Fall and Rise

by Stephen Dixon

  Turns the sound up but movie’s so good that she’d rather risk seeing it in a revival theater some time than see it now, and turns it off. Clock. Six mins, Mr. Krins. Then it’s lights out in this gritty city, far-off or nearby, to tumble into the night where I hope my tumefied dreams will multiply. Say. Not good but bad. Should buy a shade for this window, I keep saying, and not for the little bowlered man across the river and his superhighpowered telescope.

  Marietta, talking about telescopes. Superhighpowered for sure—what a dandy idea. One great thing about having your best friend in California is she can call you before eleven A.M. at the maximum overnight discount rates and you can call her when you can’t call anyone else in the city because it’s too late.

  “Marietta, Helene, it’s not too late?”

  “Is a bit, but it’s okay. Great to hear your voice, but past twelve, Helene—anything wrong?”

  “No, and darn, damn time difference again, because I thought it was just eleven where you are. And me, of all people, after this big long debate with myself tonight—not with myself but somebody else—”

  “Who dat?”

  “Oh, no one. Boy, stupo, stupo,” tapping her temple with her knuckles. “But what I meant was that I’ve always been such a stickler about phoning people at a reasonable hour. I’m sorry. And I know I’m over apologizing in excess of and above and beyond that, but I’m sorry. Listen, before I completely don’t make any sense, I’ll—I only wanted to hear how my only godson’s doing, but I’ll call tomorrow at a decent hour.”

  “Nah nah nah, we’s up. And it’s not that late. Just that I’m in the mist of breastfeeding it—he, him, little Nick—sorry there, butch—so I won’t be too clear myself.”

  “I’ll call back when you’re finished. How long?”

  “No guarantee. Could take twenty minutes, could take two times twenty if he still wants what I seem to too quickly run out of and he has to go on form. Just that it’s tough to talk when I’m breasting. I’d give you Bob but he seems to have conked out—Bob? Bob? He’s really gone this time, not just a-possuming. He’s done it before—snore, snore—when Nick’s ready for the bottle or to be burped, since he thinks they’re the most monotonous jobs possible next to reading Freshman English comps, right there, Bobby?—Really out. We’re both so beat since Nicholas was born. Ech, now he wants me other breath. When he latches on sometimes, watch out, sport. But here’s the big tunity for you two to talk. Say something to your g-mother, Nick. Your other mother, not your udder mudder. This will be his first phone talk if he talks. He’s bound to howl when I switch jugs on him and keep him off the dug for a few sees. He digs that dug. You do dig dat dug der, don’t ya, ittle Ick? See the usage I’ve reduced myself to. I can’t speak to adults no more and particularly colic perfects. Here, speak to godmamala Helene.”

  “Honestly, you don’t have to—”

  “Say hi to the old boy. You don’t, he’ll feel rejected and won’t sup.”

  “Hi, Nicholas Erasmus sweetheart of mine, how you doing, honey?”

  Baby cries.

  “There, his first words,” Marietta says. “Let me get them down for post-puberty. ‘Whaa-whaa,’ or was it ‘ya-ya’?”

  “‘Ya-ya,’ I think. What do you think he said to me?”

  “What did you say to him? He was only responding. Six weeks?—sheet, you can’t expect much more than that from him for a few more days.”

  “I said ‘Hi, Nicholas Erasmus’ etcetera.”

  “So he was saying ‘Hiya baby, etcetera’ back. Now I have to switch breasts. He’s right between us in bed and I have to be careful Bob doesn’t flip over during one of his Ph.D. exam dreams and thrash and crush him. Phone receiver will be right above my head on the pillow, so tell me what’s been happening with you lately and every so often I might be able to divorce myself from this formidable pleasure and say a syllable or two. Cracked nipples and engorged mammae and all, sometimes I feel so sunny and voluptuous doing this that I think I’m the one being held, musically mobiled and fed.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “Here comes Peter Cottontail.”

  “What the mobile plays?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “You’re gone.”

  “Yuhhh.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Work?”

  “Going well. Nothing new. Book too. Working hard.”

  “Ten?”

  “Chairman’s made gestures but I won’t take if offered. Don’t want it. I’ll either try something new, get a better book contract for the next one and live rather penny-pinchingly for two years, or go to another school.”

  “Daft.”

  “Why? I don’t want to be screwed into the same school the rest of my life or even teaching or the East Coast or maybe even America, I think.”

  “Sab.”

  “Sabbatical? No, I want to do something different or the same thing in a different place, but not take a year off on the university when I might never come back. It’d seem like cheating and also would be keeping a needy scholar-teacher from getting my job.”

  “Bob?”

  “Way ahead of you. Months before I leave I’ll tell him and then recommend him to my chairman.”

  “Years.”

  “Been looking?”

  “Two.”

  “Delaware.”

  “He’d even take a job in Delaware.”

  “U. of. In the last MLA listing. And you?”

  “Too. But Bob best. Rest. Me. You just talk.”

  “My folks are fine. They’ve sent Nicholas something. It’s extravagant, so don’t send it back.”

  “Yes.”

  “No. They love you and only wish the same for me.”

  “Two.”

  “Two babies? You’re already planning to have another?”

  “Me too for you. Rest.”

  “Boy, I’m really getting it about that tonight. If and when the time comes, all right?”

  “Now!”

  “Stop?”

  “Man?”

  “Hey, wilt, will ya?”

  “Well?”

  “Several. Nobody special. This one and that. Part of the reason I called. One I met tonight, not even a this or that, is on his way here—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Nothing to get excited about—he got himself locked out of his apartment and that’s that. But I’m waiting and waiting. Met him at Sven and Dot’s wedding reception.”

  “They?”

  “Okay.”

  “It?”

  “Glittering. Grim-visaging. Wanted to commit partycide. What the hell. Their affair. But this man there—met him for a minute—no, that was at Diana Salter’s earlier homier affair—Dan, and what do you know goddamn, he called and is coming over to sleep on the couch because of that lockout and I’m waiting and have nothing to do, not that I don’t always love talking to you, except when you’re pressing me to get wed—been, remember? been—so thought of calling you.”

  “Glad.”

  “After this call—even during it if he rings from downstairs—not answering or letting him in. The phone, the door—heck with it, it’s already become something of a joke.”

  “Do.”

  “What, let him in?”

  “Do.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Want some honest but for a change good advice? No. Can’t. It’ll still the mill. Rest.”

  “I’m curious though. Just take a few elucidative sees.”

  “Feel.”

  “Feel isn’t to see. Because he doesn’t seem that interesting. Nothing I said made him out to be. Locked out—what’s that? Translates lits—hot stuff? Just a nice nervy and slightly flaky bright guy who’s kept me from sleep too long. And if he was that interesting or more interesting than I see and interested in seeing me again and I thought him interesting enough to want to see, he could always or I could always, call me or call him, but another day next week.”

  “Do. Ohhh—”r />
  “Sounds incommunicable.”

  “Is. Then painful. Then is. And not just the engorgement and cracked teats. For when it comes down sometimes, pain like knives needling the breasts. Ever hear about that before? No nonmilker did and mixed up the knifing needles likening a twit and I’m not the only feeder to feel this. What, some collusion or my illusion about eternal women where we milkers are only allowed to talk about it among ourselves? Worth it? Yes—Had enough there, schnooky? No. Got its mitts up and wants me to stick it back in. But that tit can’t take anymore and other’s temporarily out of the running. No. Shakes his head. Wronged face. About to grief. Okay, got some drops left in both but gonna talk while you’re bleeding them—Hear him? Whale of a wail Bob’s said. My mind’s felt like pudding since but oh this is so incommunicable having a kid—It’s Helene—Bob just woke up. Rolled over. Missed the kid. Scratched his butt. Squeezed his nuts. Seemed to say hello to you, so hello from Bob.”

  “And hi,” Bob says from afar.

  “Hi and hello, Bob.”

  “You hear the baby say ‘hi’ too?” Marietta says. “An imitative hi but a hi. You say impossible. Well, you can say ‘impossible’ because you’ve some days on him, but so far he can only say ‘hi,’ and twice an ‘oy.’ He really did twice oy, but almost anytime I want, a ‘hi.’ Say ‘hi,’ baby.”

  “Hi,” the baby or Marietta imitating the baby says.

  “You hear? Amazing, no? Ah, now baying, so back to the breast. It’s…what can I say? How can I put it? The—help me, Helene—what would be the words to best express what you say’s the incommunicable, although you were referring to Nick then on my breast: we both just love the damn kid to death. Helene, you must have a baby. And no differing or quibbling with me either: what I said’s a command. And you want to see your husband cry like a baby, have him there in the room when you give birth. And you want to be as close as you’ve been and maybe ever will be to someone and then two people, have him in the room for those reasons too. Yes, without question, you have to have a baby. With a man you’re stuck on and who’s stuck on you and who’ll stick and I want you to have it soon. It’ll be the second happiest moment in my life. No, the third. First was having this baby and Bob crying like one, second was when Bob and I said our vows, fourth will be when I’m standing beside you at your wedding again and holding the ring you’ll slip on him, the third when you have the baby. Fifth will be when your amnio-C results come in and they say all the tests turned out negative. No, fifth was when we got our results, so sixth when yours come in. No, fifth was when I took the E.P.T. and the doughnut showed. So fifth was the doughnut, sixth the amnio-C results, seventh will be when your results come in negative and maybe eighth when you phone and say your E.P.T. showed a doughnut. So what do you say, Helene? You’ll be the mère of mères. You are this moment depriving yourself of everything incommunicable we spoke about and your unborn child of your maternalness and milkiness and everything else you’ll give it and each day you wait, the world another day of your great child and what you gave it and—rest. Sor. But do. Give birth.”

  “When the time comes.”

  “Now.”

  “I can’t just grab any man and say—”

  “Now, damn you, now. This is important enough to take Nicholas off for a minute. Little trick. Stick my pinky between his lips while I pull out the tit—I know, wail. Wake up daddy—Here, Bob, hold him for a minute. I don’t care if Mrs. Larkin from downstairs—Give him the bottle then. On the side table. Has my milk in it anyway, expressed.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ll find out. I’ll in fact drive East after you give birth and bring you everything you need—clothes, crib, carriage, changing table and my breast pump. But listen. You’re my dearest friend and have been for years. We’re as close as close only-sisters. I know times are tough for some women—even most. Anyway, they’ve been complaining more than usual lately about men—the shortage and also the sexuality of potentially good ones. But you? Men have to be scratching at your windows no matter how many flights up you’re up and purring and panting behind your door.”

  “Not so.”

  “So. I know. New York’s just a holler away. I heard about ten wonderful men at least over the last few years, two of them nonpareil and childless and who wanted kids, who fell for you or would have at the slightest sign and you for a while with two of them, although not the peerless ones of course. But for your own reasons none ever quite stacked up to your—”

  “Once.”

  “Okay, him, once. Tried to forget him but okay, him, once. And the man you were married to—let’s not forget that winner long as we’re at it. Anyway, all these other wonderful recent obtainable champing-for-children men, your reasons you dropped them, one dropped you—let’s bless him—but—hey, can you really afford this call, late as it is to ask that?”

  “It’s ultradiscount time, and even if it—”

  “Drop, drop, except for the one you wanted to marry and am I glad he didn’t. But reach out for someone—not off the street, but if that happened to be, go with it: you never know who you’ll meet leaving the movies—and let the thing happen again. Fall freely and deeply and get married in a year and go off on your honeymoon a month pregnant. And I want it to be a girl. I want our children to have children together. I want us to grow old together as related in-laws. I want you, past all kidding, to be supremely happy again as you were with your first husband when we all should have known better, and I know the only way you can. Forget books, forget teaching—they’re all great and worthy but secondary, and you can always go back to them. And the—”

  “Okay, enough. And maybe the phone bill is running up too much.”

  “And the man who’s coming by tonight—”

  “Mara, let her alone,” Bob says.

  “The two of you—let me finish—get your hand off the phone, for I see an opening here that could change her life—And the man who’s coming by—don’t turn him away just because the time’s long passed when he should have been there and so on. Maybe the cab he caught crashed and he’s crawling this moment to your door. Think of that.”

  “Will you stop being silly,” Bob says.

  “Or the subway he might have been on caught fire and he’s now maneuvering his way to you underground through pillows of smoke and will probably end up coming to you from your building’s basement. Or the helicopter he took exploded in midair and he’s now parachuting to your building’s roof and, if he can get the roof door unlocked, will walk to your apartment downstairs. Or the—or, picked up for suspicion while running to your place, he wanted to get there so fast—”

  “Pay no attention to her, Helene,” Bob shouts. “Once she starts in—” “—and this will happen right after we finish talking. He’ll call you from the police station, in his one allowable call, to set him loose. Who can say in your city? But I have good instincts, and a rather adolescent imagination—too many movies and maybe living in movieland too long and maybe also too deep a belief in down-to-earth romance. But anyone who’d get himself locked out of his apartment, if we can believe him—and if it’s not true, then that’s saying a whole lot about his feelings and determination for you too. But anyone who would and then phone the same night he met you for only how long did you say? Anyway, you know what I think would make you the happiest, and Bob, for all his criticizing my silliness, agrees completely with me. So we hope you do it—with the one coming over or some other man you take the plunge for, and now you can hang up on me if you like. Wouldn’t blame you the slightest, but first tell me this fellow’s name again, in case I maybe know him and can warn you against him if my instincts about him were a hundred percent wrong.”

  “The name of the man who’s supposed to come over but never will? Daniel Krin.”

  “Krin. No. Well, we beat the band for Dan.”

  “It won’t be Dan but—”

  “Seriously, Helene, you can’t know how wonderful almost everything is in having a b
aby. Even to doing it in one room while the kid’s sleeping peacefully in another. I mean, he sleeps in our room at night, but sometimes, in the afternoon, when Bob—”

  “I’ll consider it if at the time we have two or more rooms.”

  “And breastfeed it too.”

  “At the same time or different? Anyway, if the man comes, baby comes and then the milk comes, I will.”

  “You’ll be such a relaxed mother, it’ll just spill. I’ll start saving the money to fly in for your wedding. Not with Dan-the-man so much, but you know what I mean. If you gear yourself up for it to happen, it’ll happen, listen to me. Before Bob there were plenty just as highly desirable and a couple even more so—I don’t kid you and I never did him. But I wanted to go to grad school, travel, work, kick it up a little and so on—you know me—till I said it was time to, since I was approaching thirty-five and beginning to risk Down’s for the kid and along came Bob. Whups—sleepytime yawn. And look at this. Bob—and it seems to be a straightout nonfake—fell asleep holding the bottle to Nick’s lips and Nick’s asleep too, on Bob’s chest. So it’s one big sleepy family. But he has to be burped. Minimal ten minutes or we get a magnum of gas. But before that I’ll get my hard-wrung expressed back into the refrigerator, get the Polaroid and flash attach and snap a few pictures of these two. So, my dearest dream of a generous friend—refrigerator, pictures, burps, then rock Nick in his carriage a bit and probably one more diaper change—I’ve got a lot to do so really must say toodle-ee-oo.”