Time to Go

by Stephen Dixon

  “At the end?”

  “It wasn’t bad for him, was it? I remember he had a very bad heart. The walls. I hope not.”

  “He died peacefully while watching the news. He must have just went—quick. Nothing painful. Maybe just a second—I don’t know. He didn’t suffer if he only felt pain for a second or two. That’s not suffering.”

  “No. You poor dear. And his poor wife. They didn’t have children, so she must feel very alone. Want me to get you a drink?”

  “No, I’ll be all right. And it’ll only make me sadder.”

  “It also might relax you. No? Water then? Some apple juice?” I shake my head. “Maybe I better rest.”

  “Maybe you should. Want me to work in the other room?”

  “No no, I like having you here.”

  I lie on the bed. Magna goes back to grading papers, turning around to me every other minute. I close my eyes. Images and thoughts of Saul go past. Shaking hands. Wagging a finger at me. Talking to me through his car window. Smiling. Smiling Saul his family called him because of his cheerful disposition. His very bald skull. Wearing a hairpiece for a year before he gave it to Goodwill. “Too vain,” he said, “and what am I hiding? I happen to have a very nice-shaped head.” Teaming up or playing one on one basketball with him in Central Park. He’d been first-string forward for NYU and he was only five-seven. “In those days, “he said, “if you were five-ten you automatically played center.” He wrote me encouraging letters when I was out of work and included a ten or twenty dollar check in the envelope. “Go out to a fancy lunch with it. You’ll feel better after, which will make you more appealing to your interviewers.” He’d get miffed if I didn’t tell him the more important personal and professional news of my life. “Remember, I’m the official Bederman Family Circle chronicler.” He once took a composition class with Thomas Wolfe. “We called him The Giant, but only because of his size. We didn’t know who he was then. We were all sons of European immigrants, so his southern accent had to be translated.”

  “Will, your mother on the phone again,” Magna says. I’ve been asleep for more than an hour. “She sounds even worse than before.”

  “Something about Saul?”

  “I’m not sure. When I told her you were sleeping she said not to wake you, but she’s so distraught I knew she had to speak to you.”

  I go to the phone. “Mom?”

  “I’m sorry to wake you. I told Magna don’t. I have some more bad news to tell you. I didn’t want to so soon after Saul, but I promised Mr. Koven I would.”

  “Larry’s father? Something happened to Larry?”

  “Not to. Larry. Mr. Koven said he didn’t have the heart to tell you himself, but as Larry’s best friend you had to know.”

  “We haven’t been best friends for twenty years. I mean, I like him and I’ve seen him when he came to Chicago on one of his business trips and lance visited him in Phoenix—”

  “That’s just it. His trips. He was away—for over two days—I don’t know to where—and the previous week their dog had died.”

  “Their dog died?”

  “I know it sounds strange, but it’s important to what happened.

  Larry’s very rich according to Mr. Koven. Lives in a mansion with a big swimming pool.”

  “It’s not a mansion, but what is it I’m supposed to know? Their children?”

  “No, they were safely away at college. I don’t like telling this, but he insisted. I said I just told you your uncle died, and he said he was sorry and gave us both his condolences but that this was more important. That uncles die of old age—heart, blocked arteries—but that this is today, somebody young wiped out by tragedy. He wouldn’t sleep unless he knew I told you tonight, because right after it you were supposed to call Larry. He said Larry had asked him for you to call.”

  “His wife?”

  “‘Murdered!’ he screamed into the phone. ‘Murdered, murdered!’ The dog died naturally a week ago, and when Larry got back from his trip he found the house ransacked and his wife strangled. “

  “Oh God no.”

  “They have windows that come right down to the ground, he said. Maybe that’s how they got in. And with no dog barking—maybe they saw Larry leave with his bags and knew about the dog and that the children were away and so came in. They took a few dollars and the stereo and that’s all.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “I wasn’t being petty. Believe me, it’s horrible for me speaking about it. I knew Larry as a boy for twenty years too and Mr. Koven and his wife are always polite to me on the street and several times he’s helped me with legal papers and tax forms. I was talking about the absolute senselessness of it all.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, mom, sorry.”

  “So you’ll call him?”

  “I’ll call. But you sure he wants me to?”

  “Mr. Koven said Larry had definitely asked you to tonight.”

  “Then I will. But what a day, huh? Unbelievable.”

  We say goodnight, I hang up and look at Magna.

  “I heard,” she says. “Are you going to?”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “I think you have to, don’t you?”

  “But tonight? After Saul?”

  “If you can’t, you can’t, and I can certainly understand why you couldn’t, but he might be expecting your call.”

  “What do I say to him?”

  “You say how you feel. Or that you’re too numb to feel anything now. Though I think you’re just supposed to ask what you can do for him. If you can also tell him how I feel about it, please do.”

  “Okay. But I’m not going to wait.”

  I get a glass of vodka and ice and call Larry. He answers and I say “Larry, it’s Will.”

  “Yeah, my dad just phoned and said he spoke to your mother and you were calling. I didn’t ask him to ask you. He got it in his head to speak to you. That maybe only you, because we were so close for so long, could help get me through this, but I told him it wasn’t necessary. But he hasn’t been the same since the funeral Sunday. He’s actually been a bit crazy—wants to sell everything and pack up and go back to Germany, but I told him ‘Nobody’s there now, dad.’ He’ll be okay though.”

  “I can well understand him. And I’m sorry, but I didn’t know around when it happened. Maybe my mother told me, but if she did it went past.”

  “Sure. And my dad told me about Saul. That’s when I almost blew up at him for getting you to call me, but kept it in. I liked Saul. Great guy. Powerful too—oh boy. He was like your oldest brother almost, so to me like my best friend’s oldest brother. Or let’s just say your favorite uncle, right? I loved it that he used to play ball with us. I told June about that a lot. How he came around a few Saturdays a year and got us out to the park with a bat and gloves, or even into the street for stickball, and played till we got tired, not him. A fantastic athlete. So my condolences to you.”

  “And I can’t tell you how I feel about June.”

  “I can’t tell you how I feel either. Maybe they’ll get the crazies who did it, but you never know. Even if they do, where’s it leave me? Oh, questions—forget it. If I say another word about it I’ll crack up right over the phone to you. The girls are with me. They’re fine, they look good. They’re staying another week, so we’re all okay for the time being. I’ll write you maybe. And visit you next time I get to Chicago. I’m a mess, Will, no doubt about it, that’s the biggest truth I’ve said to you so far about me, but a mess is the only way I should really be now, right? And I’m awfully sorry about Saul.”

  “Thanks. Magna wants me to tell you how she feels about June too.”

  “I’ll speak to you.”

  I hang up. “How my going to get to sleep tonight, Mag? How my going to?”

  “Why not just finish your drink, have another if you want, and then call it a night. I still have a dozen papers to grade by morning, but if you want me to I’ll come to bed with you now.�
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  “No, I’ll be all right.” I finish the drink, kiss her goodnight, take off my clothes, get into bed and shut off the light.

  Time to Go

  My father follows me on the street. He says “Don’t go into that store and don’t go into the next one you might want to go into either. Go into none, that’s what I’m saying.” But I stand in front of the door of the jewelry store I heard was the best in the city and am buzzed in. My father’s right behind me, and I nod to the guard and say to the saleswoman after she says “Can I help you?” “Yes, I’m looking for a necklace—amber—I mean jade. I always get the two mixed up. But jade’s what I want: long-lasting, forever, is the symbol, right? This might sound funny, but I want to present the necklace to my wife-to-be as a prenuptial gift.”

  “Doesn’t sound funny to me and you’ve come to the right store.” She takes out a tray of jade necklaces. All have gold around or in them, and when I ask the price of two of them, are too expensive.

  “I don’t want any gold in them, except maybe for the clasp, and these are way too expensive for me.”

  “Much too expensive,” my father says.

  “I’ll show you some a little lower in price.”

  “Much lower in price,” my father says.

  “Maybe a little lower than even that,” I say.

  She puts away the tray she was about to show me and takes out a third tray.

  “These seem darker than I want—to go with her blue eyes and kind of pale skin I mean—but how much is this one?”

  “You can pick it up,” she says. “Jade doesn’t bite.”

  “Just the price,” my father says. “But go on, pick it up. You’ll see how jade’s as cold to feel as it is to look at.”

  I pick it up. “It feels nice, just the right weight, and seems”—holding it out—”the right size for her neck.”

  “Is she around my height?”

  “Five-five.”

  “Then exactly my height and this is the size I’d wear.”

  “I’m sure it’s still too expensive for me.”

  She looks at the tag on it, which seems to be in code: 412xT+. “It goes for three-fifty but I’ll make it two-seventy-five for you.”

  “Way out of my range.”

  “What is your range?”

  “You’re going to wind up with crap,” my father says, “pure crap. If you have to buy a necklace, go somewhere else. I bet you can get this one for a hundred any other place.”

  “Around a hundred, hundred-twenty-five,” I tell her.

  “Let me show you these then.”

  “Here we go again,” my father says.

  “I have to get her something, don’t I?” I tell him. “And I want to, because she wants something she can always wear, treasure—that’ll remind her of me. That’s what she said.”

  “Fine, but what’s she getting you?”

  “How do I know? I hope nothing. I don’t want anything. That’s what I told her.”

  “Oh, you don’t want anything to remind you of her?”

  “She’ll remind me of her. I have her, that’s enough, and besides I don’t like jewelry.”

  “You thinkers: all so romantic and impractical. I wouldn’t get her anything if she isn’t getting you anything. Listen, I like her, don’t misunderstand me: she’s a fine attractive girl and you couldn’t get better if you tried for ten more years. But tit for tat I say. He who gives, receives, and one should be a receiver and giver both.”

  “You’re not getting my point. She wants something and I don’t. I accept that and I wish you would.”

  “Sucker,” he says. “All my boys are suckers. None of them took after me.”

  “Some people might say that was an improvement.”

  “Stupid people might, just as stupid people might make jokes like you just did. If you took after me you would’ve been married sooner, had almost grown-up children, a much better job, three times as much income and been much much happier because your happiness would’ve been going on longer.”

  “Look at this batch,” the saleswoman says, putting another tray of jade necklaces on the counter. I see one I like. A light green, smaller beads, nicely strung with string, no gold on it except the clasp. I hold it up. “I like this one.”

  “Hedge, hedge,” my father says. “Then ask the price and offer her half.”

  “How much is it?” I ask her.

  “A hundred-ten.”

  “Fifty-five or sixty—quick,” my father says.

  “Sounds fair, and this is the first one I really feel good about.”

  “That’s the only way to buy. Janine,” she says to a younger saleswoman, “would you try this on for this gentleman?”

  Janine comes over, smiles and says hello to me, undoes the top two buttons of her blouse and starts on the third.

  “It’s not necessary,” I say.

  “Don’t worry,” the older woman says. “That’s as far as I’ll let her go for that price.”

  Janine holds the necklace to her neck and the older woman clasps it behind her. “Feels wonderful,” Janine says, rolling the beads between her fingers. “This is the one I’d choose of this box—maybe even out of all the boxes despite the more expensive ones.”

  “Who are you working for, him or me?”

  “No, it really feels great.”

  “Don’t fall for their patter,” my father says. “Sixty-five—go no higher. She says seventy-five, say ‘Look, I’m a little short what with all my wedding expensives and all, can’t you take the sixty-five—the most seventy?’ But you got to give them an excuse for accepting your offer, and no crying.”

  “How much is this one again?” I ask her.

  “One-ten,” the older woman says, “but I’ll make it a hundred.”

  “That’s just fine. I didn’t mean to bargain down, but if you say it’s a hundred, fine, I’ll take it.”

  “Idiot,” my father says. “You could’ve had it for seventy easy.”

  “Terrific. Janine, wrap it up special as a prewedding gift. Cash or charge, sir?”

  “You’ll take a check?”

  “Janine, I don’t know this guy, so check his references. If they’re okay, let him pay by check. Thank you, sir. What about calling Michaels now?” she says to a man at the end of the counter and they go in back. I take out my wallet.

  My father sits in a chair next to the guard. “My son,” he says to him. “Nothing like me. Never learned anything I ever taught him and I tried hard as I could. He could’ve been much more successful if he’d listened. But he was stubborn. All my children were stubborn. Neither of my girls had the beauty of their mother and none of my sons the brains of their dad. Health you’d think they’d have had at least, but they didn’t even have that. Oh, this one, he’s healthy enough—strong as an ox. But two I lost to diseases, boy and a girl, and both in their twenties, which was hard for my wife and I to take, before I went myself. So, there you have it. And I hope his bride likes his present. He’s paying enough. Though why he doesn’t insist on getting something in return—hint on it at least if he doesn’t want to insist—or at least insist her family pay for the wedding, is a mystery as much to you as to me. To everyone including his bride, who I admire—don’t think I was just buttering him up there—he says he’s too old to have anyone but him pay for the wedding, and she makes it worse by praising him for what she calls his integrity. Make sense to you? Doesn’t to me. Since to me integrity is great in its place but is best when it pays. All of which is why I hound him the way I do—for his benefit and his only. So. Think it’ll stay as nice out as it is? Ah, what’s the difference?”

  I get off the train from Baltimore, get on the subway for upper Broadway, suddenly my father’s in the car standing beside me. “Welcome home,” he says. “You still going through with giving her that present and making the wedding all by yourselves? Anything you say. I won’t interfere. I can only tell you once, maybe three times, then you have to finish digging your own grave.”r />
  “If that’s really the last time, fine by me,” and I go back to reading my book.

  “Just like when you were a boy. You didn’t like what I said, you pretended I wasn’t there. But I’m here all right. And the truth is, in spite of all the mistakes you made with your life and are still making, I’m wishing you all the luck in the world. You were okay to me at the end—I won’t deny it. I can’t—who could I to?—the way you took care of me when I was sick—so I suppose I should be a little better to you now. Am I right? So do you want to be not only family now but good friends? If so, let’s shake like friends. We kissed a lot when you were young—in fact, right to when I went and then you to me a few seconds after that, which I don’t think if the tables were turned you would’ve got from me—but for a first time let’s just shake.”

  The car’s crowded. Late afternoon Christmas shoppers returning home but not the rush hour riders yet. I’m squeezed right up to him. “Look,” I say, “we can talk but don’t remind me of how sick you were. I don’t want to think of it now. I will say I respected you for a lot of things in your life, especially the way you took the discomfort and pain then, something I told you a number of times but I think you were too out of it to understand me. But you also have to realize, and which I maybe didn’t tell you, how much you screwed me up, and I allowed you to screw me up—whatever the causes or combination of them. I’ve worked out a lot of it, I’ll try to work out the rest, but no real complaints from me for anything now for I’m going through absolutely the best time in my life.”

  “Good, we’re friends,” and he shakes my hand.

  I get off at Magna’s stop. Today began my school’s winter break.

  I head for the revolving exit gate at the end of the platform. A boy of about sixteen’s between me and the woman exiting in front of him. But he’s hesitating, looking around and behind him, at me, the downtown platform across the tracks, the woman who’s now through the gate and walking upstairs, back at me sullenly. I don’t know whether to walk around him or go to the other end of the platform and the main exit. Maybe I’m wrong. He might just be an angry kid who’s hesitating now because he doesn’t know which exit to take, this or the main one. I walk past him but keep my eyes on him. As I’m stepping backwards into the gate he turns to me, sticks his left hand into his side jacket pocket and thrusts it at me, clamps his other hand on my shoulder and says “Give me all your money.” I say “What? What?” and push backwards and revolve around the gate to the other side and he has to pull his hand away or get it caught between the bars.