Free Long Made Short by Stephen Dixon Page A

probably have better things to do than talk to me,” and she
     says “What a line—no, why?” His first wife, girlfriends, first he was smitten with
     in grade school. He’s a boy, and his parents are arguing bitterly at the dinner table.
     He puts his hands over his ears and yells “Stop, can’t you ever stop screaming at
     yourselves?” “Don’t do that,” his father says, pulling his hands off his ears. “What
     are you, crazy?” And he says “Yes,” or “You made me,” or “Why shouldn’t I be?” and
     runs out of the room. “Go after the maniac,” and his brother goes after him and says
     “It’s no good for me either when they’re like that, so come on back.” Hears further
     back. From his mother’s stomach. “Filthy rotten bitch.” “And you. Stupid, cheap, pigheaded,
     a pill. Get lost. I hate your guts.” “Not as much as I hate yours. Here.” “And what’s
     that?” “What you wanted so much. Your allowance. Take it and stick it up your ass,”
     and so on. “Why’d I marry you?” and so on. “You don’t think I ask that question too?
     With all I had and never any lip from anyone, what’d I need it for?” and so on.
    He’s in his chair, the man, wishing he’d made himself coffee or tea. Something hot
     to drink. He can think better with it. Son plays, wife reads. They’ll probably make
     love tonight, he thinks. He’s been nice all day, no arguments, she’s smiled lovingly
     at him several times the last few hours. Kissed her when he got home, and she said
     “Ooh, that’s some kiss; I love it.” He can’t wait. He’s sure she’ll come to bed ready.
     If she doesn’t—well, how will he know? He can go to the bathroom and shake the case.
     Sometimes he can smell it on her too. The cream. Anyway, he can say—he’s usually first
     in bed, usually reading—“I hope you’re ready, I know I am.” “Sure,” she’ll say if
     she isn’t ready and go back to the bathroom. He loves her. They have their fights
     and disputes and sometimes he tells himself he hates her and doesn’t want to live
     another second with her, but he really loves her. He should remember that. So beautiful.
     Still a very beautiful face. Her body still excites him. She’s so smart, so good.
     He’s lucky, particularly when he’s so often a son of a bitch and fool. He should remember
     all that. He should call his mother now. Doesn’t want to budge. Just wants to sit
     here remembering, digesting—something—the thoughts he just had about her. That he
     loves her. That no matter what, he loves her. “Time for bed,” she says to their son.
     “Oh, I don’t want to go yet,” the boy says. “Do what your mother tells you,” he says.
     “Okay,” the boy says, “okay, but you don’t have to talk rough.” “I wasn’t. And please
     clean up your puzzle. Nah, just forget it, it’s late and you’re going to bed; I’ll
     do it.” He looks at her. She’s standing, her manuscripts are on the couch. Smiles
     at her. She smiles at him, he smiles back. The boy gets up and heads for the stairs.
     “Look,” he says to her, “he’s really going to bed without a fuss. What a kid.” “I’ll
     run his bath,” she says, “you’ll tell him a story after?” “I don’t need anyone for
     that,” the boy says. “I can fill my own tub—I know how much to—and I want to read
     by myself before I go to sleep.” “You read?” the man says. “He reads?” to her. “Since
     when? I don’t want him to. Soon I won’t be able to do anything for him. He’ll be brushing
     his own hair, combing his own teeth.” “Daddy, you got those wrong. And I’ve been doing
     them a long time.” “That’s what I’m saying,” he says. “Next you’ll be cooking your
     own shoelaces, tying your own food. Go, go, don’t let me stop you, big man,” and blows
     a kiss at him. He didn’t mean those first two to be switched around, but it turned
     out to be a good joke.
    The boy