Interstate

by Stephen Dixon

  INTERSTATE 8

  Goodbye, darling,” and she says “‘Darling’; you never call me that anymore. I can’t even remember when you last called me it, or if you ever did. Have you ever?” and he says “Sure, plenty, tons, or a few times at least. I can’t recall each one, but certainly when I first met you. That very night at the party we were at, I said to the host ‘There’s my future darling,’ and she said ‘Who?’ and I said ‘There, there, my future darling wife of my future darling kids,’ and went over to you—you were with some guy you couldn’t take your eyes off of, so I knew I had some doing to do, and I actually had to wrest him away from you by grabbing his wrist and giving it a bit of a twist to get his arm off you—and then I said to you…no, don’t let me run on, and with such bullshit too, for we gotta go, gotta move, gotta hustle, darling,” and she says “I like it though, not said that way, but before with the more endearing ‘darling.’ Where the other stuff comes from—juvenile fantasies of wresting men away from your wench—beats me. But the ‘darling’—I think I like it more than any other sweet talk from you, even if I can’t remember if you ever called me it”—“I have, my darling, I have”—“and I call you it lots of times,” and he says “That he knows, his darling, and it’s perhaps where he got it from,” and she says “Sometimes—no holding me in bed when we go to sleep, unless it’s your first move to making love; no kiss goodbye and hello when you leave and come home if it’s just to and from work—I even think we’re, well, frittering apart in a way from what we were”—“Saved by the fritters and way”—“something I’ve thought a lot about lately and it…distresses me,” and he says “You were going to say ‘saddens,’ yes?” and she says “Don’t play prig,” and he says “I only wanted to see how sharply I was tuned in—you know, reading thy mind, but okay, what?—I’m an all-ears kind of guy,” and she says “One sure sign of what I see taking place, other than for the two or three I mentioned—” “Which were they?” and she says “Nate,” and he nods, “is that, one, just your being flip about it like this—” “You mean ‘three’ or ‘four,’ if I’m counting right, but I’m sorry, go on”—“trying to get around it with jokes when years ago you would have taken it seriously if not gravely…well, maybe not that bad. And, two, and maybe this is trivial, nevertheless I liked it: you don’t say anything affectionate anymore when we make love or before or after it,” and he says “I’m the strong silent type, and after, a quick quiet sleeper—oops,” and she says “I really get an awful feeling sometimes of what might eventually become of us, this gradual dribbling away,” and he says “And you want from me that current term I hate, ‘reinforcement,’” and she says “Not right now but sometime soon, like on the phone tonight—something for you to think about on the long drive home,” and he says “But what a time for you to bring it up, when we’re nice and tight like this, arms locked, pelvises stuck, ready for the big goodbye-darling pucker-up,” and she says “I mean it. You also don’t make love to me as much, with or without the nice words,” and he says “We don’t make love, the two-way street, darling,” and she says “I don’t appreciate it when you use it like that, so please?” and he says “So what do you mean ‘we don’t as much’? As much where, here in a public hallway? Or when, since the first few weeks after we first met? We make it every bit as much or just a touch less much or however such one should word it—little less touch, bit less mush, that sorta stuff, but none of those up to snuff. Look, it just isn’t true, despite all the so-called detergents—deterrents of long-term marriage used-to-itness and the natural aging process, on my part at least and I’ve got almost a dozen years on ya, but we really gotta go—kids, car and me, and your dad waiting with them downstairs and by now possibly pissed off,” and kisses her lips, digs into them with his, she kisses back with not as much dig, wishes they had the time, if the gang wasn’t waiting for him and his mother-in-law wasn’t in the apartment, though even there, he’d say…he’d say “Darling, and this is no joke and I’m not playing up to you now with that word, well, maybe a little bissel, but if we could do it in a few minutes from pants-dropping start to pulling-them-up finish, last time for two days and nights, you know what I mean, the where and when, it’s here and now, and we didn’t do it all day yesterday and today so that makes three, even if we just go into the guest bathroom past your mother under the guise of my washing my hands and you going to the toilet and neither of us wanting to use their private john off the master bedroom, or other way around with the washing and toilet, and do it standing up, you leaning over and me from behind, wouldn’t take me more than a coupla minutes and you might even get something out of it, I’m sorry but that’s how it is, and as a parting even a one-sided goodbye-darling gift to me,” and she’d say yes, they’d hold their breath, or he would, she’d hardly have started, for they’d really have to be quick—when hasn’t she said yes to sex unless she was very mad at him for something he said or did and she felt he hadn’t sufficiently apologized, but have to go, must, hates keeping people waiting, one more kiss, does and then says “I mean it, you’re my darling, I love you, okay?” and she says “What a way,” and he says “I mean, I just love you, plain and simple, ornate and complex, but I have to—” and jerks his head to the elevator door and she says “Okay, I love you too,” and they separate and she takes his hands and looks at them and then him, smiles pining-like, regretting already that he’s gone? and says “You should get moving, it’s unfair leaving them down there, I guess, and it’s funny, I already feel you’re gone,” and he says “Am I psychic?—I’ll tell you tonight why I said that, you just have to remind me, but now’s no time to quote unquote boast…say goodbye to your momma again for me,” and she says “I will,” and he’s pulling his hands from hers when the elevator door opens and his father-in-law steps out: “Nathan, where are you?—Don’t let the door close,” to the elevator car, “keep the Open button down—We’ve been waiting, it’s been quarter of an hour,” and he says “Just toodle-dee-dooing to your darling daughter, no other harm; we’re not used to long separations—Bye, dear,” and she nods to him with her eyes closed and he thinks “What’s that mean? I mean, surely no tears; that’d be ridiculous. I was only kidding about the long separation. It’s only going to be two days, so look at it as a break,” and waves and gets in the elevator, “Oh, kids, hi—of course, holding the door open,” Julie pressing down hard on the Open button with her whole hand, and Margo says “Daddy, you said you’d be down quickly,” and he says “I am—we will be—let’s go,” and his father-in-law pushes the L button and door closes. “Oh, forgot to say goodbye to your mom, we gotta go back,” he says to the girls and Julie says “You’re just fooling us now.”

  “Drive carefully, precious cargo aboard,” his father-in-law says through the car window and he says “Horace, don’t worry, I’m a good driver and I never take chances with the kids in the car,” and Horace says “You shouldn’t take them ever. You’re a family man with terrific responsibilities now so you should always drive as if they’re with you,” and he says “That’s what I meant—thanks for everything, you’ve both been wonderful,” and Horace says “And thank you for bringing your family—drive carefully, precious cargo aboard,” and he says “You bet, no high speeds, you can count on it; I don’t care how long it takes to get there,” and starts the car, waits thirty seconds less than he usually does for the engine to warm up—doesn’t want to keep looking back and forth at Horace and smiling and waving for him to go inside—checks the right side mirror a few seconds longer than he usually does when no cars are coming, so Horace will see how careful he is, and pulls out of the parking spot. “Wave to Grandpa,” he says and kids turn to the window and say “Goodbye, Grandpa, goodbye,” and he waves without looking as he drives up the block.

  “You bring any fresh bagels, Daddy?” Margo says and he says “Did I bring fresh bagels? Did I hear someone say ‘Did Daddy bring fresh bagels?’ Does Daddy ever forget to bring fresh bagels for long trips?” and Margo says “What ki
nd you get?” and he says “Oh gosh, I forgot the bagels. The poppyseed, sesame, blueberry, jalapeño—” and Margo says “I don’t like those kinds,” and he says “Good thing, for I only bought chocolate and plain, plenty of chocolate and plain, plus a coupla garlic in their own bag since you can’t stand their stink on the chocolate and plain, and in that same ‘own’ bag one everything bagel for me. But too much about bagels already. Your bagel bag’s under your seat next to my briefcase if neither’s been moved. Split one with Julie,” and she says “I want one for myself,” and he says “Then offer the bag to her—Julie, sweetie, want a bagel?” and Margo says “Why you being so nice to us now and when nobody’s around?” and he says “Why do you say that? Julie, you want a bagel?” and Julie says “I just want to look outside. The city’s so gray. I only like traveling on sunny days. That makes the trip happier. But when the day’s gray it makes everything gray and there’s nothing more grayer than a gray city on a gray day,” and he says “Little quiz: Which came first, the gray city or gray day and, as a bonus question for extra points, how’d it get across the road?” and Julie says “I’m glad I don’t live here. With all the gray I feel something awful’s going to all of a suddenly happen,” and he says “Margo, don’t offer her a gray bagel,” waits for a laugh, is none, says “Mommy and I did—lived here—for years. As kids, public-schooled all the way, then when we met and got married, and we turned out healthy, stealthy and okay—we had you two wonderful girls at least,” and Margo says “Phooey flattery, Daddy; you won’t pick our spirits with that,” and he says “Okay, I won’t correct you, but listen: people who don’t live in this city—” and she says “We know, you told and told us: ‘they can’t appreciate it,’” and he says “And the day’ll get brighter, I promise, though we’ll first see it on the road. The weatherman calls for sunny cheerful weather on the whole Northeast coast,” and she says “The weatherman said ‘cheerful’? That’s nice, I like that kind of prediction. What will he mean when he says ‘cool’?” and he says “Boy, are you ever getting tuned into life and its meanings. Both, but if I can say this without either of you thinking I’m underrating or deprecating the other, right now Margo more,” and Julie says “That’s not nice,” and Margo says “She’s right, you shouldn’t choose anybody,” and he says “You see? I fail at honesty, fail at fibbing, fail at any imaginative mix of the two and whatever else is left. I’m sorry, and whatever I say now to help my case will I’m sure be taken unfavorably, so, since you have your bagels, books, games, dolls and each other, I’ll just dummy up and drive,” and Margo says “Daddy?” and he says nothing, something about the things he has to do when he gets home is coming into his head and he wants it to continue, and she says “Daddy…Daddy…please say something, you don’t have to go that far,” and he says “Really, sweetheart, I was just using that excuse so I could think for a while, because talking, thinking, the two things at once, it’s hard,” and she says “Then that’s all right.”