Long Made Short (12 page)

That night his ex-wife calls, which she does once a week. “How are you?” and she says
“Couldn’t be better, and you?” “I’ll get Deborah.” “How is she?” “She’ll tell you.”
“I’m asking you, Harold. Is she having a good time? She said last week she didn’t
want to go to camp your whole month there. I know you have your own demands, but think
it wise to force her to go?” “You’re giving me advice from three thousand miles away,
or six or eight or ten, however far Tahiti is?” “We’re home. And I see nothing wrong
in what I said.” “Anyway, I took her out of camp Friday, and since then we’ve been
getting along famously, and I hope it’ll last the summer and then into the beyond.”
“Good. That’ll be great for you both.” “I’ll get her.” Puts the receiver down, picks
it up. “And oh, she asked about you today. No strange coincidence, since I’m sure
you’re on her mind a lot, particularly since she won’t be visiting you this summer,
and she probably knew you were calling tonight, Monday, your call night.” “I could
call other days and more often. I guess the week goes so fast, and I got into a routine.”
“Anyway, she asked what I thought of you. Then, not so much now. I told her of now
and some of then. My feelings, et cetera—” “What did you say about your feelings?”
“Oh, you know, that I loved you then but not now and wondered why in hell you ever
married me. That I’d even warned you about what it’d come to.” “Why’d you tell her
that? It was unnecessary. She’s too young. You went too far.” “Well, I didn’t exactly
say it; I intimated. Also intimated I was glad you thought it better I should have
her than you. No, I didn’t say that either or intimate. But it’s what I thought. Glad
your restlessness made you a world traveler and first-class self-seeker and not a
stay-at-homenik, since that way I got her. That’s all.” “Why’d you bring all that
up to me? I’ve no bad feelings to you. There’s a reason I couldn’t have her here this
summer. I’m pregnant and I have to stay in bed most of the time and right up to the
delivery, since, if you must know, I’ve already had two miscarriages with Tim. But
this one’s coming along fine. I’ve passed the critical period but still have to be
careful. And I called specifically tonight—I was going to let her tell you this if
she wanted—to tell her I’m pregnant and that she’s going to have a very kid sister.
We only got all the clinical results last Friday. I was also planning to tell her
I’m going to be a much different mother this time around, as well as a vastly changed
one to her, and that if she wants, once I have the baby, she can spend whole summers
with us. Next one, for instance, and maybe whole years.” “If she wants? Oh no, you’re
going to ruin it for me,” and hangs up. She calls back. “Will you let me speak to
her?” “She’s asleep.” “Who’s asleep?” his daughter says from the next room. “Please
put her on.” Puts her on, watches her as she talks. She’s thrilled, says “That’s fantastic,
Mom; it’s great. I’m so happy I can practically cry.” At what, sister or idea of living
with her mother? When she gets off, she says “Know what Mommy told me?” “Whatever
it is, you can’t. I let you get out of camp, but I’m not going to let you get out
of everything.” “What are you talking about?” “What did your mommy say?” “She’s having
a baby—a girl. I’ll have a little sister, and I can help name her. She and Tim want
me to. She says they’re stuck for good names that aren’t too popular.” “Oh, you’re
so lucky. I only had two brothers and from the same parents. They were older and end
up beating you up before they get real nice to you. But they were closer in age to
me than you two will be, and you’ll be much older, so she can’t beat you up. You’ll
be a terrific older sister. I wish I had you as one.” “Then you couldn’t have me as
a daughter.” “Hey, that’s true, I didn’t think of that. Too bad.”

She asks him to tell her a story that night. He does every night, or a continuation
of one. Tonight he puts the chapter story on hold, he says, and starts a new one called
“Two Sisters.” “Sadie and Sally,” he says. “Awful names,” she says. “Not ones I’d
give.” “They’re like twins, though they don’t dress alike and are several years apart,
maybe even nine. Once Sadie was born they started doing almost everything together,
or when she started to walk and talk.” He gives examples. “Then a war came. Their
parents had to fight in the army, so Sadie went with an uncle and Sally with an aunt.”
He’s silent. “What happens next?” she says. “I don’t know. I’m trying to figure it
out. The war goes on for five years. Their parents have disappeared. Nobody knows
if they were killed in battle or taken prisoner and not returned or got lost somewhere
and are in another terrible country trying to get out, or what.” “This is too sad
to listen to before I go to sleep, even if everyone finds one another.” “They don’t
find each other so fast. The separation goes on longer than the war. The uncle and
aunt die of natural causes—heart disease, old age; they’re actually a great-uncle
and great-aunt. The sisters live completely separate lives for more than ten years
after the war. Their parents are dead.” “Oh Daddy, I’ll have nightmares now.” “I’m
sorry. Erase the story.” “You can’t. I already heard it.” “Then I’ll change it.” “How?
It already happened. The sisters could meet again but their parents are dead.” “I
can change it if I want. I made a mistake. I got the wrong lives into my characters.”
“You know you didn’t. Why’d you tell it if you knew it was going to be so scary and
sad? Do you want me to have bad dreams?” “Of course not. I just didn’t know what I
was telling you. Maybe I’m still suffering a little from some after-bang effects from
that accident last week on my head. Or we were talking about you and your future sister,
I started telling a story about two other sisters, and then I got carried away or
didn’t know I was telling it.” “You had to know. You always do when you tell me a
story.” “Sometimes things get in from somewhere deep in you that you’re not aware
of. The unconscious, the subconscious—you know, we’ve talked of it. So maybe I did
it, though I didn’t realize or intend it, because I want you to live with me till
you go to college, and even in college if you want to go to the one I teach at or
another one in the area. And I thought, or those deeper things in me I wasn’t aware
of thought, that the story would make you stay with me more. Because I fear your mother
will take you from me. Rather, that you’ll want to live with her more. That even if
you’re legally mine—meaning, that I’ve legal custody of you till you’re of the age
of consent…Is that it, age of consent? Till you’re of legal age to say where you want
to live—even alone, if you want—and I couldn’t do anything about it, then I could…I
could what? I lost my train of thought. You remember what I started out saying?” “No.”
“I guess it was that your mother will make life very attractive for you living with
her and Tim and the baby. Occasionally in Tahiti and mostly in California and all
their trips abroad and with an attitude that’ll probably be more liberal than mine.
And that you’ll want to live with them permanently, and I won’t be able to deny you
because I’ll want you to be happy so long as it’s safe there and so on, which I’m
sure it’ll be. And then I’ll only see you a few days during the regular year if they
happen to fly to the East Coast and also a month in the summer, even two if you want,
but not enough for me. And maybe you’ll say you’re so happy there, or they’re doing
such great things summers, that you won’t want to come East to me, and then what would
I do? Maybe I should get married again just to have another child in case you leave.
Would you stay with me over your mother if I had another child, even if it was a boy?”
“You can’t have a child.” “The woman I married, I mean, but you knew that. Anyway,
it’s way off the point. I’ll tell you what I told your mother when she first said
she was leaving me—maybe I shouldn’t say this to you.” “Don’t, Daddy, if you don’t
think you should.” “No, it’s okay, it’s not bad, and I know what I’m saying here,
it’s not coming from somewhere else. You ought to go if you feel you have to, that’s
all I said. Oh damn,” because she looks sad, “by your face I can tell I shouldn’t
have said it. Blame my poor head. Or just blame me. But don’t cry, okay? Just don’t
cry.” “I won’t. I’m not feeling like it. But it’s nice she wants me to live with her
after so long, isn’t it?” “Yes it is. Or at least if you think so. That’s the attitude
I should take. That’s the one I will. Because it is good she wants you. It’s never
too late to change, and you’ve got all those young years left. And now I’m looking
for something to end this conversation with, all right, sweetheart?” “Good night,
Daddy. I’m tired. See you in the morning.” “First kiss me good night and brush your
teeth and go to bed. But you already brushed your teeth and are in bed. Good night,
sweetheart,” and kisses her and leaves the room.

Later he thinks of his ex-wife. That scumbag, that wretch, she
would
, and goes into his daughter’s room, sits on the floor and leans his head on her bed
and says “My darling, my dearest, I know you can’t hear me, I don’t know why I’m even
talking like this, but please don’t leave me, not at least till you’re of age.” “Daddy,
what’s wrong?” and he says “Oh, nothing, go back to sleep, dear. I only came in to
see that you’re covered,” and pats her forehead and leaves.

He drinks a little, reads, takes off his clothes and starts exercising vigorously
for the first time since he cut his head. The light’s on; he does the same ones he
did that night. “So that’s why I didn’t see the chair I hit,” he says. “I close my
eyes when I exercise.”

He calls every place he can think of and not one of them has it. He goes downtown
and complains. “You don’t have it. How come, what’s wrong, why you holding it up?”
They say “What are you talking about?” He says “You say you don’t know? Maybe you
really don’t know, maybe that’s why it’s being held up. If that’s the case, case closed.
I mean, if that’s the case, well, case closed. Meaning, well, if that’s the situation,
that you haven’t got it because you don’t know what I’m talking about, then I shouldn’t
bother about it anymore, wouldn’t you say, or is that overstating the case?”

They slam the door on him. First they edge him out of the store. Then past the door
into the street. Then they slam the door on him, lock it. He knows they locked it
because he tries opening the door and the knob won’t turn all the way. The door’s
made of glass, and he knocks on it. Raps, really, raps. The man and woman behind the
door pull the shade down so he can’t see through the glass. Or for another reason,
or a slew of them, like the shade down is a sign to him to go away, or so that they
can’t see him. But a shade, he thinks. Very old-fashioned. He remembers shades like
this when he was a boy. Candy stores had them. Closed for the day, down went the shade.
You didn’t have to have a Closed sign on the door, for the shade down meant the store
was closed for the day or just temporarily; for instance, if the owner went out for
lunch. No, then the owner, or manager, or just the only person working there would
usually put an Out to Lunch sign on the door or Be Back At 1:30 or something, or even
a cardboard clock on the door with the hands pointed to 1:3o and Be Back At above
the clock on the same sign. He knocks some more, raps, but by now has already given
up. Rapped for effect. He’d have been surprised, very, if one of them had opened the
door or even let the shade up.

He doesn’t know what to do now. He wants to get it but so far no one has it, and he
doesn’t know if they even know what exactly it is he wants and, if they did know,
whether they could ever get it. Maybe it isn’t around anymore, doesn’t exist anywhere.
But he wants it very badly, that’s for sure. Maybe a completely different kind of
store will have it or know where he can get it. He sees many different kinds of stores
but selects one that’s completely different from the last one he tried. That one he
found by just getting out of the subway station and going into the first store he
saw. On the phone, same thing. He opened the phone directory’s business pages and
chose at random a few stores to call. One was a bakery, another a dry cleaner’s, another
a sporting goods store. Now he tries a walk-in dental office.

The receptionist, at least the person behind a counter right past the door, says “Can
I help you?” He tells her what he wants. She says “You’ve come to the right place,
all right. Please fill this out,” and hands him a questionnaire and pen. He says “I
have? I must? Well, this has got to be my lucky day, I think.” He sits and starts
filling out the questionnaire. What’s his name? He forgets. What’s his address? Doesn’t
know if he has one. What city does he live in, what state, what’s his zip code, phone
number, profession, age? He doesn’t know, he’s not quite sure, he’s trying to think
what city this is, what state. But concentrate on the city. If it comes, maybe the
rest of the information will, like the shade. Meaning: workday starts, up goes the
shade, and there’s light. Something like that. So: Is this the city he was born in,
grew up in, went to grade school in, college in, worked a number of years in, married
in, had children in, now lives in? Was he ever married, did he ever have children,
does he have a phone number? If he does, what could it be? He’s had lots of phone
numbers. Good, that’s a start. 662-3218. 529-5396. 764-3152. 462-4830. He can remember
about a dozen. But he doesn’t know what previous or present residence of his corresponds
to what number, what city with what number, even what part of his life with what number.
But those are some of the numbers he’s had. He could give more. 448-2623. 724-4706.
816-0029. Maybe he should call several of those and find out where he’s lived. Maybe
even one of those numbers will be the number where he now lives, if he does live anyplace.
Some were work numbers, he thinks, so he also might find out what he did and where.
But he doesn’t remember the area code of any of them, or at least the right area code
for even one of them. So all the numbers, if he reaches any, would be in this city,
and the name of the city is still a blank. More questions: Social Security number,
wife’s name, children’s names, is he married, divorced, single, or is his spouse deceased?
He can’t answer any of the questions, except what sex he is and his Social Security
number—099-63-5124—though he’s not sure if that’s his wife’s number, if he has or
had one, one of his children’s, if he had any, or even for some reason his mother’s
or father’s, or is he just making the number up? Worst of all, he thinks, is he still
can’t remember his name. As a kid he does remember he had a cat named Pat. “Pat Pat,”
his mother used to say and he’d pat Pat. “Pet Rex,” his father used to say and he’d
pet Rex, but who and what was Rex?—he thinks the next-door dog. “Pet and pat this,”
his wife or some other woman or girl used to say, and he’d pet and pat that, but what?
He thinks now he had two wives and that they had the same first name, but one had
an “e” at the end of it and the other didn’t.