What’s that you mean?” and she says, “What I mean is I’m not saying anything here your mother told me I couldn’t.” “And my father?” and she says, “He I never once spoke to. Maybe because he’s not been around lately, which is my point, so do you get what I’m saying or do I gotta spell it out further?” and he thinks, Oh, no, they’ve split up, his worst fear, maybe even got divorced, because they wouldn’t need him there with them for that—had a fight, lots of fights, they used to yell a lot at each other, but this time they used their fists and hit one another hard, so hard his mother got knocked out cold and had to call the doctors and cops, or someone had to for her, and when she woke up in the hospital she told him to leave, because by then he was sorry for what he did and wanted to apologize and take care of her, but she screamed at him to go and he left, and with another wife he might already somewhere be starting another child by this time with no thought in the world for him and his mother, even if by now she could be willing to take him back. “You don’t look good, Gould, did what I say disturb you? I told you I didn’t want to say anything,” and he says, “No, you can tell me; I always knew something was wrong,” and she says, “Good, you’re mature, just like this Sol guy was intimating, and you’re a good little fella too, because you’re making it easier for me than I thought. Okay: your father’s moved out and your mom’s terribly distressed over it. I don’t see why she should be, if you’ll take my two cents. From what I know, they’ve been fighting like cats for years, so this could be a good thing,” and he says, “No, they didn’t. They just argued sometimes, but I’ve seen them in plenty of happy moods together. Did he get married again?” and she says, “It’s too soon, how could he? It’s only been a month, and it’s not some other woman with her claws in him who’s making him do it, so don’t think that,” and he says, “Then I want him to move back. The place is better with him in it—funnier—no matter how much they fight. They can make up and only argue now and then and not so loudly,” and she says, “Maybe you’re right. You’re a smart kid, as I said, so maybe you know what you’re talking about. Anyway, that’s all I’m permitted to tell you—what I just did. To prepare you, if I thought I had to, for having no daddy at home right now but that he’ll probably call you tonight or in a day or so. And that your mother’s depressed over it, not so much because of him but that it finally came to this and the family’s broken up, so mostly depressed by the effect it’ll have on you. It could be, between you and me, she’s thinking she held on to your father this long just for your sake—I don’t know, I’m only speculating.” “What’s that?” and she says, “Raising the possibility of, I think. But my authority stops where I said, as I don’t have the go-ahead from your mom to go any further than I did, and as it is I think I went too far.” She looks out her window. “Catch the traffic,” and he says, “Why? There hardly is any,” and she says, “That’s what I mean. New York, in this area, is like a—well, maybe almost all over except in front of Bloomingdale’s and down on Times Square and the square where Macy’s and Gimbel’s are: Herald. I’m talking of summer weekends, but like a little town, quiet and empty like one, when all the people are in church.” “We don’t go to church; not even to a synagogue except maybe the very holy days in September,” and she says, “I didn’t mean literally. I meant it’s as if New York’s just a small town today, it’s so deserted around here, though where everybody is I don’t know. Vacationing, probably, the last big week before Labor Day, and the ones working on Saturday, instead of walking around on their lunch hours, are inside their buildings because of the sun and heat. You all right, Gould, not too upset from what I said? If you want I can still stop a block from your building and buy you a hot dog or ice cream. I don’t mind getting back to work late, if it’ll help you. So they dock me. So sue me too,” and he says, “No, I just want to get home. I’m kind of tired.”

  She unlocks the front door with the keys his mother must have loaned her, leaves them on top of the breakfront by the door, and says, “Cool in here; you’re lucky. That’s because your mother keeps the blinds down. Anyway, gotta get going, so I’ll see ya. Say hi to her from me and that I had to dash,” and she goes. He yells, “Mom, I’m back, I’m back, you around?” and she says from the bedroom, “I’ll be out shortly, darling; welcome home. Take something in the refrigerator. I bought lots of things you like,” and he says, “I’m not hungry but I’ll look,” and goes into the kitchen, opens the deli wax paper of several packages, takes a slice of liverwurst from one and a slice of Swiss cheese from another and stuffs them together into his mouth. Drinks a glass of milk, nice and cold. The apartment looks different. So clean and everything neat and put away and counters and floors shining as if washed and mopped and waxed. That’s how he always remembers it when he comes home from camp, and the coolness of the place compared to the outside, but then forgets it till the next year. Also no lights on, to keep the heat of the rooms down too, his mother said. So it looks strange, a cross between day and night, when it’s just the middle of the afternoon and the outside’s maybe its brightest and hottest. The place also seems smaller, but not as much smaller as it did last year, and he wonders if his room’s the same way and goes into it and it is. So what does that mean, that next year everything will seem the same here as when he left, or close to it? He looks for things he missed: a board game, a sponge ball, a book, feels his bed to see if it’s still as comfortable—he got used to the hard cot at camp but what he never got used to was how narrow it was, and when he was sleeping he fell off it at least three times and once, even, during the rest period they make you take after lunch. Opens his middle dresser drawer for no reason but to look at the folded stacks of clothes. In a week it’ll be messy and in a few weeks his mother will ask him to fold his clothes in his dresser if he wants to find anything in it, and if he says he doesn’t want to she’ll say then he won’t be allowed to play outside after dinner. Smell of mothballs comes out of the drawer. That’s what he always remembers, and he fingers around and finds a couple of the balls she missed, for his mother must have taken the rest out when she cleaned his room for his coming home. He gets out the mothballs she missed in the other drawers—they’re all in the back corners. He doesn’t mind the smell much, but it can get embarrassing when people start sniffing hard in front of him and then point out the smell on his clothes. Sits on the radiator cover, holds open some middle blind slats, and looks out his second-story window at two rows of backyards going all the way to the end of the block, a lot of the close ones overgrown with bushes and vines and trees whose branches hang down to the ground. In one yard a woman’s sunbathing in a skimpy swimsuit. He doesn’t know how she can just lie there in the sun, her arms turned up so the forearms show and her legs spread wide, and get burned and hot and sweat so much. He stares at the tall apartment building at the end of his block, at a small propeller plane passing over it till it flies out of sight, then looks at the woman—she’s drinking right from a glass pitcher—and goes to the bathroom because he has to pee and after it taps on his mother’s door. “What is it, Gould?” and he says, “I thought you’d be out by now, anything wrong?” “No, it’s okay, don’t worry,” and he says, “I also forgot to tell you:
Mrs. Jacobo, your friend, said to say goodbye to you, that she had to get back to work,” and she says, “Did you like her?” and he says, “She was all right, but she talked too much,” and she says, “She’s nice; helped me out a lot by picking you up, and she had to come from work to do it,” and he says, “I know. She also told me you work there together and all about you and Dad,” and she says, “That’s why I’m in here, Gould. The shock of it keeps coming back and back, and today it really got to me, probably because you were coming home, know what I mean? Okay, okay,” and opens the door; she’s in her bathrobe, hair a mess, face looking as if she just got up, hugs him, kisses the top of his head, and says, “Good, I’ve made my grand appearance, so you won’t think me entirely strange. But I’m going back in to rest some more, if you don’t mind and can understand. Play with Willy, if he’s home,” and he says, “Good idea. Can I take the keys Mrs. Jacobo left or should I leave the door unlocked?” and she says, “The keys,” and goes into her room and shuts the door and he calls Willy down the block and gets the keys, though he doesn’t know which one fits which lock. If you don’t fix the button, door locks automatically, but he’ll be able to get back in and if he can’t he’ll ring till his mother comes to the door. It might even be a good excuse to get her out of her room again. But when he gets back he’s going to ask for his own keys and he bets she gives him a set now that there’s only the two of them.

  Plays, and when he lets himself in a couple of hours later the table’s set for one, with a note on the plate: Gould, dear. It was so wonderful seeing you again. You look great (I neglected to say then), grown a few inches, even filled out some, but in a husky way: you’re getting so tall and strong. I’ve made what used to be your favorite sandwich. If you want something else, leave it and make a sandwich of your own choosing from the assorted deli I also have in the refrigerator. In the bread bin are a fresh loaf of rye bread and a package loaf of white and several fresh Vienna rolls (without seeds). For a special treat, but only today, take the bottle of White Rock ginger ale in the refrigerator too. The sandwich is liverwurst and Swiss and lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise on white bread, which he still likes but it’s not his favorite anymore: ham and Swiss on white with mustard but no lettuce and tomato is—but he doesn’t feel hungry for anything now. He wonders when his dad will call. He should have asked her. Should he ask through the door for his dad’s new phone number? It’s almost too late to call him at work, if he went there today, and asking for his home phone number might make her mad and maybe even sad too, and he drinks the soda and reads a book and listens to a radio show and answers the phone and writes down the message from a woman whose name he never heard before, and at eight raps on her door and says, “Mom? Mom?” and tries the knob, but the door’s locked and she says from what sounds like across the room, maybe from her bed, “I’m so sorry for acting like this, Gould. Did you have your supper?” and he says, “I’m not hungry,” and she says, “You have to be hungry; maybe you noshed a lot, then,” and he says, “Only a piece of liverwurst and cheese before,” and she says, “I’m sorry, I know it’s all my fault you’re not eating, but I can’t seem to be able to make even another grand appearance. I feel repulsive and look a wreck, but it won’t go on past tonight, I promise. Maybe things will improve with your father where he’ll come home, and maybe they’ll even get worse, where we have to set up two permanent separate households, but the worst thing about it is the effect on you,” and he says, “I’ll be all right, and now that we talked about it, I’ll be fine. Can I come in now?” and she says, “This will sound terrible, but it’s probably better if we next see each other at breakfast. Then I’ll be all rested and feeling and looking better and we can do something together, like go to the park if it’s not too hot. Now I’m still so tired I only want to go back to sleep. I’ve taken my phone cord out of the wall, so if it rings, answer it, but I’m not able to come to the phone for the rest of the night.” “A Mrs. Corn called and said for you to call her. She didn’t say about what but that you’d know and you have her number, so I didn’t take it; was that all right?” and she says, “Of course, and I’ll do it tomorrow. She’s my boss and very sweet and probably wants to know if I’m coming in Monday. You know I had to go back to work because we needed the money,” and he says, “I guessed so, but doesn’t Dad give you any?” and she says, “Not enough because his business hasn’t been doing too well and now he has his own rent and expenses. Somebody will be looking after you on Monday, so don’t worry,” and he says, “Who?” and she says, “A very nice woman. To take you to the movies and things. And later next week you’ll go to your aunt’s in Coney Island for two days, and I’ll have a day off to be with you, and your father will be around, and we’ll all work something out for when you go back to school,” and he says, “Can I have his number so I can call him?” and she says, “I don’t have it, or don’t know where it is right this minute,” and he says, “Can you get it for me?” and she says, “I wouldn’t know where to look,” and he says, “Do you know where he lives so I can dial four-one-one for it?” and she says, “It’s such a new number they won’t have it,” and he says, “They give you new numbers; I’ve heard you and Dad on the phone with them. You say the number’s new and give the name and address and they find it,” and she says, “I don’t even know where he lives. I’m afraid that’s where your father and I stand now, Gould,” and he says, “Come on, Mom, you have to have it,” and she says, “Are you saying I’m lying?” and he says, “No. Could you tell me what you do at work?” and tries the door and it’s still locked, which he figured it’d be. “That Mrs. Jacobo and the woman on the phone before didn’t say anything about it,” and she says, “Sales. Mrs. Corn is the head saleslady in our department: Girls’ Clothes. Lynn—Mrs. Jacobo—has a much better position as a buyer, and if I stay at it long enough and get good reports I can eventually move up to that. They can do very well. But I’ll tell you it all tomorrow morning. Now get a good night’s sleep, which means not staying up too late reading. Your bed’s freshly made, and also don’t open your window too high. There’s a floor fan in your room if you want—I bought it just last week but haven’t plugged it in yet,” and he says, “I saw but didn’t know it was mine. Thanks. And good night,” and she says good night and he thinks usually he likes to get a kiss but he’s not going to ask for it.

  He takes the sandwich out of the refrigerator, scrapes off as much of the mayonnaise as he can from it, smears on mustard, and eats it, has some milk, cookies, a plum, washes up and gets in his short-sleeves-and-shorts pajamas, and lies on the bed with a book and opens it and thinks, The fan! and plugs it in and turns it on to SLOW and gets back on the bed and thinks, When I grow older I’m never getting married. It’ll end like this if I do—things are passed down from father to son more than they are from the mother, not just looks but I bet the kind of woman you choose for a wife—with my son’s mother locked in her room and me some other place cheap and dirty because I have so little money or have given most of it to her for my son and not calling him also because I’m too upset and am afraid of getting my wife on the phone who I now hate more than anything but both of us believing the worst thing possible has happened to our son when it hasn’t, he’s actually glad they’ve split up because now he doesn’t have to hear them arguing back and forth almost every dinner and Sunday mornings and sometimes from the second his father comes home from work and from time to time telling each other they’re going to kill the other—not so much that but that they’d be better off dead than living with the other—and the only way to stop that from happening is never to marry and have a child, never, because you don’t ever want to put him through that and make your own life horrible and crazy and mean besides; and he grabs the pillow from under his head and throws it across the room and then jumps out of bed and knocks all the treasures off his desk and picks up some and throws them against the wall and yells, “Shut up!”—to the fan—“just shut the hell up!” and pulls its plug out by the co
rd and pushes the fan over and would kick it if it wasn’t that he had bare feet, and pounds the closet door with his fists and screams, “You bitches, you louses, you rotten bastards, I hate you, I hate your guts!” His mother comes in and says, “What is it with you; why are you acting like this?” and he says, “Nothing, go away,” and runs to the night table and turns the light off and gets back in bed and under the covers and faces away from her and wishes he had his pillow to lie on but isn’t going to get it till she’s out of the room, and she says, “That wasn’t a nice thing to say,” and the room’s still a little lit from the hallway light and he closes his eyes tight and she says, “And especially not after all you know I’ve recently gone through with your father, besides the things I’ve tried to do to make your homecoming as nice as it can possibly be for you,” and he says, “Leave me alone; I can’t stand either of you,” and she says, “Gould,” and he doesn’t say anything, and she says, “Gould, that was awful, apologize,” and he holds his breath till he can’t hold it any longer and lets it out slowly so she won’t hear. She turns the ceiling light on, picks up the stuff he threw around, puts some of it in his wastebasket and the rest on his desk, brushes off his pillow and drops it at the foot of his bed, then turns the light off and leaves the room, and he thinks, I wish I could fall asleep right now, but so what, because even if I do I’ll have to wake up in the morning.