“That money was nine years ago. I didn’t ask for a cent of it but she thought I deserved it because of the four years I helped her with you. And I used it to good purpose. I lived off it and worked hard on what I wanted to work on for one entire year.”
“Oh, just pay anything he asks no matter how high. In fact, when he says his fee, say ‘No, it’s too little,’ and double him. That’s the kind of schmo I sometimes think you can be.”
We’re being married in Magna’s apartment. The rabbi’s talking about what the sharing of the wine means. My mother’s there. My brother and sister and their spouses. My nieces and an uncle and aunt. Magna’s parents and cousins and her uncle and aunts. A few of our friends and their children. My father. He looks tired and ill. He’s dressed for the wedding, has on his best suit, though it needs to be pressed. He sits down on the piano bench he’s so tired. The rabbi pronounces us married. I’m trying. Magna smiles and starts to cry. My mother says “What is this? You’re not supposed to be crying, but go ahead. Tears of happiness.”
“Kiss the bride,” my sister says. I kiss Magna. Then I kiss my mother and Magna’s mother and shake Magna’s father’s hand while I kiss his cheek. I kiss Magna again and then my sister and brother and brother’s wife and my nieces and aunt and uncle and Magna’s aunts and uncle. Then our friends and Magna’s female cousin and I shake the hand of her male cousin and say “Oh what the hell,” and kiss his cheek and the cheek of my sister’s husband and the rabbi’s cheek too. I look over to the bench. My father’s crying. His head’s bent way over and he dabs his eyes with old tissues. He starts making loud sobbing noises. “Excuse me,” I say and I go over to him, get on my knees, put my arms around his lower legs and my head on his thighs. He’s sitting up straight now and pats my head. “My boy,” he says. “You’re a good sweet kid. I’m actually having a great time. And there was no real harm meant between us and never was, am I right? Sure, we got angry as hell at one another lots of times, but I’ve always had a special feeling for you deep down. It’s true, you don’t have to believe me, but it’s true. And I’m so happy for you. I’m crying because I’m that happy. I’m also crying because I think it’s wonderful you’re all together today and so happy, and I’m glad I’m here. Your other sister and brother, it’d be grand if they were here too.” I look around for them. “Maybe they couldn’t find the right clothes,” I say. I get on one knee and hug him with my cheek pressed against his and then he disappears.
Eating the Placenta
Class is over, I go to my office and call Magna.
“Will, listen, you must come home. I think it’s started.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve had contractions since five o’clock and bleeding. There—there goes another one. I’m not in pain, just a little uncomfortable, but please hurry.”
I look for a book to bring to the hospital. The doctor said the whole process might take fifteen hours, might take thirty. Two books, just in case. I slip into my jacket pockets two books I’ve been wanting to read for a long time.
“Mr. Taub, may I speak to you a minute?”
“I’m sorry, Gene, I’m in a rush—my wife. She just called. I mean I called her. We were supposed to go swimming at the gym, but she said her labor contractions have started. Today might be the day we have the baby.”
“Oh, that’s really something. Really, congratulations. They’re premature congratulations, but I know everything will turn out all right for you both. But this will take only a few seconds. It’s about what you said on the story you handed back to me today.”
“Honestly, Gene, whatever I said doesn’t mean anything right now. It means a lot to you—that’s not what I’m saying—just that I have to go.”
“I understand, but I just wanted to know—”
“What? Please, I said I have to go. My wife’s gone into labor.”
“Of course. I shouldn’t have stopped you. I didn’t know, and now I shouldn’t still be stopping you. And regular office hours would be better. Could I see you here Friday at your regular two o’clock appointment time?”
“If I’m here, Gene, if I’m here. Excuse me, I have to lock up.” I look for my keys.
“Your keys. Over there on the desk.”
“I’m a little nervous, you can see that. So forget anything I say or do from now on.”
“Sure, the baby—who wouldn’t be? Mind if I walk part of the way with you? We live in the same direction. You are heading home, am I right?”
“Home. I’m going to have to walk fast.”
“No problem, I’m a fast walker.”
I lock the door, we leave the building. “Maybe along the way,” he says, “you can explain to me what you meant on the second page here, third paragraph”—he holds out his manuscript—”that my narrative ‘shows no movement forward,’ I thought the point of my story—the point I wanted to make, at least, and whether I did it successfully isn’t for me to judge, I think you once said. That the judges are the readers, not the writers. That the writer’s job is just to—”
“Did I say all that? If I did, I don’t know what I meant, at least not now.”
“Still, my point wasn’t to show plot but style, not to move forward in the story but to remain stagnant, not to—”
“Look, I can’t talk about it. You’re holding me up, and I have to hustle. I’m in fact going to run.”
“Because your wife’s in labor?”
“What do you think?”
“Was this the first time she called to say she was having contractions?”
“Yes.”
“Then I wouldn’t worry. I know something about it and the first time or two is usually a false alarm. It was with my mother when she had me and my older brother and my younger sisters, but the last two she didn’t overreact on. False alarms all four times. I think they call them false contractions.”
“She’s had those false contractions for months.”
“I didn’t mean false contractions. I know what those are too. But false alarms. Or false labor. When the contractions can actually be timed. With the false contractions they can’t be timed—the stomach just stiffens up. So I wouldn’t run if I were you because sooner you get home, sooner you’ll probably want to go to the hospital. And I bet after the doctors examine her they’ll send her home. That’s what they did with my mother the first two times till she learned. And my older brother’s wife too. But only once with her. A week after she went to the hospital with that false alarm or false labor, she got real labor pains and that’s when the hospital admitted her. She lost the baby though.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It practically devastated her. My brother took it badly but okay. Anyway, I hope I got my point across before about this thing,” waving his manuscript. “That my story wasn’t supposed to move forward at all. It was supposed to—”
“I know. It’s clear to me now. And if you don’t mind I’m going to go.”
“Not at all. I hope I haven’t detained you too long.”
“To tell you the truth, Gene—yes, why not? To tell you the truth I’m kind of surprised that—well, just that I think you have kind of a nerve detaining me as long as you have and I’ve been kind of stupid or remiss or something in letting you.”
“I don’t think that’s fair. What did I do? Actually, if you take what I’ve said about labor pains seriously, I’m probably stopping you both from rushing to the hospital and then being sent right home.”
“Stopping us? Hey babe, maybe my wife is in pain right now, did you ever think of that?”
“I’m sure she isn’t, if these are her first contractions, but I’m sorry—you should go. And I just hope this isn’t going to affect your attitude to me in class and my grade.”
“You know what I think about grades in my class.”
“Then just your attitude to me.”
“I don’t see how it can’t, but I’ll try not to let it.”
“Thank you, because I didn’t me
an any harm. And I certainly don’t have anything but the greatest respect for you as a teacher and also as a—”
“Forget your respect and telling me how much you have. You know what I think about that too.”
“Right. ‘Don’t you praise me, let me just praise you.’ A bit onesided perhaps, but I’m sure your line of reasoning in that area is valid and very fair. But could I—as long as we’re thrashing it out—mention one more thing about my story and then let you go?”
“What are you—”
“It’s a minor point. You said at the end of your critique—and I appreciate every one of them, especially for their thoroughness, despite what I’ve said about anything else here—that my story has no ending. I think I discussed with you in our last conference that one of my principles, if you like, about my writing is not to write stories with endings. That life—though we as creatures die—has no ending, and that stories, when I finish them—ah, let’s scrap that ‘life’ business for the time being, since it’s weighing it down too much and I think complicating my argument unnecessarily. Just that my stories or longer fictions have no endings, period. I just don’t like the contrivance of endings and I doubt I’ll ever write—”
I take his story from him. He points to the second page of my critique and says “Right here you said it.”
“Do you have a copy of this original?”
“This is the copy of the original. You told us to make at least one—that you wouldn’t be responsible for losing a manuscript turned in, though you’ve never lost one in four years of teaching.”
“You know where the original is?”
“Sure, in my writing desk, why? What are you going to do, tear this copy up?”
“That’s right, I am.” I tear it in half and throw it in the air. “Did I make my point or do I have to go after your pen and pad?”
“Sloppy,” he says, looking at the pieces on the ground. “Who do you think picks them up, God? An angel? Hardworking workmen pick them up. Or concerned passerbys, if we’re lucky, who don’t like seeing messes like this blowing all over the campus. It’s unaesthetic.” He picks up the half still stapled and some of the other pieces. I grab the stapled half from him and tear it into smaller pieces and stick half of them into my jacket pocket and try stuffing the other half into his shirt pocket.
“What are you doing?” he says, pushing my hand away. “You’re crazy, did you know that? I’m dropping out of your class.”
“Good,” and I walk away.
“Besides all that, I hope your wife has a very safe delivery.”
“Oh, thanks,” I say without turning around, and start running the five blocks to my apartment building. I’m three blocks from it when a bicycle pulls up beside me and continues moving at my speed.
“I had to steal this bike to catch up with you,” he says. “I’ll get it back before the owner finds out. Stupid guy, just had a chain wrapped around it with no lock.”
“How do you know it’s a guy?” I say, still running.
“It’s a man’s bike. But you’re probably right. A writer should be an acute observer of the most seemingly trivial things in life, you once said, but also shouldn’t make summary judgments or general statements in his fiction without providing the reader with the correct facts.”
“‘Correct facts’? ‘Summary judgments’? No, no. Again, you either misquoted me to some incredible degree or are mixing me up with another teacher. Anyway, I’m going to stop saying things that sound anything like a quote or maxim or whatever if students are going to start repeating me.”
“That’s what I like about you and the way you teach—that you don’t pretend to know all the time why things in writing work. That’s what everyone likes about you in class.”
“Good. Look, you stole a bicycle, so it must be important what you have to say.”
“I wanted to apologize to you. I can understand why you tore up my story, and I don’t want to drop out of your class.”
“Tearing it up was dumb of me—overwrought, sensational; and you want to stay, fine, stay.”
“Do you know if it’s a girl or boy yet?”
“No.”
“I thought because of your age and your wife’s you would have had an amniocentesis done.”
“We did but didn’t want to know the sex.”
“While your doctor knows? That’s interesting. But I can also understand why you wouldn’t, though I’d want to know.”
“Hey. It’s difficult to talk and run at the same time. And even if I’m going at a good speed, I think I could run faster if you weren’t right next to me and scaring me that at any moment you’ll lose control of a bike you’re unfamiliar with and swerve into me.”
“How about if I pace you then? I’ll stay a few feet in front and in that way provide a service to your getting home sooner.”
“I’d feel safer if I did it alone.”
“Okay. Just wanted to be helpful. And if I haven’t said it a million times, I think you’re a terrific writer, Mr. Taub, whatever I think of your teaching—which is good but not as good as your writing. And much luck to you and your wife—if not today, if you don’t have the baby, then whenever when.”
“Thank you.” I wave. He turns around.
I reach the building, run up the three flights and unlock the front door. “Magna?”
“In here.” She’s in the kitchen making a pesto sauce in the blender. Big pot of water’s coming to a boil on the stove. “Salad’s already prepared, though you might want to do a dressing.”
“What’s this? Contractions stopped?”
“No. Here.” She points to her lips and I kiss them. “Since we probably won’t have to leave for hours, I thought you should have dinner. I can’t. Then we might even read or you read to me, and if the contractions still aren’t regular, we’ll go to sleep and see what happens.”
“Great, fine, but I thought we had to go to the hospital now.
And I’m sorry, I would’ve been here much sooner, but this student—Gene Kyplie?—I’ve mentioned him before.”
“‘Big mouth Gene’?”
“I can’t believe this kid. Today he—”
Phone rings. “If it’s one of our parents,” she says, “say nothing. That I’m okay, everything’s the same—resting now—but let’s not tell them things have started or they’ll never stop worrying.”
“Got you.” I run to my workroom. “Hello?”
“It’s Gene. How is Mrs. Taub?”
“She’s fine.”
“I was thinking. If you need a ride to the hospital—and I’m not saying on a stolen bicycle—or feel too nervous to do the driving yourself, I could—”
“We’re not leaving yet.”
“False labor?”
“No, seems real enough. Just that we’re going to spend the first hours of it at home.”
“That’s smart. That’s what my mother did with my two sisters. Why go unless the contractions are coming regularly? That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll just get bored to death there and then have to come home, just as I said. It’s going to be a long haul. The first one always is. But let me give you my phone number in case you do need a driver. I can drive you in your car or mine. I’m only a five-minute walk to your place, and by car, less than two.”
“Gene, we’ll be all right. Thanks for your thoughtfulness.”
“No problem. You’ve been more than thoughtful to me in class. And your long written critiques and some of the office discussions we’ve had—”
“Good, I’m glad, but I have to go.”
“Before you do may I ask one more thing? I mean, since there’s no emergency now.”
“What is it?”
“It’s about my story. Is it okay to speak of it now?”
“Go ahead. One thing. What?”
“You once said that every first line of a story should get the reader right into the story. Should sort of pull him right in. That’s the s
ame thing, I realize. But you said the first line should usually be brisk, brief, with almost no adjectives if we can help it, and be something like the first line of a news story. To get the how, why, what—”
“I didn’t say like a news story. I said—”
“Anyway, it’s been one of the greater points of our disagreement. Since you also said that there are no rules to writing except one which really isn’t a rule and that’s to write as well and as honestly and uncompromisingly as one can. Terif. I go along with that. What’s not to? So why the rules that a story must have an ending and that the first line should get the reader right into the story? Because don’t believe and never have and maybe I never will, though I admit I’ll change some of my attitudes about writing in the future and maybe this will be one of them, that a story should grab the reader from the start. I believe the first line should show the style of the writing rather than the content of the story. Should stamp the writer’s mark on the page rather than the narrator’s. Should say to the reader ‘Okay, pal—or enemy, or whatever you are to me—I the writer—’”
“I got to go, Gene. Seriously, something’s changed. My wife, she just came into the room and—oh my God, she’s having the baby right now. Hold it, honey, wait—there, my arms are out, let it come—push, push—holy God, I can see the head.”
“If your arms are out—since one of your other big points about writing is plausibility, something else I can argue against strongly—how are you able to hold the receiver?”
“Lots of ways. It could be one of those receiverless phones you can talk to from any place in the room. But it’s between my shoulder and neck—how could you have missed that?—and now—hold it, Gene.—Okay, honey, here comes another contraction. Push, push—one more should do it—got it. What do you know, a boy. What do you want to name it? Gene? Nah, I don’t like that name. Here, let’s get the mucous out of its nose and mouth before we do anything. There—great—and sponge its top and then in a blanket and under the light bulb to keep it warm. Want me to bite through the cord now?”
Time to Go Page 18
