Free Late Stories by Stephen Dixon

hello to before. Saw no one, period. Oh, people in cars, and a jogger, but she came up behind him without him hearing her and was past him before hecould even wave. Maybe when he gets home he’ll call his daughters and, if they’re in, speak to them. Although it doesn’t have to be in their homes. With their cell phones, they could be anywhere: walking on the street; having a drink in a bar. He speaks to them almost every night around seven. Seems to be a good time for them. They’re done with work for the day, haven’t started dinner. They call him or he calls them. But that’s the kind of day it’s been. Where he hasn’t yet said a word to anyone. Not one, and it makes me feel kind of strange or odd. It’s true. It does. Both of those. But enough of that. Maybe, really, it’s better not to dwell on it. If his wife were alive and still relatively healthy, or just not as sick as she was the last five years of her life, he would have spoken to her before he left the house. That would have been nice. “I’m going out for a walk,” he would have said; “like to join me?” If she didn’t, or couldn’t because she was still working in her study or something else, then when he got back she might say, as she did a lot, “See anything interesting?” or “Meet anyone on your walk?” Or just “Did you have a good walk?” Or he might volunteer: “I had a good walk. Farther than I usually go. Saw some beautiful and unusual flowers. Our neighbors, especially the church, really take care of their properties. But for the first time in a long time I didn’t see anyone else outside except a fleet-footed jogger, who ran past me before I could even say hi to her. And of course people in the occasional passing car, but they don’t count.” Or if she were too weak to walk and didn’t want to be pushed around the neighborhood in her wheelchair—“People stare; I don’t like it”—he’d say “All right, then, if I take a brief walk by myself? And I’ll make it quick. I won’t stop to talk to anyone.” “Why should I mind?” she said a number of times. “Get out. You need a break. And talk all you want.” “So you’ll be okay here alone?” and she always said “I told you. I’ll be just fine.” But he shouldn’t think of himself as oddor strange just because he hasn’t talked with anyone today. I’m not odd. He’s not strange. Thirteen hours? That’s not so long. Listen, this is where life has led me, to this point; something. He can’t quite put it in words right now. But he’s trying to say what? What am I trying to say? That it’s not his fault he hasn’t spoken to anyone today? No, that’s not what I wanted to say. Forget it. I think if I had someone to speak to other than myself today, I’d be able to say what I want to say understandably. Coherently. Clearly. Some way. But again: enough. He opens Gilgamesh and turns to the page the bookmark’s on. I resume reading what I stopped reading when I was on the exercise bike at the Y. Is that the best way to put it? What if it isn’t? What’s important is that I know what I mean. Or another way could be “He resumes reading at the place he left off when he was on the exercise bike at the Y.” Any real difference? Some. Second’s better. I’m reading when someone says my name. He looks up. It’s my neighbor from up the hill from my house. Karen.
    â€œI didn’t want to startle you,” she says, “so I called out to you as softly as I could. You seemed so absorbed in your book. Am I disturbing you?”
    â€œNot at all.”
    â€œNice place to read, I’d say. Quiet. Surrounded by all these lovely flowers the church has planted. Best time of day too.”
    â€œYeah, it’s a great place. I come here almost every