Love and Will

by Stephen Dixon

She nods, closes her eyes, dies.

  I go off, but it’s never the same with anyone else after that.

  Guests

  Come in. Over here. Sit down. Make yourself at home. Are you comfortable? Like something to drink? To eat? I want to tell you something. How about another cushion? Different seat? Try the couch. It’s much more comfortable. The other side—that one has bad springs. Push away the cat. Then I’ll get him away. Rosy, get off. I said to get off. There. You’re allergic to cat hair? By the way you sneezed. Maybe you don’t know you are. Rosy, get out of the room. He never listens. Off the chair yes but not out of the room. And she I mean. To me all cats are hes, isn’t that ridiculous? Particularly if you caught two copulating. Because to most people cats are shes. Which would be just as ridiculous if you caught them in the act. But not to me. I mean to me all dogs are shes. But I’ll get her out of the room just in case you are allergic. Some people only become that way to cats later in life. When they’re adults like you and I. Or like you and me. I can almost never get those two straight too. Rosy, come here. Thataboy. To me she’ll always be a boy. I’ll throw him out of the room and close the door. There. Now watch. You probably won’t sneeze again or at least not for the time you’re here.

  Now about what I have to tell you. I haven’t forgotten. But you sure you don’t need more cushions? One more then. It’s only on the other chair. I’ll get it. No bother. Put it behind your back. Then in top of the couch where your head or neck can rest. How does it feel? Much better I bet. And notice you’re not sneezing anymore. I told you it was the cat. What’s that? Another sneeze? It could be from the newspaper ink. So you’ve never sneezed from it that you know. Though I always say it’s what you don’t know that counts. I don’t always say it but have thought of it often and occasionally said it I believe. At least a few times. Maybe only once. Could be I only just thought of it before and once. But I’ll take the newspaper away and throw it into the other room with the cat. Let’s see if he sneezes from the ink. If you sneeze again with both of them out of the room, I’ll almost believe you’re allergic to me.

  So what I want to talk to you about. It’s quite important. Very. Though like some music on first? Simple for me to do. Mozart or Bach? To me they’re the only true composers. Plus a couple of others—Beethoven of course. And Handel and Haydn, Vivaldi and Bartok. Which would you like? Also Stravinsky, Gabrieli, Mahler and Pärt. Let me also get you that drink. It doesn’t have to be stronger than iced tea. Or any mix you want that goes with gin except grapefruit juice I’ve got. Okay, one coming up. I’ll also select what music to play if you won’t. Now what do you think? About the drink and this piece. His number twenty-four. For piano and orchestra. Guess which composer. Wrong. Guess again. Again wrong. I hate guessing games and often the people who participate in them. It’s not, though, Mozart.

  Where was I again? What I wanted to tell you. Have to. Important. Extremely. Almost more than I can say. We’re both comfortable though, correct? Drink. Music. Volume not too loud or low. Reasonably soft couch on that side and mine a relatively easy seat. Air. How’s the air? I can turn the air conditioner down or off. I’ll leave it at medium. I only had it at high to quickly cool the room, not that it’s that muggy out or hot. But you get used to these things. I do, I don’t know about you. Maybe you don’t even own one. I almost keep it on steadily till people tell me there’s a cold wave out. Almost not true. A minor exaggeration. But I think I do overabuse this machine and help create a minor energy crisis with it all by myself. At least for this city. But enough of me and our city. Let’s get down to what I brought you here to tell you. Because you’re quite comfortable now, right? Pleasant temperature in the room. Pleasant room. It is a pleasant room, isn’t it? Designed the entire place myself. Rebuilt the walls and mixed the paints to get that color which I’m wondering if you find too bright or even like. And the lights? They also too bright? I can turn them down. Turn them off even, which wouldn’t be too smart to do, though we’d still have the little light from the stereo. At least sufficient light from it to find the wall switch. Furniture’s all mine too, built from scratch. From wood, actually, but you knew what I meant. Everyone’s allowed a little joke, even before the crematorium. So here we are. Pleasant temperature and room, agreed? And I hope you know that was a statement about the joke in general and not a joke about the crematorium. Cool drink in your hand. Like a refill? I won’t go around calling you a heavy drinker. I usually like a quick one myself and then to linger over the second for half an hour or more. Though linger over your second, if you have one, for fifteen minutes or ten or even five if you like. Or finish your first, knock down the second and linger over a third. Whatever you wish. While you’re here, my home is yours. I’ll get you that refill. No bother. There. Cool drink again. Music—too loud or do you even like this piece? I’ll change it if you want. To viola, solo piano, anything with voice or strings. Something more modern or jazzier, I have those too. Fine. Music. Room. Temperature and drink. Pleasant everything. Best part of the couch. Cat and newspaper out of the room. And you’re still not sneezing anymore. So I suppose it was the newspaper you were allergic to, if you don’t sneeze here again, or a delayed end of allergic reaction to the cat.

  But what I practically had to drag you here to tell you about. That’s what I now have to speak to you about. That’s what I think is foremost in my mind. It is. I don’t just think so but know. Unbelievably important. But come in. Sit down. Over here. Make yourself comfortable. You are comfortable. You are here and sitting in this room. All that’s true. In the best seat in the house. And I’m sitting here lingering over a drink and being comfortable across from you. Anyway, what was it again I had to talk to you about? Suddenly I forgot. I’m sure I can remember it if I try. Let me think. I’m trying. I can’t remember. No bother. Drink up and if you don’t want another and I can’t remember before you leave what I wanted so urgently to tell you, I know we can save it for another time.

  Gifts

  I wrote a novel for Sarah and sent it to her. She wrote back “For me? How sweet. Nobody has ever done anything or presented me with anything near to what you’ve just given me. I’ll treasure it always. I must confess I might not get around to reading it immediately, since I am tied up to my neck and beyond with things I’m forced to do first. But I can’t describe my pleasure in receiving this and the overwhelming gratitude I’ll always have in knowing it was written especially for me.”

  I painted a series of paintings and crated and shipped them to her and she wrote back “Are these really all for me? I only looked in one of them and it said ‘1st of a series of 15,’ and I counted the other crates and came up with fourteen more and thought ‘My God, I have the entire series.’ You can’t imagine how this gift moves me. I’ll open the rest of the crates as soon as I find the time, as I have been unrelievedly busy these past few days and will be for weeks. The one I did open I’ll hang above my fireplace if I can find the space among my other paintings and prints. Meanwhile, it’s safely tucked away in a closet, so don’t fear it will get hurt. Again, what can I say but my eternal thanks.”

  I wrote a sonata for her and called it “The Sarah Piece” and had it printed and sent her a copy and she wrote me “A musical composition in my name? And for the one instrument I can play if not competently then at least semipublically okay? You’ve gone out of your way to honor and please me more than anyone has and a lot more than any person should expect another to for whatever the reasons, and as soon as I can sever myself from all the other things I’m doing and which I wish I had the time to tell you about, I’ll sit down and try to learn this sonata or at least read it through. You can’t believe the many good things that have happened to me lately and which I’m so involved in, but I’ll definitely find the time to attend to my sonata in one of the ways I mentioned, of that you can bet. Once more my warmest thanks for your thoughtfulness and my respects for your creativeness, and my very best.”

  I carved sculptures for her, designed an
d built furniture for her, potted and baked earthenware for her, wrote poems, plays and essays for her and after I completed each of these projects I sent it to her and her replies were usually the same. Her thanks. I could never know how much it means to her. She is continually amazed by the diversity of my talents and skills. She will read, look at or use this newest thing as soon as she can. Then, after I sent her a coverlet I wove and thought good enough to use as a wall hanging and maybe the best thing I’d ever made, she wrote “You’ve sent me so many things that I don’t know what to open or look at or hang or put in its rightful place or eat off of first. And not wanting to give any of your creative forms preference over the others, I’m going to set aside one of the dozen rooms here for your work and call that room the Arthur T. Reece Retreat in honor of you and put all your gifts in it so I know that whenever I want to go through any of these works or have found a place in one of the other rooms to put one of them or even when I want to think of you creating and making all these things for me, I can enter that room. The room, by the way, has no windows. It does have a wash basin and door but with no lock on it. It is a small room, once the maid’s quarters of the previous owners, so most of the things you sent me will have to be piled on top of one another, though know that’ll be done extra carefully. I am having the door taken off and the space it makes bricked up. I am cutting that room off from the rest of the house. I am going to set that separated room afire in honor of the great passion you’ve put into your work and your obvious deep feelings for me. I am honored, I am grateful, I am amazed and touched and of course ever thankful and moved, I have never known anyone more creative and generous than you. No, I am joking. I have given away all your gifts from the start and have told the post office and other delivery services to turn back any further envelope, package or crate coming from you. No, I am joking. I am disassociating myself from all the other men I know and whatever activities I’m now involved in and want you to come live with me immediately as loving soulmates and man, parents and wife. No, I am joking. I never received any of the things you claimed to friends you sent me and am beginning to doubt they all could have gotten lost along the way. No, I am joking. They all arrived but I quickly turned them into refuse. Aside from that, I am happily married, with child for the first time in my life, and wonder why you think you know me well enough to keep sending these things to me without my eventually getting disturbed and insulted by them and where you initially got my address and name. No, I am joking. I appreciate all you’ve done, have enjoyed the attention and sold whatever I could of these gifts for whatever I could get for them and with that money I am about to embark on a trip around the world with my newest lover who is also my best friend and one of our finest progressive artists. No, I am joking. It was nice of you to make all these things for me but I’m sorry to say, almost ashamed to after all I’ve said in my previous letters and just put you through, that I wasn’t once, and this is the absolute truth now, impressed. When one has it one has it and you’ve proven over and over again that you never had it and so will never have it so why bother trying anything out again in any field or form or at least on me? You do and whatever it is you send me I shall throw up on before returning it to you cash on delivery in its envelope, box or crate.”

  I sent her a silver necklace someone else made but in my cover letter to her I said I fashioned it with my own homemade tools. She wrote back “For the first time, and I’m as serious now as I was at the end of my last letter, I love what you’ve made for me and think you’ve adopted a creative form that suits you perfectly and which you serve extraordinarily well. Good luck and success with it and much thanks.” I sent her more of this person’s jewelry and after the first few packages each one came back with a post office message stamped on it saying address unknown. I still send jewelry to her and other things I buy or sometimes find but say I made and they always come back. The few friends I know who know her say they also don’t know where she’s gone. The post office is right, they say. “Despite how much we all adored her and thought the feeling was mutual if not more so from her to some of us, she told no one she was going and left no forwarding address.”

  In Time

  I’m walking along a street when a woman from a building nearby yells “Help, save me, they’re trying to kill me in here right now.” I look up. She’s waving to me from a window on the fourth floor. Then it seems she’s being pulled into the room by her feet, holds onto the sill a couple of seconds, is pulled all the way in and the window closes, shade drops. I look for a short while more but there’s no further activity from there.

  It’s evening, around nine, beginning of summer so still a little light. Nobody else is on the street or looking out of any of the windows on the block. Couple cars come. I run into the street to stop them to get some help for the woman. First car passes me before I get there and second swerves around me, driver sticking his fist out the window and cursing me, and at the corner both cars go through a red light.

  I look back at that building. Shade and window are still down. I look around for a phone booth. There’s none on this street and all the stores and businesses are locked up for the night if not the weekend. I could walk several blocks to the main avenue and try to get help there, or call the police from one of the public phones that could be along the way. But the woman’s in immediate danger it seems, so I go into the building to do what I can for her without getting hurt myself.

  There are ten buttons on the bell plate and I ring all of them. Nobody answers. Most are businesses. Arbuckle Ltd this, Tandy & Son that, except for a nameless bell on the fifth floor and Mrs. Ivy Addison in 4F. That has to be her: fourth floor front. I ring her bell several more times. If anything is happening to her, maybe this will distract the person doing it.

  I yell through the door “Someone, come down or ring me in, a woman in your building’s in trouble.” No response and I try the door. It’s open. I go outside, look up at her window. Everything’s the same there and there are no cars or people on the street or lights on in any of the building’s windows. I go through the vestibule, hesitate on the bottom steps, say to myself “You’ve got to go up and try to help, you wouldn’t be the same after if you just left here,” and walk upstairs, knocking on all the doors I pass till I reach the fourth floor.

  There are two doors at opposite ends of the hallway: 4F and 4R. I knock on 4F, step back to the stairs, ready to run down them. No one comes to the door. I ring the bell this time and knock, get back to the stairs, even a couple of steps down them. Nobody answers. Then I hear the vestibule door close and someone coming upstairs. I look down the stairwell. The hand on the banister seems to belong to a woman. She passes the first flight and is walking up the second.

  “Hello?” I yell down the well.

  “Yes, you speaking to me?”

  “Do you know who lives in 4F? Because before when I was on the street—”

  “Excuse me, just a second, I don’t hear too good: my ears. Wait till I get to your floor.”

  She walks up the second flight, around the landing and is now at the bottom of the stairs I’m on. An older woman, around seventy, old clothes, hearing aid, holding onto the banister for support, limping upstairs. “Now what is it you want to know?”

  “You see before, I was on the street, few minutes ago at the most, when I heard this woman in 4F here yelling ‘Help, save me—

  “Oh her. She always does that. You must be new in this neighborhood.”

  “I don’t live in this neighborhood. I was just taking a walk.”

  “A walk around here?” She’s two steps from me now. I get against the wall so she can pass. She stops. “Why would you want to take a walk in this neighborhood? There’s nothing to see or do once the stores and factories close for the day and they been closed for three hours. She’s the only excitement we got on the block, and her racket like she screamed to you almost every day. ‘Help save me’ my eye. She’s crazy, you know.”

  “No I didn’t.”


  “Crazy as bedbugs. Ever see a bedbug?”

  “No.”

  “Neither have I. My homes, even as a kid, poor as we were then and am, have always been spotless clean, though I bet hers haven’t. But that’s the expression they use. Bedbugs must be crazy or move in a crazy motion, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I think that’s it. They sort of dart round and round when the covers are suddenly thrown off them or lights go on, or maybe that’s only roaches. Anyway, if she’s that crazy, I guess I better be going. False alarm as they say.”

  “False what?”

  “Alarm. An old expression also. Like a fire. Someone puts an alarm in, firemen come—”

  “Oh yeah, I remember. Okay, nice talking to you.”

  I start to walk downstairs. She steps in my way. Door opens above me. 4F, where the crazy woman is. I turn to look. Another older woman, looking much like this one, same features, same kind of old clothes, though one on the stairs has on a coat and hat.

  “Hello there,” woman above me says.

  I look back at the woman on the stairs thinking 4F’s talking to her, but she says “I think she’s speaking to you, dear.”

  “Me?”

  “Hello there,” 4F says. “Won’t you come in and help me, save me. I’m quite calm now.”

  “Why don’t you?” woman on the stairs says. “She’s very nice. Give you a good cup of coffee or tea if you prefer and interesting talk. I know. I’ve heard it over and over again till my head aches.”

  “No thanks,” I say, and then trying to pass her: “Excuse me.

  “Where you think you’re going?”

  “Outside for sure.”

  “Oh, you must be crazy as bedbugs also to think you can. You go straight upstairs, dear. Me and my sister have great plans for you.”

  “The hell you do,” and I push past her. She hooks her foot around my ankle. I try catching myself but can’t and as I start falling downstairs she shoves me hard from behind and I fly over a few steps, stick out my hands and land on them and slide the rest of the way down, my head bumping on every step. I lie there awhile, whole body hurting, head and hands bleeding, several of my teeth out and lips split I think, and then try standing.