Long Made Short (7 page)

“Like a glass of wine, some beer?” he asks. “I don’t want to get too sleepy,” she
says. “Maybe I can read a couple of more papers than I thought I could, so I won’t
have to do too many tomorrow.” “Dad?” his son shouts from upstairs. “We’re all out
of toilet paper up here.” “You checked the bathroom closet, the cabinet under the
sink?” “Everyplace.” “To the rescue.” And he gets a roll out of the downstairs bathroom,
runs upstairs, puts the roll in. He goes into his son’s room. The boy’s drawing at
his desk, and he says “Don’t you have to use the toilet?” “I did, but I was thinking
of you and Mom.” “That’s very thoughtful, very. Come on now, though, you have to go
to bed.” The boy gets into bed. “Teeth all combed?” “Everything,” the boy says. “You
don’t want the night light on?” “I don’t need it anymore.” “Good, that’s fine, but
if you change your mind, okay too. Good night, my sweet wonderful kid,” and he bends
down and kisses him on the lips, turns the light off.

He undresses, brushes his teeth, flosses, washes his face, washes his penis and behind
with a washrag, washes the washrag with soap and hangs it on the shower rod, walks
a few steps downstairs and says softly “Sweetheart, I’m going to bed now, to read—you
coming up soon?” “No. And don’t wait up for me. I’m thinking now I’ll just do the
whole bunch of them, no matter how long it takes. Good night.” “Good night.” He gets
into bed, opens a book, reads, feels sleepy, puts the book down, looks at her side
of the bed and thinks “Remember what you promised to think about before? What was
it? Bet you forgot.” Thinks. “Ah,” he says when he remembers what it was. “It’s true,”
he thinks, “I really love her.” “You hear that, dear,” he says low, “do you hear that?
I can’t wait till you get into bed so I can hold ya.” He puts the book and glasses
on the night table, shuts off the light, lies on his back to see if anything else
comes into his head, shuts his eyes, turns over on his side, falls asleep.

She went outside, came back in, pounded her head with her knuckles several times,
went outside again, looked and looked, nowhere to be seen, couldn’t imagine what had
happened, yelled “Henry,” and he appeared, his voice did, from the cellar. “Yes, what’s
up? I’m down here.” “Thank God,” she said and held onto the doors folded over and
then the walls as she went down the stone steps. “Don’t leave me like that anymore,
please.” “Leave you how?” he said. “Like that, like that,” pointing upstairs. “Like
what, like what?” he said, painting a lawn chair, looking up at her for a second.
“Like leaving me. Tell me next time. You know how I am.” “No, I really don’t, or not
exactly. How are you? You’re fine, I can see. But you were worried. Don’t be.” “I
was worried. When I call for you, look for you, go up and downstairs and outside and
down the road and around the house for you? Well, I only called that one time and
I didn’t go down the road looking for you, but I almost did.” “Did you by chance ever
think to call for me earlier or to look down here? When you see the cellar doors open,
assume I’m down it.” “You could have been elsewhere while airing the cellar out.”
“That’s true,” he said, painting, “you’re right. I forgot that’s what I do and it’s
just the kind of day for that.”

She looked around. “I think we should build a staircase inside the house to the cellar.
Then you could go up and down with ease, even evenings if you’d like, for there’d
be a railing and light. And also not get wet in the rain if it’s raining when you
want to come here, or have to put boots on if it’s snowing. And I wouldn’t be searching
franticly for you. I’d open the door to the cellar in the kitchen, let’s say, and
know by the sounds or the light on that you’re down there.” “Then we’d call the cellar
a basement. I never want to have a basement in this house. Then we’d fix it up, put
in a convertible couch and lamps and fixtures on the walls for more lamps and insulate
it so guests would come, or for when they came, and a place to dump the grandkids
when they were being too restless or loud. And fancy windows and then bars on the
windows to protect our valuable lamps and grandkids from vandals and thieves. And
the walls would have to be plastered smooth and then painted bright to cheer up the
room, and the furnace would have to be concealed because it’s an eyesore. And a drop
ceiling to make believe we have no overhead pipes, and pictures in frames and so on.
A mirror. A dehumidifier. A wine rack instead of the boxes the wine comes in I now
use. Never. My parents had that, right down to the bar with two stools and a carbonated
water tap, and it was disgusting. They had to clean it every other week. The floor—I
forgot the floor—was linoleum, and when we left scuff marks on it we got reprimanded
for it. I like the way it is. I open the cellar doors—clement or inclement weather,
who cares? Climb down, do my work, single bulb dangling over the table, furnace like
a furnace, no electrical outlets but the extension socket the light bulb’s in, my
sweater or vest or both if it’s damp or cold, and once a year I use the old broom
to brush away the spiders and spiderwebs and cobwebs.” “But I get worried for you.”
“Then I’ll tell you what, ask yourself why you do.” “Because if I can’t see or hear
you I sometimes think something awful’s happened to you.” “Ask yourself this then:
What could happen to me? I’m healthy. A heart attack? Hell, I could have got one when
I was forty or fifty, and statistics say there was a better chance then, or is that
just with a stroke? And I know my way around and don’t risk injuries and accidents.
If I got pains someplace that might seem unusual, and I know where those places are,
I’d recognize the signs. So from now on, if you want me, look for me further. Upstairs,
downstairs, outside, in. That’s not much looking. Down the cellar—now that’s looking,
or down the road.” “But you weren’t down the road.” “I was, this morning, for the
mail.” “Was there any?” she said. “Nothing useful. Ton of junk mail as usual. And
a letter from Nina. I read it and tore it up.” “You didn’t.” “I didn’t,” and pulled
it from his back pocket and gave it to her. “That was unfair, holding it from me this
long.” “I got disoriented. Distracted, I mean, or involved in something—that’s it.
Came back, had read it on the way back—there’s absolutely nothing new in it, by the
way. Jeremy Junior’s fine, hiccuping more often, that’s all. Jeremy’s busy at work
and thought he was getting the flu. Sunny weather, stormy weather, a film dealing
with values and serious moral questions that we also might want to see on VCR, and
her book’s going well. But then I saw the cellar doors, opened them because I thought
of painting the chair. Now I’m finished,” and put the brush down. “One thing we can
use down here is running water so I can clean my brushes and hands, though not at
the expense of converting this dungeon into a shaped-up basement. Bringing down a
pail of water and leaving the liquid soap here does the trick just as well.” He cleaned
the brush, then his hands, dried everything on his pants. “Maybe a paper-towel roll
would help too, but not a rack for it please. The pail was from a few days ago, if
you’re wondering.” “I’m not,” she said, reading the letter. “Is what she says in it
any different than what I said? I tend to miss things, and not read between lines.
Oh, this is getting us nowhere. Let’s go upstairs.” “What’s getting us nowhere?” she
said. “I don’t know. I just said it to get us out of here,” and he shut the light.

He grabbed her elbow and moved her to the steps. They went up them, she holding onto
his arm till she was able to grab the edge of one of the folded-up cellar doors. When
they reached the top, a bird swooped down on them. “Duck,” he said, pushing her head
down till she was on her knees with him. The bird came a few inches from hitting them.
“That crow was aiming at us,” he said. “Where’s my gun?” “You have no gun,” she said.
“I don’t, huh?” He pointed his finger at the crow, which was circling about fifty
feet up, followed its movements with his finger for a while, then said “Bang-bang,
you’re dead, you bum.” The crow’s wings collapsed, and it dropped to the ground some
twenty feet from them. “I don’t believe it. Did you see that?” “I saw it,” she said,
“and I don’t believe it either.” “With this gun,” holding up his finger. “Do you think
if I pointed it your way and said bang-bang, I’d knock you off too?” “Why, you want
to? Anyway, don’t try.” “But it’s ridiculous. Just by going bang-bang, I killed that
bird. And I had a bead on him too. ‘Bead’ is the word they use for it—out West or
in criminal or law-enforcement circles—right?” “You’re asking me?” “Bead, a bead,
or maybe it’s ‘draw a bead,’ but like you’re aiming.” “The beads I know are little
stones and ornaments around the neck and droplets and so on. Of sweat. I still can’t
believe what you did though.” “Neither can I. I aimed my finger at it—like this,”
and he pointed his finger at her, “and then when it seemed to be closest to me and
my hand wasn’t shaking so much, I fired. Bang-bang. I didn’t pull any trigger, though,
meaning, use another finger as if I were pulling one.” He still had his finger on
her. “Maybe I should move it away from you just to be safe.” “Don’t be silly. We both
are. It was a coincidence. The crow died of a heart attack, but not one brought on
by you, or something like that when you pretended to shoot it. Pull it if you want.
Shoot it. Go bang-bang, even bang-bang-bang. Three shots for the price of two. Suddenly
today I’m feeling very brave.” “Bang-bang,” he said. Her face got distorted, hands
sort of stiffened into claws, and she fell to the ground. “Darling,” he said and got
on his knees. Her eyes were closed. She was on her side, and he put his ear to her
chest, moved it around above her breasts, her back about where he thought her heart
would be behind, then her nose and mouth. He didn’t hear or feel anything. He did
it again: chest, back, nose and mouth, and then put his mouth on hers, kept her mouth
open with his hands, and breathed into it, took his mouth away, took in a mouthful
of air, breathed into her again, pulled away. “Oh Christ, what have I done? What have
I done, goddamnit?” he screamed out. He stood, forced his fist into his palm, screamed
“What the hell have I done? I’ve killed my wife. It can’t be so.” Got on the ground,
listened to her chest, mouth, put his hand on her neck where he thought her pulse
might be, was none, felt around her neck and temples, didn’t try her wrist because
he was never able to find it there, turned her over on her stomach, straddled her,
did what he thought was the thing to do to get someone breathing again. Pushed down
with his hands, sat up, pushed, sat up. Lay down next to her and put his ear to her
mouth; turned her over and put his ear where he thought her heart was. Nothing. He
pointed his finger and pressed it into his forehead. “Bang-bang,” he said. “Bang-bang.
Bang-bang.” I’m not shot, he thought. Not even hurt. “Come on, sweetheart, you got
to be kidding.” He sat her up, held her while he listened to where he thought her
heart was. Thought he heard something. Touched her neck. He felt something. Forced
her eyes open. They looked alive. She smiled.
“You,”
he said, “you nearly gave me a heart attack there.” “You’d kill yourself for me?
I peeked. Oh my dearest,” and she hugged him. “Yes I would,” he said. “I was so full
of guilt and everything else. Sadness. I suddenly believed…well, who wouldn’t after
he shot that bird down? The bird,” and he stood up, helped her up and ran to where
the crow had landed.

It was still there. “I don’t want to put my head near its heart or beak, for those
things can bite. No wonder I hit it. Look at its size.” “Kick it,” she said, walking
over. “You mean nudge it with my foot. Okay. But if it jumps it’s going to startle
me.” He touched it with the tip of his shoe, then jabbed it. The crow moved but didn’t
seem alive. “Think it’s alive but just pretending?” he said. “I wouldn’t doubt it—Seriously,”
she said, “I don’t think so. I think it got that heart attack or the cerebral equal
of one—a flying stroke or something winged animals get only when they’re flying, and
not particularly when people below are shooting their fingers at them, but that’s
all. Your bang-bang and its fatal heart failure or stroke are only coincidental, one
chance in a million, and it came up today.” “I hope so. Because I wouldn’t want to
personally kill anything living like that. But come on, crow,” he said to the bird,
“move, move, get up, fly or walk away. Do your messy garbage-bag biting and picking,
your squawking, keeping us up when we want to take afternoon naps or sleep late. Do
what the hell you’re supposed to and don’t make me feel bad, because the one-in-a-million
coincidence I can’t prove.”

The crow began fidgeting, stood up—they backed away—flapped its wings, seemed to be
testing its feet out on the ground, flapped some more, tried to fly, looked at them,
walked backward away from them a few feet, flapped harder while it walked frontward
even farther away from them and took off, flew a few inches off the ground several
yards, then up to the sky. He pointed his finger at it, held his wrist while he got
a bead on it. She said “Don’t chance it; not today. Maybe you did kill it and then
your little entreaty before brought it back to life, and you won’t be so fortunate
the next time.” He said “Just a test to prove my supernatural or whatever-you-want-to-call-them
powers—powers I never had that I know of but am now naturally curious to see if I
do—Hold it. Steady, steady. I’ve got it. Bang-bang. And bang, just in case.” The crow
flew on, settled in a tree. “Maybe I missed.” “Or you wounded it,” she said. “Well,
I’m not going to find out. In fact, no more games or tests like that. In fact, I’m
throwing away my gun,” and flicked his hand to the side. They heard a clump in the
grass about ten feet away in the direction he’d flicked to. “You believe that?” “It
must be a rabbit or squirrel,” she said, “or a mouse.” “Probably a mouse.” “But then
again, who knows? Though we should try to find out.”

She went over to where they’d heard the clump. Nothing moved. “Maybe it’s already
gone,” she said. “Or it could have been something that just went down a hole, didn’t
need to go through the grass. But we won’t tell anybody about all this, okay?” “I
don’t know,” he said. “It’s a good story to tell, raises lots of interesting questions,
puts what you didn’t think you thought right out there, right? And we’re having dinner
with the Chamberlains later and they’re so dull that they’re wonderful to shock, so
why not?” “It might be somewhat off-putting to them. They’ll think we’re getting loony
and they’ll tell people, and then everyone will think we’ve become peculiar.” “Let
them,” he said. “If they don’t like it, let them ostracize us too. Then we won’t have
to return the dinner invitation to the Chamberlains and all our other dull neighbors
who sort of force us to socialize more than we like. Let the whole town know, for
all I care. It’ll give us more time to ourselves and what we really like to do. Like
reading, for God’s sake. I’m going in to read. Like a good cup of hot tea, or a drink?”
“I’ll make it for you,” she said. “No, it was my suggestion, and what I want to do,
and you put up and will probably still have to put up with all my antics today, so
I’ll make it for you.”