Long Made Short

by Stephen Dixon

  I go into the living room and say “Excuse me, can I butt in on your work a minute?” and she says “What, your call?” and I say “You wouldn’t believe who it was,” and she says “Ramona Bauer, woman you almost married, one of your three or four great loves and first one of your adult life—I heard you shout her name out,” and I say “It’s been what?” and count back in my head. “Twenty-two years—I remember because to see her I borrowed a car from the other associate editor of the two dick magazines I worked for then, and I only worked there a few months before I got the radio news job. She was living with her boyfriend—now he’s her husband, though they’re divorcing,” and she says “That’s interesting, because you’ve said she called you a number of times like that when she was divorcing or breaking up after a long relationship.” “I didn’t know I told you that,” and she says “Everything, you’ve told me everything, or at least you said you have, about all your old flames.” “What else I tell you about her?” and she says “What else is there? Everything is everything. First one to get on top of you, second or third female to break your heart. That she was reading Dear Theo when you met her. She taught you how to smoke a pipe and then told you your breath stunk from it, so you stopped and never smoked anything again. Her artist father, actor brother, playwright mother.” “That’s right, they were—the parents. Very glamorous sophisticated people,” and she says “You told me that too. How they opened you to things you’d never experienced before—way of life, way to live, martinis, fireplaces, roasted whole duck. Did she ask about me?” “Come to think of it, nothing particular—mostly friends we both knew, and my mother and brothers and sisters. But she said I seemed very happily married and asked your name and I think what you did. And the kids.” “Why do you think she called?” and I say “To renew our friendship, she said, because you know, besides being lovers we were good friends.” “Also, to see if you were still married, I’d say, or had ever got married, really,” and I say “No, she knew—she spoke to someone who told her of my teaching, so he must have mentioned my marriage.” “How long ago?” and I say “A few years, I think.” “Then maybe she thought you could be divorced, as I said, or in the process of getting one. Just, in other words, finding out where you were on those—if you were content in your marriage, even, for all we know.” “What do you mean?” and she says “After everything you’ve said about her, she could be a little sly one, and she might have recently been thinking of you. Because you were always in good shape, thought you might still be in good shape. Remembered your ardor, shall we say?, your intellect, that you were good-looking and always loved kids and now have a secure job—tenure, she might have heard—and she has them, right, kids?” and I say “Two, teens,” and she says “Well then, that’s important, your loving kids, but could be I’m stretching things too far. But are you very happily married, as she said?” and I say “Don’t be silly, you know I am. Very. Mostly. Sure. What are you going on for?” “I don’t know. Sly old lover calls out of the blue after twenty-two years?” “No, she’s more sincere than that.” “Then sincere old lover calls, but probably a little bit wily too. I bet she doesn’t call you again—you make plans to meet?” “No, but she said something about getting together in a couple of weeks. She’s busy, something. She’d come down from New Haven—I told her I couldn’t go up.” “How’d you do that?” and I say “Young kids in school, I like to pick them up, and you’re very involved on your project, and I’ve lots of work to do too. And she wouldn’t come down just to see me but because she comes down periodically, on business—she owns, with some women, a pottery studio or shop. Teaches it, sells, probably exhibits—it’s what she was also interested in, besides acting.” “Well, I bet she never calls and I bet if you called her in two weeks she’d say she’s tied up and she’ll get back to you and never would and would hope you got the message. You’re not free; you’re not a possibility.” “One good thing to say about that is she’s not trying to steal me away from you.” “If she thought things weren’t going well with us, who knows? But let her. I wouldn’t do anything to stop it.” “You wouldn’t at least cry, for that sure as hell would get me running back? Or say to me if I walk out once I’m gone for good as far as you’re concerned?” “But that wouldn’t be the case. I’d put up with your leaving once, doing it to someone behind my back, having a sneaky sloppy affair while still living here. Twice, I don’t think so. But once, I’d probably let you back if someone didn’t come into my life in the meantime, not that there’d be much chance with two kids growing up and so many totally free much younger women around.” “A lot of men would like a mature beautiful woman with kids,” and she says “Beautiful mature twenty-three and beautiful mature forty-three are very different things. So, given the choice, who would—you?” “I did, though admittedly they were twenty-eight, thirty, thirty-three or so, but no older. And, true too, they each only had one kid. But two I don’t think would stop most men—I doubt it would have stopped me—and you look young and your body and mind are youthful.” “Even with the ones you lived with, young as they were, you didn’t stay with them long, and the one you did, you didn’t marry. You in fact told me a short time after we met that one of my attractions was that I was single and childless and of childbearing age.” “It had nothing to do with the children, I don’t think, why these women and I broke up. I wanted to change the pattern with you, as if my luck would change if I did. It was actually hard leaving these women, because of their kids. I ended up loving the children much more than I ever did them. Anyway, she’s not out after me—or wasn’t, before she called. She’s smart and knows that some of whatever it was that kept us from sticking together the first two rounds probably still exists. Our backgrounds, what we both think serious and so on. Too many differences, intellectual and otherwise. Acting. I mean, how could I have thought I could live the rest of my life with an actress, and she with a hermit who likes to work in a hole? She needed someone to really laugh and joke and go to a lot of movies and plays and socialize with, nothing I liked doing and apparently her last husband didn’t either, and she still seems that way. She’d be bored with me and I probably would in ways with her. The initial fleshy and bubbly attraction might still be there but that might be all. Maybe I’m wrong. Besides that, if I took up with someone now, though of course it’s never going to happen, I’d want to have a child by her, since I’m sure you’d take ours. I know, I know. I could see them almost every weekend and month in the summer and so on—holidays for a couple days and probably when it was more convenient to you than me—but it wouldn’t be enough. I’d want one around all the time.” “So, we’re not going to split up—okay. And you had a good conversation with her?” and I say “Very much. You know me, I’m terrible on the phone, almost afraid of it, and this one was easy and what I like best from it—plenty of info, several short bios, some laughs, lots of filling in. Except maybe it was an oversight on her part or some minor quirk not to ask more about you. I admit that. But now and then we all forget what we’re supposed to do in certain situations, even things we want to and have prepared ourselves for. The mind slips. I wouldn’t make anything more of it.”

  The next day I see my mother and say “Remember Ramona Bauer?” and she says “Who’s that?” “Woman I was engaged to when I was in my early twenties and whom I saw and was head over heels for for years—blonde, an actress. Very pretty. Had a couple of good Broadway parts, and one of them when I was seeing her—I even took you to the play. Neither of us liked it but we thought she was very good. Then she broke off the engagement a month or so before we were to be married. This happened during my second time around with her, but I don’t want to make this any more confusing than it has to be.” “No, the engagement breakoff I don’t remember, though it seems something I would. And usually I’m good at things from that far back.” “It was going to be at her parents’ house in Connecticut. A small wedding, which was what we wanted; maybe thirty, forty people.” “I’m sorry, it still doesn’t register.
Maybe I’m not functioning well today.” “Ramona Bauer, Mom. How many Ramonas have I known?” “None, it seems, as far as I’m concerned. Maybe try being more specific about her looks other than for her being pretty and blonde. Anything particularly striking or noticeable about her size or face or manners then?” “Long hair. And a real light blond, not dirty or honey-colored or anything like that. Usually combed straight back and hanging over her shoulders or tied on top into that bun that dancers wear; I think it’s called or was called then a chignon. About your height, maybe a couple of inches taller.” “So my height when I was her age.” “That’s right. And vivacious, very lively, energetic and a very distinctive voice, though I don’t know if I can describe it. A bit throaty, though not from smoking, and every word clear. A trained actress, so she enunciates, but not affected.” She shakes her head. “This might help. Dad objected to her because of her religion, but you didn’t. You both even met her folks, took them to dinner after we got engaged. At a restaurant in the Empire State Building on the ground floor. The Showboat, I think it was called. They might even have had some Dixieland music—I say that because of the restaurant’s name, and somehow the image of these guys playing comes up. Her father was an artist, didn’t do well, but came from old money, which there wasn’t much of by the time it came to his turn. Her mother was a playwright with a couple of hits in the forties and fifties. Or maybe just the forties, and I think both of those were musicals she only did the lyrics or book for. ‘Nelson’ his name was, very handsome eloquent man. I forget her name but I think she also wrote children’s books or was trying to get one published when I met Ramona, plus still doing her plays. You in fact—I just remembered this—at this restaurant, said to her father that you immediately can see whom Ramona takes after. He wasn’t blond—neither was her mother—but their small noses and green eyes and almost everything else about their faces was the same.” “None of it,” she says. “You’d think one small part of it would come back. It has to be the day. I had a bad night.” “I’m sorry. Anyway, she called me, Ramona did.” “What for?” “Because she still considers me her friend after twenty years and would like to see me.” “She married?” and I say “Getting divorced.” “She wants to hook up with you again.” “No, she doesn’t. That’s all over.” “Sure she does. You have a good job, for life if you want. She probably has lots of expenses and mouths to feed and she’s lonely again.” “No, she knows I’m happily married. And her husband—one she’s divorcing—is a successful movie or TV producer or something with public TV. He does well, anyway, from what I could make out, and I’m sure will support her and the two children very well. If she needs it, I’m saying, since she has her own independent work.” “You’re still good-looking—” “How would she know that, not that I am.” “You are. Don’t underestimate yourself. And why you so sure she knew you were married? She wanted to get her hooks into you and, knowing you’re married now, she still might. People get desperate when they reach a certain age.” “She’s not like that. Everything she said on the phone and that I know about her says that.” “How old is she?” “Fifty-three, since she was seven months younger than I. Born in January.” “So she knows that nobody’s going to be interested in her now or at least not like someone who was in love with her and she ran away from.” “She broke off the engagement, she didn’t run away. In fact I saw her for a little while after that and then every now and then for about a year. She decided—what did she decide? Well, it was like Dad said. That our two religions would make us incompatible after a while, since at the time she was so seriously involved with hers. Also, that she knew I’d want children right away—I did, mostly to hold her down; I knew she didn’t want to get married then—and she wanted to wait till she was in her thirties, so she could continue with her acting work. And that’s just what she did, though she got married a couple of times before this long one. No, I’m sure she wants to see me just to resume our friendship. We were very good that way and did sporadically see each other as friends for almost ten years after we stopped being lovers the last time. And nostalgia—people do funny things because of it.” “Like what?” and I say “I don’t know—call up a friend thirty years later on his birthday from ten thousand miles away because it just flashed to them. She didn’t; she’s in Connecticut. Anyway, she said she has the fondest memories of you especially. That you were always wonderful to her—generous, warm, uncritical—and that she wants me to give you a big hug and kiss from her.” “I don’t want a hug from her. I don’t know her, I don’t remember her, and I don’t trust her. Now, if Carolyn wants you to give me a hug and kiss from her, that I’ll accept.”

  FLYING

  She was fooling around with the plane’s door handle. I said “Don’t touch that, sweetheart, you never know what can happen.” Suddenly the door disappeared and she flew out and I yelled “Judith” and saw her looking terrified at me as she was being carried away. I jumped out after her, smiled and held out my arms like wings and yelled “Fly like a bird, my darling, try flying like a bird.” She put out her arms, started flying like me and smiled. I flew nearer to her and when she was close enough I pulled her to my body and said “It’s not so bad flying like this, is it? It’s fun. You hold out one arm and I’ll hold out one of mine and we’ll see where we can get to.” She said “Daddy, you shouldn’t have gone after me, you know that,” and I said “I wouldn’t let you out here all alone. Don’t worry, we’ll be okay if we keep flying like this and, once we’re over land, get ourselves closer and closer to the ground.”

  The plane by now couldn’t be seen. Others could, going different ways, but none seemed to alter their routes for us no matter how much waving I did. It was a clear day, blue sky, no clouds, the sun moving very fast. She said “What’s that?” pointing down and I said “Keep your arm up, we have to continue flying.” She said “I am, but what’s that?” and I said “Looks like a ship but it’s probably an illusion.” “What’s an illusion?” and I said “What a time for word lessons; save them for when we get home. For now just enjoy the flying and hope for no sudden air currents’ shifts.” My other arm held her tightly and I pressed my face into hers. We flew like that, cheek to cheek, our arms out but not moving. I was worried because I hadn’t yet come up with any idea to help us make a safe landing. How do we descend, how do we land smoothly or crash-land without breaking our legs? I’ll hold her legs up and just break mine if it has to come to that. She said “I love you, Daddy, I both like you and love you and always will. I’m never going to get married and move away from home.” I said “Oh well, one day you might, not that I’ll ever really want you to. And me too to you, sweetie, with all that love. I’m glad we’re together like this. A little secret though. For the quickest moment in the plane I thought I wouldn’t jump out after you, that something would hold me back. Now nothing could make me happier than what I did.”

  We left the ocean and we were over cliffs and then the wind shifted and we were being carried north along the coast. We’d been up at almost the same distance from water and land for a long time and I still had no idea how to get down. Then along the coastal road I saw my wife driving our car. Daniel was in the front seat, his hand sticking out the window to feel the breeze. The plane must have reported in about the two people sucked out of the plane, and when Sylvia heard about it she immediately got in the car and started looking for us, thinking I’d be able to take care of things in the air and that the wind would carry us east.

  “Look at them, sweetheart, Mommy and Daniel. He should stick his arm in; what he’s doing is dangerous.” She said “There aren’t any other cars around, so it can’t hurt him.” “But it should be a rule he always observes, just in case he forgets and sticks it out on a crowded highway. And a car could suddenly come the other way. People drive like maniacs on these deserted roads and if one got too close to him his arm could be torn off.” “But the car would be going the other way—wouldn’t it?—so on Mommy’s side, not his,” and I said “Well, the driver of
another car going their way could suddenly lose his head and try and pass on the right and get too close to Daniel’s arm—Daniel,” I screamed, “put your arm back right now. This is Daddy talking.” His arm went back in. Sylvia stopped the car, got out and looked up and yelled “So there you are. Come back now, my darlings; you’ll get yourselves killed.” “Look at her worrying about us, Judith—that’s nice, right?—Don’t worry, Sylvia,” I screamed, “we’re doing just fine, flying. There’s no feeling like it in the world, we’re both quite safe, and once I figure out a way to get us down, we will. If we have to crash-land doing it, don’t worry about Judith—I’ll hold her up and take the whole brunt of it myself. But I think it’s going to be some distance from here, inland or on the coast, so you just go home now and maybe we’ll see you in time for dinner. But you’ll never be able to keep up with us the way this wind’s blowing, and I don’t know how to make us go slower.” “You sure you’ll be all right?” she yelled, and I said “I can hardly hear you anymore, but yes, I think I got everything under control.”