Late Stories (4 page)

Alone

H
e drives back from a lunch at a couple's house. There were several other guests there. They were all couples. One woman came by herself because her husband, a doctor, had some work to do at a hospital. So he was there alone. His wife is dead. He looked at the couples and thought each person here has someone to go home with or to but him. Isn't he used to it yet? He isn't. He doesn't like going home alone. Being alone at home. Going to these lunches alone. But what's he going to do? His daughters are in other cities. The food was good at the lunch. There were turkey and ham slices on a plate. Smoked fish on another plate. A potato salad dressed with just vinegar and mustard and olive oil. A beet salad, a snow pea salad, sliced tomatoes, bread. He wanted to have a glass of wine or beer, when others were having it, but he doesn't drink alcohol in the afternoon. Makes him too tired. He had water. He stayed pretty quiet during the lunch. The conversation was lively but he didn't participate in it much. Once, he said, “Oh, I have an anecdote regarding that,” and everyone at the long dining table turned to him and he said “It's about the president of the university I taught at, the fellow who you say now runs a prestigious medical research institute in Minneapolis. We had—my department—a visiting writer reading his fiction. Big crowd. This guy's very well known. And the president came into the lobby after the reading—his residence was on campus and I suppose he was just taking a walk, saw the building lit up and lots of people leaving it, because he hadn't gone to the reading, and . . . Jesus, what was I getting at?
Something he said to me. Then something I said to him. I know it ends with him saying ‘What's a hunk?' Damn, I forget. I'm sorry. Carry on, please. I'm not very good at telling stories anymore.” “Sure you are,” the hostess said. “He's a very funny guy,” her husband said, “or can be,” and everyone laughed. After coffee and fruit, the wife of one of the couples said “We'll have to excuse ourselves. We have guests coming for dinner and I've a lot of preparations to do.” “I have to go too,” he said. “No guests coming, but something at home.” He stood up. The couple stood up. He had nothing to do at home. He shook hands with three of the men, kissed the cheek of the hostess and a woman he'd seen at this house for dinner several times when his wife was alive, and the couple and he left together. He stopped in front of a plant outside and said “I have these around my house; but all around it. They came with the house, but mine are five to seven feet tall. Any idea its name?” and the woman said “Aucuna; that starts with an ‘a' and ‘u.'” “Boy, I really asked the right people. I should cut mine down to about two feet, the way the Pinskis have it.” “That would be about the right height for them, two to three feet. They're great plants. Hearty; red berries. And they're not cheap if you buy them at a garden store. I love them.” “Well, if you want some, I've got plenty and you can just dig them up. I've pulled a number of them up without any problem when they were taking over the place.” “I'll do that, “she said. “I'm serious.” “So am I,” she said. “In the spring. We'll both come over. We have just the right tools and know how to do it. I'll get your phone number from Ginny and Schmuel.” Then they shook hands goodbye and they got in their car and he got in his car and started to drive home. But now, he thinks, he doesn't want to get home so quickly. Too soon. He stops at a restaurant on the way, one that sells its own bread, and gets a small loaf of his favorite kind here, sunflower flax, and asks for it to be sliced. “That's all?” the woman behind
the counter says, and he says “That'll have to do it. I just came from a big lunch.” Then he stops at a bookstore, also along the way home and the best independent one in the city, and for about ten minutes looks for a book to buy for when he finishes the one he's currently reading, doesn't see anything that interests him, and then thinks he needs a new
American Heritage College Dictionary
. His is so old it has a photo of O.J. Simpson in the margin, and its first fifty pages or so are curled up at the ends and folded into one another and he has to flatten them out to read them. Do they have the new edition, the fifth? They have it, one copy, and he takes it off the bookshelf. And he remembers he wants to give the new hardcover editions of
The Oxford Book of American Poetry
and the one of
English Verse
to a couple that got married this September—the bride a former undergraduate student of his—and invited him to the wedding in Nyack, but he didn't go. He didn't want to be there alone. Go alone, he means, and it would have meant two days away from home. Even if it had been here, he knows he still wouldn't have gone. He would have felt too out of place. During the reception, because his former student had told him it'd be at a large rented hall and there'd be a band, people would have got up to dance, and things like that. The store doesn't have either book, so he orders them and they'll call him when the books come in. He pays for the dictionary, didn't think it'd be so expensive, and gets back in his car and continues home, but tells himself he doesn't want to get there yet. Let's face it, he tells himself, I don't want to be alone there yet. That crazy? No. He stops at the market a half mile from his house, even though he doesn't really need anything there, and gets a shopping basket and thinks of things to buy. He can always use more carrots, the way he eats them, and picks up a two-pound bag of the organic kind. And the cat likes sliced turkey from the deli department. He likes to give him a little treat of it every now and then, so
he gets a quarter pound of it. It'll last a week and he'll have some too. And he thinks he's out of scallions, so he goes back to the produce section and gets that. Anything else? He should have got some gourmet chicken salad at the deli department, but it'll look odd, going back for just that and he gets the same server who gave him the sliced turkey. He gets a few cans of cat food, even though he has plenty at home, and a package of rice cakes because he thinks he has only one rice cake left. Is that it? Well, what's he going to eat tonight? He's had an open-faced tuna melt almost every other night that past two weeks, the cheese on top of tomato slices on top of the tuna salad he makes, on top of two slices of toasted bread—the sunflower flax would be perfect for it—which he puts in the oven for about fifteen minutes and then under the broiler for one. Has he tuna at home? He has, more than one can, he's almost sure. Oh, get out of here, and he starts for the checkout lanes, and then thinks just a couple more items. Maybe he'll bump into someone he knows—that happens a lot here. A neighbor, or someone from the Y he goes to every day, and they'll have a quick chat. Or get a coffee from the coffee machine here. Only a dollar and it's not bad. And the café au lait for two dollars is in fact good. He gets a regular coffee, black, puts a lid on the container and pays up for everything. “Plastic okay?” the checkout person says and he says “Usually I get paper. But I have so few items, plastic's okay, and I can always use the bag in a wastebasket.” She bags his purchases, says “Have a nice rest of the day,” and he says “Thanks; you too,” and leaves. He drives home, puts away the food he bought—bananas, he thinks; forgot he's out of bananas. Well, next time. Actually, tomorrow, maybe before breakfast, and he'll pick up a few other things, because he always slices up a banana into his hot or cold cereal. He drinks the rest of the coffee and checks his cell phone on the sideboard in the dining room. He rarely leaves the house with it and
uses it mostly to talk to his kids, who are on the same plan with him. No messages. He brings the dictionary to his bedroom and checks the regular phone there. Same thing. The cat's sleeping on the bed or resting with his eyes closed. He sits on the bed and pets him. “So how's it going, my friend? Keeping the joint free of mice and burglars?” The cat stands up, stretches and jumps off the bed. “Want to go out? Fine with me. Do it while it's still light out.” He walks to the kitchen. The cat follows him. If he wants to go out he usually stays by the kitchen door and sometimes gets up on his back paws and scratches the wall next to the door or the door. He sits by his empty food plate. “Eat the kibble in your bowl. It's not dinnertime yet. Later I'll give you some more wet food.” The cat looks at him, stays seated. “All right, all right.” He gets a little of the turkey out of the plastic bag it's in and drops it on the plate. The cat eats it and goes to the door. “You gonna leave me all by my lonesome? Okay. See ya later,” and opens the door and the cat goes outside. He goes back to the bedroom, sits at his work table and thinks should he continue writing what he started this morning? Still has a couple of hours before it gets dark. Nah. He knows where it's going. Tomorrow. After breakfast. He takes off his sneakers and lies on the bed. Room's a little cold. So what? Nah, don't get cold. He gets the wool throw off the chair near the bed. His mother gave them it when their first child was born. From Ireland, she said. Sent away for it. She also gave them one of a different plaid when their second child was born. His older daughter used this one for a long time. Then left it behind when she moved out of the house and he had it dry-cleaned and now thinks of it as his. He unfolds it and lies on the bed and pulls it over him up till his neck. His feet stick out. So what? They won't get cold. He has socks on. He cups his hands on his chest and thinks of the dream he woke up from this morning when it was just getting light out. In it, his wife was in a blue dress.
Corduroy. Opened at the neck maybe three buttons down and belted at the waist. She had that dress before they first met and wore it a lot when it was cold out and they were going out for dinner or to a concert of play. It was one of the many clothes of hers he gave to Purple Heart and Amvets. The kids had first crack at everything of hers but over more than two years took almost nothing, not even a single piece of jewelry, though they didn't want him to sell or give anything of that away. Her hair was brushed back and hung over her shoulders. She seemed healthy, spirited, happy, ran back and forth through the house. “Hold up,” he said, when she zipped past him again. “Where you going so fast? You're like a cat.” He caught up with her in the hallway bathroom. She was looking at herself in the medicine cabinet mirror. He got up close behind her and said to her mirror image “You look beautiful again. And when you look so beautiful I don't want to leave you for a second.” “I have to leave you,” she said to his mirror image, and he said “No, you misunderstood me. I was talking about myself. Oh, what of it? And maybe what I said about your being beautiful was the wrong thing to say.” He put his arms around her from behind. She looked at the mirror image of his hands, then turned around in his arms till she was facing him and they kissed. The dream ended then. Wouldn't you know it. Well, at least he got to kiss her. He shut his eyes. Maybe I'll nap awhile, he thinks, and get to dream of her again. The cat's banging one of the bedroom windows. There are three types of windows in this room: a long one opposite the bed, which he thinks is called a picture window, but he could be wrong; two small windows to the right of the bed, at the most two feet by three and which open and close with a crank; and a regular one, above the chair the throw was on and which the cat's banging with his paw. “Go away,” he says. “Let me rest. You haven't been out that long, and it's nice out and you have your fur coat on.” The cat, standing on an outside ledge
about six feet off the ground, keeps banging the window with his paw. He gets up, raises the window and then the screen. The cat comes in and jumps to the floor and runs out of the room. He closes the screen and leaves the window a little open at the bottom. He gets back on the bed under the throw, cups his hands on his chest and shuts his eyes. He'll try again. It'd be nice to have another dream of her so soon after this morning's. It's happened, and maybe a continuation of that one or one where they make love. Those are the best, or equal to any deep-kissing dream with her, even if he's never come in one. He falls asleep. He doesn't dream, or doesn't remember dreaming, after he wakes up.

Go to Sleep

H
e wakes up and she's not there. What did he think? Of course she's not there. But he imagines she is. Or tries to. Sticks out his hand where she used to sleep. Feels along the mattress to the end of what was her side of the bed. Touches her. Her back. Runs his hand up her spine and smoothes her neck. Runs his hand down the crack of her back to her behind. Feels it. Rubs it. Circles his hand around one buttock, then the other. Can you feel me? he thinks. “Can you feel my hand?” he says. “You've been gone so long. It's good to have you back. ‘Good'? There isn't a word for it. Can you turn over on your back?” She turns over. He feels her breasts under her nightshirt. Feels between her legs under her panties. The last few years she wore diapers to bed. Or “pads,” they preferred calling them. He'd take them off her in the morning, even if they were dry, which they almost never were, after he got her out of bed into her wheelchair, wheeled the chair into the bathroom, and got her on the toilet. “I thought I threw out all your panties ages ago. They were in the second dresser drawer from the top, about ten of them. I asked you if it was all right. After all, you didn't wear them anymore. Hadn't for years, and we thought you never would. And they were old and no organization like Goodwill or Purple Heart would ever take them. Now you have a pair on. Did I miss one? I guess it means you think you no longer need the pad at night and maybe not even during the day. Good. I like panties on you better and I'm sure you do too. They must feel better. The pad, I think, could be a bit uncomfortable to wear and they're not easy to
get on and off. We must have talked about this before.” He moves nearer to her. He can't see her face in the dark. Can't see any part of her body. And she's still under the covers. It's a cold night. It must be around two or three in the morning. The quietest time outside. All the curtains in the room are closed. He drew them before he went to bed. Wanted to sleep late this morning because he hasn't been getting much sleep lately. Tosses around in bed for hours some nights, or after his first few hours of sleep. Doesn't know why. Maybe he should stop drinking an hour or two before he goes to sleep. What he does now, and has for months, longer, is drink right up to the time he goes in back, washes up, gets in bed and reads till his eyes get tired, and turns off the light. “Do you mind if I touch you down there? I know I did it before without asking, but that was just to find out what you had on.” He's not touching her now and he says “I mean your crotch,” and he feels her crotch. The hair around it. Then her thighs near the crotch. “I've always loved your thighs. You never did. You thought they were too large. Or ‘plump,' was the word I think you used, but I always thought they were just right. Or not that large or plump. Or whatever I mean. I've also always loved your hair down there. So soft. You didn't; thought there was too much. And I know you don't like me talking about your body like this. Never did. But I did it anyway, maybe because it got me excited. Of course because it got me excited; we both know that. I loved their smoothness. Softness. Hairlessness.” He feels her vagina. “I shouldn't play around like this. But I do want to touch it. Do you mind? Say you do, and I'll stop.” He pulls on her pubic hair a little. “That didn't hurt, did it? If it did, I'm sorry; I'll stop. If you want me to go on, you'll say so, yes? Oh, this is getting us nowhere. Actually, I don't know what I mean by that. And I'm sounding like such a creep, which I can be, something we also both know. Okay, I'll take my hand away,” and he takes it away and then tries to put it back.
She's not there. He lies on his back. Removes one of the three pillows—between them, they always had four—he'd set up against the wall so he could sit back against them while he read last night before he went to sleep. Maybe lying his head on three pillows kept him from sleep. Maybe not. But maybe now he'll be able to fall back to sleep. Just two, if they're good pillows, and his are, should be enough for anybody. He clasps his hands on his stomach and shuts his eyes. No, she's there, all right. She was before, why shouldn't she be there now? He reached out for her hand. But she must have turned back on her right side at the edge of her side of the bed, out of reach. If he stretched his hand or moved a few inches closer to her, he could reach her. What would he try to touch first? Her left shoulder under the covers. Doesn't know why. Just came into his head. And he's sure it's under the covers. Room's too cold for her shoulder to be exposed. Then he'd move the front of his body into the back of her and swing his left arm around so his hand could feel both her breasts at the same time. If she said his hand was too cold for that—it had been out of the covers awhile—he'd take it away. He'd fall asleep like that. First saying “Do you mind if I hold you like this and am squeezed into you?” If she said nothing, he'd stay where he was, holding her breasts. Maybe she would already have fallen back to sleep. Maybe she wouldn't want to speak. Maybe she'd just want to hear him. Maybe she'd like him squeezed into her from behind and holding her breasts with one hand and would think if she said anything she might ruin it. She might also like him squeezed into her back and holding her because it was making her warmer than she'd be without him doing all that. He turns over on his right side and moves closer to her or where she was. She's not there. He was going to squeeze into her and hold her breasts with his left hand. Not fondle them, because that might disturb her sleep or her going back to sleep, but just hold. Of course she's not there.
What did he think? But turn the light on to make sure. Don't be silly. No, turn it on. He turns over and with his right hand turns his bedlamp on. Are you ready to look? He thinks. He's facing the opposite way from her side of the bed. “I'm ready to look,” he says. He turns around and looks. A pillow's there. The fourth pillow, where he left it last night, the one he didn't set up against the wall with the others to sit back against while he read in bed. Maybe she fell off the bed and is on the floor. That happened a couple of times. She broke her nose once falling off her side of the bed. There was a lot of bleeding; he rushed her to a hospital a few blocks away. This was in New York. They had to wait two hours for her to be examined and treated by a doctor in Emergency and by then the bleeding had stopped. She had a problem snoring at night after that. They were told it could only be corrected by an operation on some part of her nose, which he didn't want her to have. “Too risky for something so minor,” he said. “And since I'm the one being kept up at night and the snoring doesn't seem to inconvenience you any, it should be my decision. What do you say?” He gets on his stomach and looks over her side of the bed to the floor. She's not there. A pillow is, he forgot it was missing, the one he removed from his side of the bed before. Maybe she got up very quietly and made it to the bathroom on her own somehow. Not the one in this room—he'd hear her and would have seen the light under the door when his bedlamp was off—but the guest bathroom in the hallway outside this room. “You in the guest bathroom?” he says, louder than he was speaking before. Listens. Nothing. Maybe she made it to the kitchen for something. Water. From the filtered water tap attached to the sink. Or maybe she was hungry and wanted something to eat. What's he talking about? Water. Food. Ridiculous. He turns off the light. Gets on his left side close to the edge of his side of the bed and reaches for the radio on his night table and turns it on. They're playing a piece he's
heard on the radio several times but doesn't know what it's called. Schubert. Has to be. Chamber music. One of the quartets? He wrote fifteen of them. Fifteen. He's not familiar with them all but this one he is. He even thinks they heard it in Maine at the chamber music hall near where they used to stay. “Are you back in bed?” he says, without turning around. “Do you like this music? Will it disturb your sleep? Am I disturbing you just by talking? Do you want to snuggle again? Then do you want me to keep the radio on? If not, say so, and I'll turn it off. I should turn it off. We'll never get to sleep with it on. Schubert. One of his quartets, but which one I don't know. I'm almost sure we heard it in Maine once, lots of summers ago.” He listens. Nothing. Turns the radio off and gets on his back. He reaches over to hold her hand. They often used to go to sleep that way, both on their backs. Sometimes she reached over to him to hold his hand in bed. Sometimes he raised her hand to his mouth when they were both on their backs in bed and kissed it. He'll leave her alone. He'll let her sleep or go to sleep. He'll tell her in the morning if she's still in bed that if he had snuggled with her anymore than he did last night he probably would have wanted to make love with her. She might say something like “Want to have a go at it now?” No, that's not like her. She'd say something more like “Are you interested now?” He'd say “Yes. Want me to take off your panties before we start?” “Do you mean my pad?” she might say. “Whatever you're wearing.” “Sure,” she'd say. “You'd have to, eventually, wouldn't you? I don't see how there's any other way.” He'd pull her panties down her legs and over her toes. No. He'd unbutton the straps on either side of her pad and slip it out from under her and drop it on the floor even if it was wet. No. She's not wearing anything there. She went to bed without anything on but a nightshirt. He pulls the nightshirt up to her neck. No. He pulls it up over one arm and then the other and then manages to get it over her
head without hurting her ears and drops it on the floor. Sometimes even the bottom of her shirt would be wet but this time it's not. Now she's not wearing anything. He kisses her left shoulder, then her left breast. Her head's on two pillows. She's on her back. The covers are over both of them. No. She's on her right side. He kisses her left shoulder, kisses her back. He lifts her left leg, plays with her down there awhile, and then sticks his penis in. It feels so good, he thinks. “It feels so good,” he says. “Shh,” she says. “What?” he says. But don't be silly, he thinks. Maybe it was the bed making noise, or the cat. He gets on his back, pulls the covers up to his neck and shuts his eyes. Go to sleep, he thinks. “Go to sleep,” he says. “Sleep. Sleep.”