30 Pieces of a Novel (31 page)

IT'S
EARLY
AFTERNOON
, he's lying down, kids in camp, when his wife comes in from the kitchen and says, “You look so nice there, mind if I join you, or will that be ruining things?” He shakes his head, shuts his eyes again. He was near sleep but he'd lain down to think about things, particularly what work he was going to do next, so is trying to stay awake. Then, when he'd thought of something, he'd let himself fall asleep for his unconscious to work on the thought. He'd finished a project two days ago, yesterday he just did errands and read and walked a lot, and today he wants to start something new, or at least tomorrow morning. Thought if he lay on his back an idea might come. Has, lots of times before. She's in her wheelchair. He could say, “Need any help?” Often says that when she wants to get from one place to another and it's obviously difficult for her or has been in the past. She has trouble getting off of things into the wheelchair and out of that chair onto things. He's on the daybed in the living room. Kids sleep in the one bedroom. She'd say, “No, I'm okay, I can do it.” She doesn't say it; he didn't ask her or even give a look that said does she need help, but he thinks she'd say it if that's what he'd said or had given that look. Come again? Forget it, too lethargic to work that one out. Just wants to lie on his back, think about what he'd intended to think in the few minutes he has before she gets on the bed, and it will take her a few minutes, two to three at least. She's across the room by the couch, wheels her chair to the bed, the middle part of the long side of it. (Knows there's a simpler way to say that.) Looks at her out of the right corners of his eyes. She's hoisting herself up, hands gripping the armrests. Hoisting's the tough part, and then suddenly shifting her weight when she sort of flings her rear end onto the object she wants to sit on. If she misses she can fall, and if she doesn't get far enough onto the bed she can slide down the side of it. He should sit up, stand up, put his arm at the crook of the elbow under her arm at the armpit, and, holding his arm stiff, help her onto the bed. He doesn't. Lying there, he feels immobile. And she doesn't fall all the time. One out of ten, maybe, and she's smiling, so it seems—or one out of fifteen or twenty, even—she's confident she's going to make it, and a bed is an easier target to land on than a chair or toilet seat. More space, not as slippery. And if she fell she wouldn't hurt herself, or chances would be less, as the side of the bed's soft while the side of a chair or seat's hard and even sharp. The chairs of their apartment, anyway; they're all dining chairs. A toilet seat's always sharp and hard, except for the padded ones, which are more like novelties and neither of them thinks they feel good to sit on, and they probably don't clean as well, and a bathroom's the worst place to fall, of course. He shuts his eyes. He just got an idea. Seems like a good one. Starts with lovemaking—a man's parents—and ends with the man making love with his wife and the conception that comes from it and which produces their first child. “Oh, gosh,” she says. She's on the floor. He didn't see her fall. She must have done it slowly, certainly softly. He looks to his right, with his head still flat on the bed—the bed pillows are all behind the bed's bigger couch pillows leaning up against the wall—and can only see the top of her head. “You all right?” “Yes.” “Your voice didn't express any alarm, that's why I didn't jump.” “I went down easy.” “Need any help?” “Thanks, I don't think so.” “I'll help, you know.” “No, rest, you're tired, and I'll manage. It's good practice.” Moves on his back closer to the edge of the bed and watches her. She's on her knees, holding on to the wheelchair while she unlocks the brakes, steadies herself with one hand on the floor, and with the other shoves the chair to the couch about eight feet away. Then she crawls to the couch and tries lifting herself onto it. He's seen her do it before. The first part she almost always does successfully: hoisting herself up to a seating position on the couch. From the couch, which is a couple of inches lower than the daybed, to the chair is more difficult. That part he'll probably have to help her with, because the chair, even when locked, tends to slide away when she tries to get on it. If the chair's braced against something unmovable, she usually can do it, but here it's in the middle of the floor. His idea again! Doesn't want to lose it. Conceptions, two of them. His parents—not
his
, just “parents” mating and conceiving a boy, and ending with the boy now a man and, with his wife, conceiving their first daughter. What happens in between? He'll find out when he does it. So, two conceptions, as bookends, so to speak. Is there something there to work on? Thinks so. But these days he likes to have some idea—conception, if you will—to work with before he begins. Didn't used to do it like that; would just sit down and jump in without a thought in his head and most times one would suddenly come … . She's on the couch. Didn't see her get there. “Need any help now?” he says, still on his back. “I'm all right, I think.” She starts laughing. “All this because I wanted to join you. Am I disturbing you a lot? You looked so nice there—I told you that—but so deep in thought, but calm thoughts, restful, that you made me want to join you. Or join up with you, or something.” “Be my guest, really. We'll see what happens. And nothing much on my mind now. And if you need any help, tell me.” “I don't.” “But if you do.” “I will.” He closes his eyes. Then opens them in a way where to her they'll still look closed, or he thinks they will, and watches her. She's locked the wheelchair, tests how locked it is by pushing it—it doesn't move—then, seat facing her at an angle, she grabs the armrests to maneuver herself into the chair. She doesn't move. She doesn't feel confident yet. She stares at the chair seat, grabs the armrests again, and makes a move with her upper torso as if she's going to swing her whole body onto the seat, gets about three inches off the couch, holds herself up there a few seconds, and then plops down. Damn, she mouths, looks disappointed. She wiggles all her fingers, to loosen them up probably; cracks the knuckles of her right hand, notices him, says, “Sorry,” slides herself off the couch onto the floor, and tries lifting herself backward into the chair. She knows she's not going to be able to; she won't have the strength, and the chair could slide away. It does. She almost falls on her side, rights herself, turns around on the floor till her back's up against the couch, leans forward, and pulls the chair closer to her. “Listen”—his eyes wide open now—“let me help you. If I could I'd pick you up and just carry you to the bed and drop you down. Set you down, I mean—you know—but I can't anymore. I've lost strength with age, my big confession.” “Please, you're as strong as you ever were. It's me. I've put on too much weight in the tummy and ass, being confined to this freaking chair. And when could you ever pick me up in your arms like that, if that's what you're speaking of?” “It's true, I never used to. Oh, maybe once or twice, but with great effort.” “So much effort that I don't think you ever tried again. Not that I was ever overweight. What I have now is just the same weight that sort of redistributed and settled in those two spots, and so close together. But I was always big-boned and rather tall, though you can't see the tallness anymore. But it's a nice thought, your lifting me effortlessly, and a pleasant image too. I wish you were that strong. It'd make things a lot easier for us. Meanwhile, let me try to get there on my own. I have to learn how. There's got to be a better procedure than what I'm doing. Let me think about it. You rest, and maybe I'll see you there eventually.” “But if you need me …” “I know, thanks.” He shuts his eyes. He has his idea, doesn't need to develop it here—that'll come while he's working on it—and now he's sleepy. It's muggy in the apartment. One exposure; probably a lot cooler outside. “It's muggy. Maybe that's why you're having such trouble. If there was only some better way to get the outside air in to cool this joint. An air conditioner, of course, but you can't stand them.” “Maybe.” She's back on the couch. Pulls the wheelchair near. Tests it. Tries to lift herself into it. Maybe what? he thinks: that it
is
muggy, or that mugginess is what's affecting her, or she's changed her mind on air conditioners? She can't get off the couch. Shakes her head. She's very frustrated now. He should get up, help her. They'll make love when she's on the daybed. That's what she meant by what she said, right? Doesn't know if he wants to or even has the energy for it, or both those plus it's so muggy, but he can usually get started. Hand here, there, close your eyes, kiss. They should turn the fan to high. Thinks it's on medium now. He'll do it later, once she's on the bed. Should do it now, also get her on the chair, over here, on the bed.
But
he just wants to lie where he is, hasn't the stamina or whatever it is for anything else. “I can't make it,” she says. “The chair's too high. It's the strength thing too. I'm getting weaker and weaker—I can feel it and my flesh shows it. I'll try crawling over, though.” “No, you shouldn't crawl.” “Why not? I started with crawling, I'll end with it, if I'm lucky.” “What do you mean: as a kid—started then? For as a kid you didn't start with crawling. Just turning over on your back was probably your first big locomotion. Am I using the word right? Here I come, though,” and he opens his eyes and turns to her on his side. “Don't help me. I didn't want to disturb you. I shouldn't have even started this whole move. But now I'm determined. Not so much to lie beside you anymore, but to get there and show myself I can. You won't mind if I come over, will you; steal some of your bed space?” “No, of course not, come on.” He's lying, she probably knows it—way he said it, or more the way he didn't—but it'll be fine once she's on the bed. He'd really right now just like to nap for an hour or so. An hour, that'd be about right. Then take a shower and get some work in before he has to pick up the kids. She's crawling. Her hand reaches above the bed just where his face is and clutches the bedspread. Pulling her hand up won't help her. Might even hurt her wrist, twist it, pull it out of the socket—whatever goes on inside there—and she also might slip. Should get up and help her up. She's on her knees, head above the bed now, smiling. “Hi,” she says. “So you made it.” “I did, but not by a long shot.” Long shot? Long shot? No, he has no remark to that. “Nor has the last round been fired yet.” “Oh,” he says. “But we're getting close. Now it's all huff, puff, and wait and see,” she says. She gets her arms on the bed, tries pushing herself up onto it. She's not doing it. Face is strained, she's sweating. Then she starts crying. Just bursts out. “Oh, come on,” he says, “it's okay.” He could put his hand out, touch her cheek, slide his hand back and forth across it, but he sits up, stands behind her, gets his arms under her armpits, and helps her sit on the bed. “You okay now?” “Fine, but what a struggle.” “I'm going to lie back on the bed, then, if you're all right,” and gets around her and lies down on the other side of her, close to the pillows against the wall. It's true, it's crowded, but if it gets too much, throw the couch pillows, if he can lift them from this position, over her to the floor and the bed pillows—this he's sure he can do—to the couch. If he misses, big deal; floor's not dirty, swept it yesterday, washed it down with a little ammonia solution the day before. “Oh, God,” she says, for she's sliding off. He quickly sits up but she's already on the floor, not much of a thump. “Damn,” he says angrily. Immediately knows he shouldn't have. “You okay, Sal?” “Yes, goddammit.” “I'm sorry for what I said.” “Why?” “Or the way I said it; I'm sorry.” “I still don't know what you're saying. Anyway, let's forget my getting there, or staying. I'll rest on the couch if I still feel like resting. Do I? Yeah, this has totally exhausted me, totally.” “No,” he says, “you got me started.” “Well, then, you have to help me. From where I am, and after what I went through, I admit defeat.” He gets up, helps her to sit on the bed, swings her legs around so they're parallel to the bed, and rests them, and she lies back. “There, we made it, and I think I centered you enough where you won't fall off. You feel secure?” She rolls right and left a little and nods. He climbs over her and, lying on his side, throws all the couch pillows to the floor and then the bed pillows to the couch. “Save one for me,” she says, and he puts the last one under her head, runs his hand across her breasts, and kisses her. They kiss a few times, and she says, “Maybe we should think about getting a bed closer to the floor. Something like the Japanese have, but with a platform, so not where we have to roll it up every morning. I don't want it to be even more work for you, and I want it to always be there for us for naps and brief interludes like this.” “Those things can be expensive, and if it's too close to the ground it'll get dirty from all the dust in the place. I'd be sweeping the floor daily to keep this new bed clean, but sweeping very carefully so not to raise the dust, and washing down the floor too.” “But it's so difficult for me to get on the bed now.” “Think what it'll be like getting from that low bed to your wheelchair. Same difference. So then you'll need a wheelchair that's lower, which will then make you too low to sit at a table right, unless there are wheelchairs that can adjust up and down like a bicycle seat, but even simpler. Imagine what the new wheelchair would cost, if there was one like it.” “Okay. I didn't think of the chair problem. So we'll keep things status quo till things become practically impossible for me, if they ever do.” “No, we'll look around; we'll explore; we'll see. How about that?” and she says, “If you're serious, fine.” “Serious. Serious,” and he starts to remove her blouse and shorts. She pulls his shirt over his head and his shorts with his boxer shorts in them down past his knees, and he kicks them off. “Can you unhook my bra? I can't, just as I can barely hook it sometimes.” “Get one that hooks in front and from underneath,” and she says, “You're suddenly the big inventor, though I don't know if that one would do it.” He unhooks it, pulls her underpants off, pushes down on her thighs and knees till her legs are straight, thinks, When she's lying like this, legs stretched out, it's much like it used to be. They're almost the same length in bed, and though there are certain things she can no longer do with him here, or almost can't, she's compensated for that by doing other things. So? Well, just thinking. He should suggest she come to bed when he's on it, do it more often, he means, even when she shows no inclination to. He should say things like “Want to take a break with me, a quick one if that's all you feel like or have time for?” and if she doesn't—well, then, she doesn't. But he's saying he likes it so much lying here with her like this. He lies on his side to kiss her. Her right leg's off the bed. “Your legs,” he says, and she looks and says, “I didn't even feel it move, but they do that sometimes.” She tries lifting the leg up to the bed and starts sliding off. “Help me, I'm falling,” and he grabs her thigh and neck and pulls her to him and keeps pulling her while edging nearer to the wall himself till he's got her past the middle of the bed. “That was close,” she says. “I thought I was lying right before but I obviously wasn't. This is where I should maybe always get to on the bed before I think I'm really safe. But you still want to continue after all this? I'd think you would have lost interest by now or been put off. If you want we can just stay here awhile, take a nap, but with you holding me so I don't somehow slide backwards.” “No, it's all right,” and puts his hand between her legs and she shuts her eyes and smiles and feels around for his penis and he inches himself up higher on the bed till she can reach him and starts kissing her breast.