Long Made Short

by Stephen Dixon

  She asks him to tell her a story that night. He does every night, or a continuation of one. Tonight he puts the chapter story on hold, he says, and starts a new one called “Two Sisters.” “Sadie and Sally,” he says. “Awful names,” she says. “Not ones I’d give.” “They’re like twins, though they don’t dress alike and are several years apart, maybe even nine. Once Sadie was born they started doing almost everything together, or when she started to walk and talk.” He gives examples. “Then a war came. Their parents had to fight in the army, so Sadie went with an uncle and Sally with an aunt.” He’s silent. “What happens next?” she says. “I don’t know. I’m trying to figure it out. The war goes on for five years. Their parents have disappeared. Nobody knows if they were killed in battle or taken prisoner and not returned or got lost somewhere and are in another terrible country trying to get out, or what.” “This is too sad to listen to before I go to sleep, even if everyone finds one another.” “They don’t find each other so fast. The separation goes on longer than the war. The uncle and aunt die of natural causes—heart disease, old age; they’re actually a great-uncle and great-aunt. The sisters live completely separate lives for more than ten years after the war. Their parents are dead.” “Oh Daddy, I’ll have nightmares now.” “I’m sorry. Erase the story.” “You can’t. I already heard it.” “Then I’ll change it.” “How? It already happened. The sisters could meet again but their parents are dead.” “I can change it if I want. I made a mistake. I got the wrong lives into my characters.” “You know you didn’t. Why’d you tell it if you knew it was going to be so scary and sad? Do you want me to have bad dreams?” “Of course not. I just didn’t know what I was telling you. Maybe I’m still suffering a little from some after-bang effects from that accident last week on my head. Or we were talking about you and your future sister, I started telling a story about two other sisters, and then I got carried away or didn’t know I was telling it.” “You had to know. You always do when you tell me a story.” “Sometimes things get in from somewhere deep in you that you’re not aware of. The unconscious, the subconscious—you know, we’ve talked of it. So maybe I did it, though I didn’t realize or intend it, because I want you to live with me till you go to college, and even in college if you want to go to the one I teach at or another one in the area. And I thought, or those deeper things in me I wasn’t aware of thought, that the story would make you stay with me more. Because I fear your mother will take you from me. Rather, that you’ll want to live with her more. That even if you’re legally mine—meaning, that I’ve legal custody of you till you’re of the age of consent…Is that it, age of consent? Till you’re of legal age to say where you want to live—even alone, if you want—and I couldn’t do anything about it, then I could…I could what? I lost my train of thought. You remember what I started out saying?” “No.” “I guess it was that your mother will make life very attractive for you living with her and Tim and the baby. Occasionally in Tahiti and mostly in California and all their trips abroad and with an attitude that’ll probably be more liberal than mine. And that you’ll want to live with them permanently, and I won’t be able to deny you because I’ll want you to be happy so long as it’s safe there and so on, which I’m sure it’ll be. And then I’ll only see you a few days during the regular year if they happen to fly to the East Coast and also a month in the summer, even two if you want, but not enough for me. And maybe you’ll say you’re so happy there, or they’re doing such great things summers, that you won’t want to come East to me, and then what would I do? Maybe I should get married again just to have another child in case you leave. Would you stay with me over your mother if I had another child, even if it was a boy?” “You can’t have a child.” “The woman I married, I mean, but you knew that. Anyway, it’s way off the point. I’ll tell you what I told your mother when she first said she was leaving me—maybe I shouldn’t say this to you.” “Don’t, Daddy, if you don’t think you should.” “No, it’s okay, it’s not bad, and I know what I’m saying here, it’s not coming from somewhere else. You ought to go if you feel you have to, that’s all I said. Oh damn,” because she looks sad, “by your face I can tell I shouldn’t have said it. Blame my poor head. Or just blame me. But don’t cry, okay? Just don’t cry.” “I won’t. I’m not feeling like it. But it’s nice she wants me to live with her after so long, isn’t it?” “Yes it is. Or at least if you think so. That’s the attitude I should take. That’s the one I will. Because it is good she wants you. It’s never too late to change, and you’ve got all those young years left. And now I’m looking for something to end this conversation with, all right, sweetheart?” “Good night, Daddy. I’m tired. See you in the morning.” “First kiss me good night and brush your teeth and go to bed. But you already brushed your teeth and are in bed. Good night, sweetheart,” and kisses her and leaves the room.

  Later he thinks of his ex-wife. That scumbag, that wretch, she would, and goes into his daughter’s room, sits on the floor and leans his head on her bed and says “My darling, my dearest, I know you can’t hear me, I don’t know why I’m even talking like this, but please don’t leave me, not at least till you’re of age.” “Daddy, what’s wrong?” and he says “Oh, nothing, go back to sleep, dear. I only came in to see that you’re covered,” and pats her forehead and leaves.

  He drinks a little, reads, takes off his clothes and starts exercising vigorously for the first time since he cut his head. The light’s on; he does the same ones he did that night. “So that’s why I didn’t see the chair I hit,” he says. “I close my eyes when I exercise.”

  TURNING THE CORNER

  He calls every place he can think of and not one of them has it. He goes downtown and complains. “You don’t have it. How come, what’s wrong, why you holding it up?” They say “What are you talking about?” He says “You say you don’t know? Maybe you really don’t know, maybe that’s why it’s being held up. If that’s the case, case closed. I mean, if that’s the case, well, case closed. Meaning, well, if that’s the situation, that you haven’t got it because you don’t know what I’m talking about, then I shouldn’t bother about it anymore, wouldn’t you say, or is that overstating the case?”

  They slam the door on him. First they edge him out of the store. Then past the door into the street. Then they slam the door on him, lock it. He knows they locked it because he tries opening the door and the knob won’t turn all the way. The door’s made of glass, and he knocks on it. Raps, really, raps. The man and woman behind the door pull the shade down so he can’t see through the glass. Or for another reason, or a slew of them, like the shade down is a sign to him to go away, or so that they can’t see him. But a shade, he thinks. Very old-fashioned. He remembers shades like this when he was a boy. Candy stores had them. Closed for the day, down went the shade. You didn’t have to have a Closed sign on the door, for the shade down meant the store was closed for the day or just temporarily; for instance, if the owner went out for lunch. No, then the owner, or manager, or just the only person working there would usually put an Out to Lunch sign on the door or Be Back At 1:30 or something, or even a cardboard clock on the door with the hands pointed to 1:3o and Be Back At above the clock on the same sign. He knocks some more, raps, but by now has already given up. Rapped for effect. He’d have been surprised, very, if one of them had opened the door or even let the shade up.

  He doesn’t know what to do now. He wants to get it but so far no one has it, and he doesn’t know if they even know what exactly it is he wants and, if they did know, whether they could ever get it. Maybe it isn’t around anymore, doesn’t exist anywhere. But he wants it very badly, that’s for sure. Maybe a completely different kind of store will have it or know where he can get it. He sees many different kinds of stores but selects one that’s completely different from the last one he tried. That one he found by just getting out of the subway station and going into the first store he saw. On the phone, same thing. He opened the phone directory’s business pages and chos
e at random a few stores to call. One was a bakery, another a dry cleaner’s, another a sporting goods store. Now he tries a walk-in dental office.

  The receptionist, at least the person behind a counter right past the door, says “Can I help you?” He tells her what he wants. She says “You’ve come to the right place, all right. Please fill this out,” and hands him a questionnaire and pen. He says “I have? I must? Well, this has got to be my lucky day, I think.” He sits and starts filling out the questionnaire. What’s his name? He forgets. What’s his address? Doesn’t know if he has one. What city does he live in, what state, what’s his zip code, phone number, profession, age? He doesn’t know, he’s not quite sure, he’s trying to think what city this is, what state. But concentrate on the city. If it comes, maybe the rest of the information will, like the shade. Meaning: workday starts, up goes the shade, and there’s light. Something like that. So: Is this the city he was born in, grew up in, went to grade school in, college in, worked a number of years in, married in, had children in, now lives in? Was he ever married, did he ever have children, does he have a phone number? If he does, what could it be? He’s had lots of phone numbers. Good, that’s a start. 662-3218. 529-5396. 764-3152. 462-4830. He can remember about a dozen. But he doesn’t know what previous or present residence of his corresponds to what number, what city with what number, even what part of his life with what number. But those are some of the numbers he’s had. He could give more. 448-2623. 724-4706. 816-0029. Maybe he should call several of those and find out where he’s lived. Maybe even one of those numbers will be the number where he now lives, if he does live anyplace. Some were work numbers, he thinks, so he also might find out what he did and where. But he doesn’t remember the area code of any of them, or at least the right area code for even one of them. So all the numbers, if he reaches any, would be in this city, and the name of the city is still a blank. More questions: Social Security number, wife’s name, children’s names, is he married, divorced, single, or is his spouse deceased? He can’t answer any of the questions, except what sex he is and his Social Security number—099-63-5124—though he’s not sure if that’s his wife’s number, if he has or had one, one of his children’s, if he had any, or even for some reason his mother’s or father’s, or is he just making the number up? Worst of all, he thinks, is he still can’t remember his name. As a kid he does remember he had a cat named Pat. “Pat Pat,” his mother used to say and he’d pat Pat. “Pet Rex,” his father used to say and he’d pet Rex, but who and what was Rex?—he thinks the next-door dog. “Pet and pat this,” his wife or some other woman or girl used to say, and he’d pet and pat that, but what? He thinks now he had two wives and that they had the same first name, but one had an “e” at the end of it and the other didn’t.

  He goes up to the receptionist, if that’s what she is, and says “It seems I won’t be able to get what I want here because I can’t answer any of the questions on the questionnaire except my sex and possibly my Social Security number. Not even, if you can believe it, my name, first or last; I don’t know if I had a middle one or middle initial. But suddenly everything’s a blank. Not suddenly; just now. I think I knew what the answers to most or all of these questions were before I got here. But now, I hold the pencil in my hand—excuse me; ball-point pen—and put it over the lines I’m supposed to write things in, like my name and address, and nothing comes out, and not because there’s no ink in it. There should be plenty unless this is a defective pen, but it looks brand new. Just suddenly, well, I’m repeating myself, but anyway, just suddenly I don’t remember any names, ages, relations, addresses, nothing but that Social Security number and almost a score of phone numbers without their area codes, if I’m sure what a score is. I doubt any of that will be of much use unless you want to try a lot of those phone numbers alone or with various area codes, and why would you? As for the Social Security number, I’m not even sure it’s mine. Is there a way to check? It might be a start.”

  “There could be,” she says, and he gives her the number, she calls an office, after a long wait the office gives her a name, she says “Is your name this?” and shows him it and he says “I think so, it looks familiar,” and she says “Then we do have a start,” and looks up the name in the phone book, and there’s only one listing of it, and she shows him the address and says “Is that where you live?” and he says “It could be, for it’s also familiar,” and she says “And the phone number, is it yours?” and he says “I’m not sure; it does seem familiar. But so do some of the numbers below it, but none of their names and addresses,” and he starts saying all the phone numbers he knows and one of them is that phone number, and none is one of the numbers below it, and she says “Then it must be you, or there’s as good a chance it is as there isn’t, if not a little better, though I really don’t know the odds in all that, I’m just guessing—want me to call it?” and he says “Please do, but if I’m the only one living there, and there isn’t a cleaning lady cleaning it there right now, let’s say, then nobody will answer, for I’m here,” and she says “Probably, but let’s see.”

  She dials. “Yes, hello,” a man says loudly, and she says “Hello, I’m looking for Roland Hirsch,” and he says “Speaking,” and she says “You’re Roland Hirsch?” and he says “I am indeed, what can I do for you? Though I want to remind you, young lady, and you are a young lady, am I correct?” and she says “I still consider myself young, whatever that has to do with it, as do my husband and children—consider me young—but anyway, Mr. Hirsch,” and he says “Well anyway to you, young lady, for my warning is that if this is a solicitation of any kind, and by that I mean for a business or charity or for anything like that, then I don’t wish to continue speaking, since I don’t use my phone for any other purpose but personal phone calls,” and she says “That’s good—that’s really very good, in fact, and what I should be saying to all the callers who canvass and solicit me on my home phone. But what if this was a dental office calling to remind you of your 3:30 appointment with Dr. Lembro tomorrow—would you consider that a business or personal phone call?” and he says “Do I have an appointment?” and she says “I believe you do, Mr. Hirsch, it was made for you six months ago—just a checkup and cleaning,” and he says “Well thanks for reminding me, and yes, I’d consider it not only a personal phone call but a very useful one indeed. So I’ll see you tomorrow, if you’ll be there,” and she says “It’s my day off, tomorrow, but someone just as accommodating will be here to see to your needs,” and hangs up.

  “Wait a minute,” he says. “How is it that the man who has an appointment here tomorrow has the same name as the person who I think is me?” and she says “I told you you came to the right place,” and he says “That’s what you consider an answer? For I’m saying, how can that man be Roland Hirsch if I’m supposed to be him, and there was only one Roland Hirsch in the phone book?” and she says “The answers to that can be considerable, some of which you even hinted at before yourself. For instance, you aren’t Roland Hirsch. Or you are, but you live in another city, and the incident just now with this Roland Hirsch was only a coincidence. Or you are, again, Roland Hirsch, and you do live in this city, but your phone’s unlisted, and you only know this Roland Hirsch’s number because of one to a number of reasons, maybe some of them unfathomable but others not. For instance, you might know it because out of curiosity one day you looked up your name in this city’s phone book and saw someone else had it. That’s a legitimate possibility, and even one if you didn’t live in this city—you might have only been visiting and looked up your name in the phone book and found it. Or you could live in this city, or even not, and be unlisted here though not necessarily unlisted if you live in another city, but be Roland Hirsch, Jr., and he’s Sr., and you’re somehow related, son and father, cousin and cousin, nephew and uncle, because his senior could be to a different junior. Or for all we know, he could even be a junior, but he chose to give up that part of his name once his father died, which is why it’s not in th
e phone book that way, or because he didn’t like being called junior. Or maybe you’re not junior either and he’s not senior and was never a junior, and you’re completely unrelated, and you’re both just plain Roland Hirsch, he with his middle initial, you with yours or even, by some coincidence, the same as his, if Roland Hirsch is your name. But taking one thing at a time, since Roland Hirsch isn’t the most common name, are you a junior and is your father alive and was that his phone number and address and does he still have teeth that need fixing or just a cleaning and checkup?”

  “Yes,” he says, “he does have teeth, or did the last time I remember seeing him—all of them, and he is a senior, though why it’s not in the phone book that way I don’t know; maybe it’s a phone company mistake. Anyway, that’s what I was looking for all along—not a thing but a he, a man, my dad, husband of my mother, who’s also alive and what I’ve been looking for, though she’s lost just about all her teeth and mostly wore plates. Did he mention anything about her? No, I know he didn’t, at least in that last call, for I heard every word he said. But great, I came to the right place, all right, though how you knew I don’t know, for I was never specific to you about what I wanted,” and she says “Oh, I knew when you came in so unspecifically that it was something we could do for you. For you see, people deal with their fears of dentists in all kinds of ways, and one of them is through complete amnesia: ‘Who are you? What am I doing here?’—that sort of thing. Or to say something like, when they first see me as they come in, ‘I’ll have a frank with plenty of mustard and sauerkraut’—anything to deceive themselves they’re not here to have their teeth fixed or extracted or even cleaned, for even that can hurt. Let’s face it, we all, so to speak, meet our maker or destroyer in different ways, though some of us, like me, prefer to meet him or her straight on.”