Fall and Rise

by Stephen Dixon

  “Thanks, but this will do fine.” I help myself to a slice of bread and cheese and several slices of turkey and tongue.

  “Cranberry sauce?” a man behind the food table says. “Homemade, not canned.” He plops a spoonful on my plate.

  “Aren’t you eating?” I say to Arthur.

  “Too full—I’ll just drink. Good champagne like this you don’t get every night. Though I always have champagne in my fridge. Right this moment, three bottles of Taittinger’s brut on the bottom shelf, but I have to admit I don’t pour it as freely as they do here.”

  “You ought to throw wedding parties at your home. Then you’d—no, sorry.”

  “Go on, what?”

  “Really, for the time being I have to continue to be the judge whether what I’m about to say will make sense or not and then if I should stop.”

  “Who are your favorite American authors, contemporary and late?”

  “Wait. Let me eat first.”

  “Quiche lorraine?” the man behind the table says. “It’s the old quiche lorraine, before all the rage. French recipe. The real McCoy.”

  “Sure, a slice, please. Thin.” He does.

  “And our curried veal? You won’t forgive yourself if you don’t.”

  “My appetite’s got better but not that much, thanks.”

  “Tomorrow or the days after your friends here, when you discuss the party, will ask if you had it. It’s the house speciality—one of a kind.”

  “Go on, be brave,” Arthur says.

  “You be brave. Grab a plate.”

  He gets a plate and holds it out. The man gives us a portion each. “Now, how about a côtelette de mouton? It’ll melt in your mouth. I won’t even ask your permission.” He puts a piece on my plate. Arthur sticks out his plate and gets a piece. “Now you’ll have eaten our best except for the chicken breast l’orange.”

  “No room for it,” I say, “in my stomach or on my plate.”

  “Mandarin oranges flown-in for us expressly from Valencia, Spain?—Very well, but sit down while you eat. And drink a beverage with it. I don’t want you coming back to me saying I made you choke on the small servings I gave.”

  “I promise I won’t. Thank you.” He bows and we walk away.

  “That guy was another who had an instantaneous crush on you. And his language, when he was alluding to food to you, was so subtly erotic.”

  “He was only being nice while doing his job.”

  “How come he wasn’t as nice to me?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “No. As I said I don’t know you that well and I have a way of either being too much of everybody’s therapist or saying too quickly how I feel, which makes them think they or I need one. I just want to eat.”

  “How do you feel? Well, do you think I need one? Then can I get you some Perrier or wine?”

  “Perrier. Thanks. I’ll be sitting over there—give me your plate.” I go to an empty table and put the plates down. “And napkins, Arthur,” I yell. “There’s plenty of everything else here.”

  “You betcha, Helene,” and he blows me a kiss. He blew me a kiss. I don’t want him blowing me those. Oh, let him blow all he wants to me, but I won’t give him my phone number when he asks. I’ll tell him it’d be useless. Not useless, but something. Pointless, because I know he’s so infatuated with me when I’m about as far from that to him as I can get. Like that other one tonight I told how to reach me, then shouting out the window at me like a goof. If that one calls I’ll tell him he truly embarrassed me. No, I’ll say I’m too busy to see him and then put him off forever. No, but I’ll be blunt. “Can you take a dose of truth? After I left Diana’s I immediately knew it was a mistake to have encouraged you to call, so that’s the way it is, goodbye.” No, I’ll tell him I’m too busy and put him off forever or maybe I will be that blunt. I have some veal. De-lish. Sublime. Quiche. Divine. I should have somehow made room on my plate for the breast. God, I love feeling and eating well. Then I see Peter. Last man I wanted to see tonight and maybe also the first. Be honest with yourself—no. Dorothy said there was a slight chance he’d be here but nine out of ten he’d be in Lucerne. Heading straight to me. Hello, Peter—why Peter, hello. Hiya, Peter, didn’t think you’d be here—Peter, what a surprise, even if Dorothy did say you might show. Oh, just let him say what he wants to say and I’ll say whatever comes to me too. I slice off some lamb.

  “Helene, nice to see you,” and I look up and show surprise and say hello and stand up and stick my hand out to shake and he starts shaking it when he says “Shake? Come on now, I need a kiss. It’s been more than six months since we’ve had one—between us, of course,” and holds onto my hand as I give him my cheek to kiss and he kisses it and straightens my chin with his other hand and pecks my lips and lets go of me, steps back and says “What’s there to say?—you look great.”

  “So do you—very good. Like some food?” pointing to mine.

  “I’ll get my own later.”

  “Mind if I continue?” and I sit and he sits at Arthur’s place.

  “This somebody’s?” meaning Arthur’s plate.

  “Champagne?” a waiter says, holding a tray of filled champagne glasses. Peter takes off two.

  “Not for me. And there is someone I’m sitting with, but I can move his plate to one of the other chairs.”

  “No, wouldn’t want to disturb anything,” and he gives me a glass, goes around the table and sits opposite me and says “And come on now, we have to drink to Dot and Sven.”

  “All right, for them. I think I’m feeling better. I wasn’t before.”

  “That-a-way.” He clicks my glass. “Oops, should have first made a toast. To Dorothy and Sven. May they have a long life together and a fruitful marriage with much abundance, which is redundant, but what a marriage often is. Well, came out of that one okay. But let’s drink,” and we click glasses and sip.

  “Now,” he says, “—and eat, don’t let me stop you. What have you been up to lately? Much the same?”

  “With minor backflips and minuscule variations. How about you? You’ve been to Cologne, Zurich, Lucerne—”

  “Lausanne, not Lucerne.”

  “Lausanne, Lucerne, Lorraine, Laraine. Excuse me, but just for a moment there I thought I had a private joke going between my fork and me. Dorothy said for a curators’ convention and then on a buying-selling trip for your museum, but she didn’t think you’d be back in time.”

  “That could have been cause for jubilation.”

  “Why, what’s it to me? You’re here, good. Was it a good trip? I’m sure it was, so, good again. A third good coming up might be my own going to Europe next summer for a few weeks. Italy. Maybe France. Maybe just Italy.”

  “Remember ours? I still have dreams of us—real dreams, when I’m asleep—of the barge we stayed on, the canals and frogs. It kills me when I wake up.”

  “So? Go back with someone, or alone. That’s how I plan to do it: solo.”

  “Greetings,” Arthur says, putting a glass of bubbling water with a lime slice in it in front of me.

  “Peter, this is Arthur Rosenthal, as in the china. Peter Gray, as in the color, spelled the American way. Sorry I went at my food before you got back. Couldn’t resist.”

  “I can see. This my seat?” He sits, pushes his plate away.

  “Arthur’s a lawyer. We just met here. He’s an old friend of Sven’s.”

  “Sven and Dorothy’s, and not old. Served in the Queens District Attorney’s office with him. You in law too?”

  “No,” Peter says.

  “So, tell him what you do. It’s not fair not to.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “You still haven’t told him. What is it with you? Peter curates for the Met. The new primitive wing.”

  “Being built. An assistant curator. One of.”

  “And you’re an assistant or associate professor,” Arthur says to me, “or just a lecturer.
Not that I’ve anything against lecturers. I want to see if we’re all assistants here tonight or once were. Sven and I—assistant D. A.’s. But Dot wasn’t one that I know.”

  “I’m sure we can make her an assistant in something,” Peter says. “Assistant organizer for this wedding. Wait. Wasn’t she an assistant editor for a theater mag before she—”

  “Associate,” I say. “Maybe assistant. Anyway, I’m an assistant. Listen, I’m not feeling too well again and I have to leave.”

  “I’d take you home,” Arthur says, “but I actually would like to stay. I have no excuse for going.”

  “Why should you go? I’ll grab a cab downstairs.”

  “I was about to go myself,” Peter says. “I know—I just came—but I only drove down to do my courtesies, since I’ve a long workday tomorrow. And you’re on my way home.”

  “I’m twenty blocks north of you.”

  “I’ll drive you—you’re not feeling well.”

  “Go with him. This time of night—who even knows if cabs come down this far?”

  “I’ll say my goodbyes and get my coat,” I say.

  “First, someone has to make an official toast to the bride and groom,” Peter says. “Has anyone done it?”

  “Several.”

  “But a wedding toast? I came all the way down here to hear one. I’m a minister’s son, what can you expect? Doesn’t reinforce my argument, does it? But with the band on a break, it’s the best time for one.” He stands up, clinks his glass with a fork and says “Attention, everyone—please. I know several toasts have been made, but I haven’t heard them. And being a minister’s son, I feel called upon to make at least one official one. Another toast—what the hell, right?”

  Most of the room of about a hundred people get quiet. A few people near the food table are still talking and laughing.

  “Shh, shh,” some people say.

  “I won’t make a toast till the room is totally quiet.”

  “Boy, this fellow really takes command,” Arthur says to me.

  “A toast, everyone,” Peter says louder. “Everyone has to be quiet. A toast, everyone.” The room’s now quiet. “Waiters, please see that everyone has a fresh glass of champagne or fresh champagne in their glasses.”

  “I can’t believe this friend of yours,” Arthur says. “No let-up. What’s he think the waiters are, his slaves?”

  The waiters bring in several trays of glasses and bottles of champagne. In a couple of minutes nearly everybody’s holding up a glass of champagne.

  “Dorothy and Sven,” Peter says. “Please come to the middle of the floor.” They do. “Join hands.”

  “Hey, get on with it,” Arthur says in a disguised voice. “We’re thirsty; our hands are getting heavy.”

  “Maybe I should,” Peter says to Arthur, who looks around as if someone else had yelled it out. “Thank you, sir—Dorothy and Sven. I’m not good at toasts—not even at making toast. I burn my toast half the times I make it. Maybe that means I should get a new toaster. But even a halfway good toaster doesn’t blame his bad toasts on his toaster. But it is true that while my toaster’s dial is always aimed at ‘light,’ my toasts, if I don’t watch it, always end up dark. I don’t like dark toasts. But my toaster also doesn’t pop, which is another reason why my toast is usually hard and dark. But the champagne tonight certainly has popped. And months before tonight one of you must have popped the question to the other and the other accepted that pop. And maybe one day not too far off one of you will be a pop, and the other will be what in most traditional families goes with that pop, as in a mom and pop store—so, what’s in store for you. You might think this is funny”—Dorothy and Sven are laughing—“but it’s very serious. But one thing neither of you will ever be is seriously burned, unlike my toast, nor will you be roasted by this toast. You were made for one another, like toast is made for breakfast and roasts are made for supper. You are bread and butter for each other, one spread on top of the other, but which of you will be the bread and the other the butter nobody can say, since those rolls are transposable today. As far as putting rolls into my toaster, that’s out of the question and one that can’t be popped. Since how can the rolls pop if they can’t fit into the toaster? And if they can’t fit, they also can’t be burned or toasted and certainly not roasted, since nothing gets roasted in a toaster. But I’m sure both of you will always fit together and keep the other toasty—something on the order of a perfectly functioning toaster. So, I toast to your order of that perfectly functioning toaster and the bread that won’t be burned that goes into the toaster. And the butter that will be spread but won’t go into the toaster, though will be closely associated with it after the toast—perfectly toasted, the way you love it and each other and the way toast and bread love butter—pops out, but not to the floor. Pops out for you both to handle easily and without it burning your fingers. So here’s to all of those and lots of rolls and no more toasts tonight at least from this imperfectly functioning toaster and especially to you both, Dorothy and Sven Baker—and I swear only now do I see the connection between your last name and my toast—sip sip away.”

  Almost everybody says “Sip sip away,” and drinks up. Peter drinks up, puts the glass on the floor and crushes it with his foot. There’s lots of applause, he sits and says “Drink. You haven’t touched a drop.” I drink a little.

  Arthur says to him “I might have been a smart-ass before but only because I’m jealous of any guy who can take over the way you did. But that was without doubt the best toast I ever ate. I didn’t want to like it. In point of fact I hate all toast: dark, light or roasted—but I liked yours. It was palatable and kosher and I now think you ought to send them a real toaster as a present, maybe one that can take rolls. If you don’t, I will, but not your old one or my toaster-oven-broiler. I drink to you, sir—you’re a clever sonofabitch as there ever was one.”

  They click glasses and then mine on the table. I drink all my champagne, say “Excuse me,” and go over to Dorothy and Sven and kiss them both. The music’s started. They take my hands. “No, I couldn’t.” We start dancing, just holding hands, sort of a Jewish dance to Jewish music. Other people take our hands and soon twenty to thirty people are holding hands in a circle and doing this dance. Arthur breaks the circle, takes my hand and the hand of the person I’ve been holding and dances around with us. Peter takes my other hand and the other hand I’ve been holding—Sophie’s. Soon about half the guests are part of the circle and the other half and most of the waiters are clapping in rhythm to us. I see the two women from the ladies’ room in the circle. The one who was sick drops her hand and waves to me and I nod and she takes back the hand of her friend and kisses it. The music stops. I’m panting from all the dancing. Sophie hugs me and says “My darling, all the same for you,” and I say “One day, maybe, but no rush.” Dorothy and Sven kiss Sophie and then me and then one another and Peter puts his arms around their shoulders and squeezes them into him and then hugs Sophie and then me and kisses my cheek and says “Why can’t I stop thinking about you? This is no b.s. I’m such a fucking fool. Can’t live with, can’t without, that’s my problem.”

  I get out of his grip. “It’s all right, please, and stay. You’re having fun. I am too, but too much partying tonight.”

  “No, I promised, and my work tomorrow starts early.”

  I tell Dorothy and Sven I’m leaving. “Peter’s driving me home.” She raises her eyebrows. My look back says “Not what you think.”

  “Before you go,” Sven says, “have you seen the view?”

  “I’ve looked outside. We’re very high up.”

  “But from the outside? Half of what Soph’s paying for is the balcony view. It’s memorable and I want the party to be remembered. You too, Peter. Arthur. Nils. Who else? Everybody who can fit out there, come with us to the balcony. Sophie, you too.”

  “I can’t,” Arthur says to me. “I’m phobic when it comes to heights. They were lucky to get me up here, but I haven’t lo
oked outside once tonight and did you notice how I stay away from the windows? Minimum of fifteen feet. I couldn’t get near the crudités table because of it, and I love those things, so someone had to bring me over a plate.”

  Sven takes my hand and Dorothy’s and leads about twenty people out to the balcony. It overlooks the Staten Island ferry station and Statue of Liberty and New Jersey or Staten Island and some ships in the water and a liner all lit up heading out to the ocean.

  “A cruise ship,” Dorothy says. “That’s what Sven and I should be on. Instead, what? A posh hotel here and tomorrow Atlantic City.”

  “I like to gamble,” he says.

  “Listen. You can even hear the music from it seventy stories up. Let’s dance,” and she grabs Sven and dances one turn around and lets go.

  “I don’t hear anything,” Sophie says.

  “I’m a little cold,” I say to Peter. “I’m going in.”

  “No, all of us,” Sven says, “me and mine included, stay and don’t make jokes or start dancing—just look. It was a lot nicer the night we came up here to see if we wanted to rent it. Clearer, more stars, the skinniest of quartermoons, but you can’t predict the weather months ahead, and all the nights that same-sized moon was due, the room was booked. Look—the plane up there. Cloudy and all, it’s still a remarkable sight. Only in New York.”

  “I think Chicago has a catering place like this on top of one of its lakefront office buildings,” a woman says. “And taller, but with different type food. But it is very nice indeed. I’m glad you brought us out here—I would have missed it.”

  “And no comparisons, if you can. Experience it for what it is, if I can sound vaguely familiar—which is great. I also, while we’re out here in front of this view, want to make an announcement.”

  “You’re getting married,” a man says.

  “No, and not that I love Dorothy and she loves me and we shall cherish each other forever, which is all so, but that we’re going to have a baby. That’s something else I wanted to tell you, my best friends and relatives who braved it out here at my behest. Sophie, did you hear?”