Читать книгу Late Stories - Stephen Dixon - Страница 16

One Thing to Another

I’ve been writing the same story for weeks. I can’t seem to get past page four. The woman’s name has been Delia, Mona, Sonya, Emma, Patrice. The narrator’s name has been Herman, Kenneth, Michael, Jacob, Jake. From now on I’ll call her “his wife” and him “he.” The locale is a Baltimore suburb. The time is today. The title has been Liebesträume, Nothing to Read, Lists, The List, A List, The Wedding March, Wedding March, The Church Bench, Humming. I always put the title near the top of the first manuscript page. So I always have to have the title before I start the final draft of the first page of the story, which I’ve done with this story about a hundred times. I think I know what I want to say in the story and where I want it to go. Maybe they’re the same thing. What I’m having trouble with is how to say it and keeping the story from being boring, stodgily written and overexplanatory. In other words, a story I wouldn’t want to read. It’s been like a wrestling match. The story’s fighting me and I’m fighting it. Sometimes I think it’s got me in its hold and sometimes I think I’ve got it in mine. What I want to finally do is pin it to the mat rather than be pinned. I’ve fought like this with a story before, but never for so long, and I always won. But end of wrestling analogy. I probably used it incorrectly anyway. This is what I’ve got so far: the start. I want to continue writing it after what I write what I’ve already written down.

An Episcopal church is directly across the street from his house. (In some versions it’s “. . . is right across the street . . .” and in others “. . . is across the street . . .” When I’m retyping a page, even after fifty times, I’m always changing a word or two or even a line. But I won’t stop the story anymore like that till I get to the place where I left off.)

An Episcopal church is right across the street from his house. Every afternoon between five and six he takes a walk in his neighborhood and almost always ends up sitting on a bench in front of the church. There are four benches there, all in various places in front of the church and each facing a different direction. He’s sat at least once on all of them and prefers the one that looks out on the street that runs parallel to the church. Not the street his house is on but the one perpendicular to it. He likes that bench best because it gets the most sun in late afternoon and there’s more to see from it. He usually takes a book with him on these walks and reads for about a half hour on the bench if the weather permits it. If it’s not too hot or cold and it isn’t raining or snowing. He always takes his walk, though, no matter what the weather’s like. Well, if it’s raining hard, he doesn’t take a walk. But if it’s snowing or just a light rain, he’ll walk but he doesn’t take a book with him or end up on the bench there. It’d be too wet to sit on. All the benches would. None are protected by trees. If he knows there’s not going to be enough light out to read on the bench by the time he gets there or it’s already dark by the time he starts out, he also doesn’t take a book with him, though he still might sit on the bench for a few minutes. But if he’s tired from the walk or his lower back hurts, which happens a lot by the time he finishes his walk, he’ll sit longer and just think about things—a dream from the previous night and what it might mean, a short story he’s been working on—or let his mind wander. He’s even nodded off a few times on the bench, but only when it was dark out.

So he’s finished his walk and is sitting on what he’s begun to call, in his daily phone conversations with his daughters, his bench. “What’d I do today?”—he always speaks to them in the evening, an hour or so after his walk. “I wrote and went to the Y, of course, and took a walk and sat on my bench and read.” It’s early April, around six-thirty, a bit chilly. Daylight Saving Time started a week ago. The sun’s out but setting. Cherry trees around the church are in full flower—a little early, but what does he know? No cars in the church’s small parking lot the bench also faces, and no people around, which is usually what it’s like out here at this time. He does hear children’s voices from somewhere far off, and a car or pickup truck occasionally passes. But that’s about it for distractions and noises. Oh, a jogger and a woman walking two dogs also went by, but that’s all, or all he saw. So: a peaceful place to sit and think or read. He did bring a book with him—a short biography of Maxim Gorky, one of about two hundred books his wife had on Russian literature in her study and which are still there. But he isn’t interested in reading anymore of it after reading the first thirty pages last night in bed. So why’d he take it on his walk? It was on the dryer by the kitchen door leading to the outside, where he’d left it this morning; he hadn’t decided what book he was going to read next, so he just grabbed it before he left the house. He sets it beside him on the bench. When he gets home he’ll stick it back in the bookcase he got it out of. So, nothing to read, really, he closes his eyes. See what comes, he thinks. Nothing does. Just letters and numbers bouncing around in his head, then a vertical line moving right to left, right to left, and then flashing, like lightning, but he doesn’t know what it is. Maybe lightning. He opens his eyes and looks at the sky, then at the two houses across the street, and finds himself humming something over and over for a couple of minutes. Liszt’s “Liebesträum.” Just the beginning of it. He doesn’t know the whole piece. Why’s he humming it, and now? Well, nothing else to do. No, there’s got to be a better reason than that. It doesn’t just come out of nowhere. Sure, it’s a beautiful piece of music when played on the piano—not with the mouth sounds he was making—or even the cello, meaning he once heard it played on the cello at a concert, but long ago. Before he met his wife. Did she play it on the piano? Doesn’t think so. Or she might have—she knew lots of pieces for piano—but she never played it while he was around. And if she played something—well, he was going to say she practiced it till she could play it without reading the music, and in that time he just about got to know it by heart too. But that doesn’t make the sense he wanted it to—to explain why he would have had to have heard her play it, if she did.

Then he remembers. Esther, a concert pianist who was also her piano teacher at the time, played the entire third “Liebesträume,” the one he was humming, in the living room of their New York apartment before their wedding ceremony began. As a warm-up, or to prepare the guests for the ceremony, perhaps. Then she went into her interpretation of Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” which was the signal for his wife to walk slowly out of their bedroom with her bridesmaid and stand in front of the rabbi with him for the ceremony. He burst out crying right after the rabbi pronounced them married, was told by the rabbi and several guests “Kiss the bride, kiss the bride,” and he wiped his cheeks and eyes with his handkerchief, kissed her and thought this is the happiest moment in his life. And it was and continued to be so for around eight months, till the happiest moment in his life took place in the birthing room of a Baltimore hospital when his wife gave birth to their first child.

This is where I always get stuck. I know where I want to go from here but I just can’t seem to get there or even much started. I thought a few times maybe I should chuck the third person and do the whole thing in first and that will help me. And then I always think no, it won’t, so don’t. Stick with third; it feels right, and that’s what you have to rely on. I want him to explain why the moment their first child born became the happiest in his life and the moment they were declared man and wife dropped down a notch to the second happiest. And then to briefly give the third happiest moment, and maybe why it became that. And then the fourth, and so on, right up to the ninth or tenth, all of the last part taking up no more than three or four pages, and that would be it unless something else came to end it between now and then.

What I had in mind was something like this: The birth of their first child became the happiest moment in his life for a number of reasons, and by “moment” he means moments, hours, even the day. He’d wanted a child for about fifteen years. Impregnated three women in that time but none of them wanted to marry him or have the baby. They all thought he’d make a good father but that he’d never earn enough money to keep a family going, and had abortions. More important was that his wife was going through a difficult delivery in the hospital. It had been more than thirty hours since she went into labor and it had become extremely uncomfortable, exhausting and painful for her. Most important of all, her obstetrician—“Dr. Martha” she wanted to be called—said the baby’s breathing was at risk after so long a delivery and the position in the birth canal she was frozen in—her head or maybe it was a shoulder was caught on something there—and she’ll give a natural birth one last try with forceps and if that doesn’t work, she’ll have to do a cesarean. Fortunately, she was an expert with forceps and turned the baby over inside the birth canal and eased her out. So it was the relief after so many hours that the baby had come out alive and healthy and his wife was all right and had been able to avoid surgery and that he finally had a child, that made it the happiest moment in his life, and which it still is after nearly thirty years.

His third happiest moment was when their second child was born. He’s not sure why it’s not his second happiest moment, but it isn’t. It’s just a feeling he has. There wasn’t any anxiety or relief involved in the birth because there wasn’t any difficulty in the delivery. She felt something at home, calmly said to him “I think it’s started,” they drove calmly to the hospital, thinking they had plenty of time, and she had the baby in less than a total of two hours from the time she felt it starting till the head and shoulders emerged. “That’s about as quick a delivery as you can get,” Dr. Martha said, “unless there’s no labor and the sac’s already broken without anyone noticing and the mother gives birth while she’s cooking dinner at home or being driven to the hospital.”

His fourth happiest moment came during the first day of their two-day honeymoon at an inn in Connecticut, when the pregnancy kit they brought with them tested positive. She screamed and shrieked and then said “Sorry, this is so unlike me, and what will the other guests think? But aren’t you as happy?” “Sure, what do you think?” and they hugged and kissed and danced around their room and then went downstairs and at the bar there shared a split of champagne. “My last drink till the little sweetie comes,” she said, and he said “Why? You can have a little for a couple of months.” “After two miscarriages with my first husband? No. I’m going to be extra overcautious. In the future you can drink my glass if anyone pours me one.”

His fifth happiest moment was in January, 1965, when The Atlantic Monthly took a short story of his, almost twenty years to the month before their second child was born. He was on a writing fellowship in California, had just come back from a month’s stay with his family in New York. Lots of mail was waiting for him. He’d only had two stories published before then, or one published and the other accepted, both with little magazines. Rejection, rejection, rejection, he saw, by the bulge in each of the nine-by-twelve-inch manila envelopes he’d sent with the stories. He opened the regular letter envelope from The Atlantic Monthly, assuming they didn’t bother to send back his story with their rejection slip in the stamped return envelope as the others had. In it was the acceptance letter from an editor, with an apology for keeping the story so long. He shouted “Oh my gosh; I can’t believe it. They took my story,” and he knocked on the door of the political science graduate student who lived in the room next to his. “I’m sorry; did I wake you? But I got to tell you this. The Atlantic Monthly took a story of mine and is giving me six-hundred bucks for it. We have to go out and celebrate, on me.”

The sixth happiest moment was nine years later. He was walking upstairs to his New York apartment with a woman he’d recently met. By that time—fifteen years after he’d started writing—he had eight stories published, about a hundred-fifty written, no book yet. “Another rejection from Harper’s,” he said. She was in front of him and said “I’m not a writer, but I guess that’s what you have to expect.” “Let’s see what they have to say. It’s always good for a laugh.” He opened the envelope he’d sent with the story. “What’s this?” he said. He pulled out the galleys to his story and a letter from the editor he’d sent it to and a check for a thousand dollars. The editor wrote “I realize this must be unusual for you, receiving the galleys to your story along with the acceptance letter. But we want to get your story in print as soon as possible and there’s space for it in the issue after next. We tried calling you, but you’re either unlisted or one of the few writers in New York who doesn’t have a phone.” That was true. He didn’t. Too costly. And the sudden phone rings in his small studio apartment, when he was deep into his writing, always startled him, so he had the phone removed. “This is crazy,” he said. “Harper’s took instead of rejected. And for more money than I’ve ever made from my writing,” and he waved the check. They were on the top-floor landing now and she said “Let me shake your hand, mister,” and tweaked his nose.

The seventh happiest moment? Probably in 1961, when a woman, who had dumped him two years before and then three months after they’d started seeing each other again, said she’d come to a decision regarding his marriage proposal. They were in the laundry room of his parents’ apartment building. Had gone down there to get their laundry out of one of the washing machines and into a dryer. “So?” he said, and she said “Okay, I’ll marry you.” “You will?” “That is, if you still want to go through with it.” “Do I? Look at me. I’m deliriously ecstatic. Ecstatically delirious. I don’t know what I am except giddy with happiness. I love you,” and he kissed her and they got their laundry into a dryer and took the elevator back to his parents’ floor and told them and his sister and brother they had just gotten engaged. She broke it off half a year later, a few weeks before they were to be married in her parents’ summer home on Fire Island. A big old house, right on the ocean. Her father was a playwright, her mother an actress, as was his fiancée.

The eighth? Maybe when a publisher called to say she was taking his first book. That was in ’76. He was happy but not ecstatic. He’d been trying to get a story collection or one of his novels published for around fifteen years. But it was a very small publishing house, no advance, a first printing of five hundred copies, and probably little chance of getting any book reviews or attention. So maybe that was his ninth happiest moment, and the eighth was when a major publisher took his next novel and for enough of an advance for him to live on for a year if he lived frugally. But again, not a great happiness when the editor called him with the news, since the novel was accepted based on the first sixty-seven pages he’d sent them and the rest of it still had to be written.

The tenth also happened while he was living in New York and had no phone. 1974. Same year Harper’s took, but months later. He’d come downstairs from his apartment to go for a run in Central Park. The mailman, whom he knew by name—Jeff—was in the building’s vestibule, slotting mail into the tenants’ mailboxes. He dug a letter out of his mailbox and gave it to him. It was from the National Endowment for the Arts. He’d been rejected two years in a row by them for a writing fellowship, so expected to be rejected again. He opened the envelope. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “I won an NEA fellowship.” “What’s that?” Jeff said. He told him. “But it says for five hundred dollars.” “So, five hundred isn’t anything to sniff at,” Jeff said. “But I thought all their fellowships are for five thousand.” “Now, five thousand would really be something, landing in your lap like that. Do I get a cut for delivering the news?” He ran down the street to the candy store at the corner, got lots of change and dialed the NEA number from a phone booth there. The person he finally got to speak to who he was told would know how to deal with the matter said “That is strange. We don’t have any five-hundred-dollar fellowships. Let me look into it and call you back.” “I don’t have a phone,” he said. “Then you’ll have to hold the line while I check.” She came back about ten minutes later and said “Are you still there? You were right. Your notification letter was missing a zero.” “So the fellowship is for five thousand?” “In a week you should be receiving a duplicate letter to the one you got today, the only difference being the corrected figure written in.” “When can I start getting the money?” and she said “You’ll receive another letter after the duplicate one with some forms to fill out.” “Can I get the money in one lump sum, or do you spread it out over a year?” and she said “Everything will be explained in the instructions accompanying the forms. But to answer your question, yes.” “One lump sum?” “If you want.” “Whoopee,” he said, slapping the metal shelf under the telephone. “Boy, am I ever going to write up a storm the next year.” “That’s what we like to hear,” she said.

The eleventh or twelfth happiest moment in his life? He forgets what number he left off at. It could have been when he was living in a cheap hotel in Paris and was called downstairs by the owner to answer a phone call from “les États-Unis,” she said. He ran downstairs. Something awful about one of his parents, he was sure. This was in April, 1964. He’d been in Paris for three months, learning French at the Alliance Française; his ultimate aim was to get a writing job in the city with some American or British company. It was his younger sister. “Dad’s not too thrilled with my making this call,” she said. “Too expensive. A telegram would be cheaper, he said, if I kept it short. But I explained the urgency behind my calling you. Prepare yourself, my lucky and talented brother. I have something terrific to tell you.” “Come on,” he said, “what is it? The madame here doesn’t like me hogging the one phone.” “You got a telephone call from someone at Stanford University. You won a creative writing fellowship there for three thousand dollars, this September.” “Oh my god,” he said. “I forgot all about it, which tells you how much I thought I’d get it.” “Listen, though. This woman said because they took so long to select the four fellows, they want your decision right away. If it’s a no, they need to choose someone else in a hurry. I told her I’m sure you’ll take it, but I’ll call you and then call her with your answer.” “I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I mean, I’m grateful, and I should be overjoyed, but I’m just beginning to really like it here and I’m learning the language and making friends. Think they’d let me defer the fellowship for a year?” “I already asked her about that possibility,” she said. “She told me you have to accept it now for this year or reapply with completely different supporting material for the next year, though you wouldn’t need to get new references. That’s their policy.” “The madame’s staring at me. I have to hang up. I guess I’ll take it, then. My feelings are mixed, as you can see, but it’s too good an opportunity to pass up. And California should be fun.” “Monsieur?” the owner said. “Sometimes,” his sister said, “you have to give up something good to get something better or even comparable. And I’ll fly out to California to see you, which will be a nice break for me.”

And his next happiest moment? Can’t think of one now, or where he was just as happy or even happier than he was in some of the last ones he mentioned. Maybe, going very far back, when he won the All Around Camper Award at the sleepaway camp he went to with his sisters and his brother Robert in the summer of 1948. So when he was told he won it by the head counselor. Or when the principal of his elementary school—this was in 1949, a couple of months before he graduated—called him and several other eighth-grade students into his office to tell them they’d each gotten into one of New York’s elite public high schools, and one of them got into two and would have to choose, and which schools. His was Brooklyn Tech. He was happy but at the same time a bit disappointed because he wanted to go to Stuyvesant, where Robert was a sophomore at, but he obviously didn’t do well enough on its admissions test to get in. Odd, because he thought the Stuyvesant test was a breeze compared to the one for Brooklyn Tech.

Any other time? Oh, how could he forget? They were in a little hill town in Southern France, looking at a Giacometti drawing on the wall of a small museum, when he turned to his wife half a year before she became his wife, and said “Let’s get married.” She said “Are you joking?” and he said “I’m dead serious. Here, or in Nice by a rabbi if they have one there or some justice of the peace,” and she said “If I got married again it would have to be in New York so my folks and relatives and friends could come. And I’d think you’d want your family there too. But let’s talk about it in a few months.” “So you’ll consider it then as a possibility?” and she said “Let’s say I’m not rejecting the idea outright, as preposterously as it was presented,” and he said “You don’t know how happy you’ve just made me. All right. I’ll shut up about it for a few months.” Of course, he hugged and kissed her and then he took her hand in his and led her to the next Giacometti drawing.

And the saddest moments in his life? His wife’s death, of course. Next Robert’s. Then his younger sister’s. Then his oldest brother in a boating accident a few years ago. Then his mother’s. Next his father’s. After that, his two best friends dying a year apart, both from strokes. But he doesn’t want to think about them. Actually, the second saddest moment of his life had to be when his wife, two years before she died, was in the hospital for pneumonia and her doctors told him she’d have to be intubated and that there was still only a slight chance she’d survive. “One to three percent,” they said, or was it “three to five”? He can’t say, when he was told by them several days later that she’ll survive, that it was one of the happiest moments in his life. He was too sad at the time. He’d just seen her in her ICU room—in fact, he remembers at that moment looking at her on her bed—struggling with the ventilating tube inside her. “Get this thing out of me . . . please, please,” her painful look seemed to say. No, he knew her look; that’s what it was saying. But if he was going to list the saddest moments in his life, those would probably be it, plus a few he missed. His wife first, his wife second, then the rest in the order he gave.

And, to end it, something like this: He gets off the bench and walks the rest of the way to his house. The cat’s waiting for him by the kitchen door. He wants to be let in and fed. He’ll want to be let out after, but he won’t let him. It’s already getting dark. He gets the opened can of cat food out of the refrigerator, gets the cat’s empty plate off the floor, washes it and spoons the rest of the food in the can on it and puts it back on the floor. The cat starts eating. He’s about to make himself a drink—something with rum tonight, he thinks; he’s been drinking vodka every night for a week—when he realizes he forgot the Gorky book on the bench. Leave it till tomorrow. No, it’ll be gone, or if it rains, wet. Get it now.

He goes back to the bench. The book’s gone. Who’d want to take it? Nobody was around; no cars were in the lot, so nobody was in the church. And really, no one but a Russian literary scholar or maybe a serious fiction writer would be interested in it. Maybe someone who lives around here was out for a walk and saw it. He wants to look at the good side of things. So it’s possible a passerby got it and will bring it to the church office tomorrow and say he or she found it on one of the benches outside and thought it might belong to someone connected to the church. Ah, just forget it, he thinks. He’s never going to read anymore of it. If his wife were alive, he’d go to the church the next day—midafternoon, though; he’d give the person who might have taken it time to bring it to the church—and ask if anyone turned in a book about the Russian writer, Maxim Gorky. He goes home, carefully opens the kitchen door so the cat doesn’t run out, and gets some ice out of the freezer and puts it in his glass. Rum it is, with a sliver of lime.