14 Stories by Stephen Dixon

could say “Listen, I’m actually the one who should be doing the apologizing, for the truth is I am Judy Louis but for unexplained reasons, which still seem unexplainable to me, I didn’t want to admit it that day. Perhaps because I wasn’t feeling right with myself or plainly just detested myself and you gave me the most ideal opportunity available of momentarily denying my very existence.” Or else “I was really in a rush that day and had no time to talk and surely not about that stifling school, which is the one part of my past life I most urgently want to forget.” And the truth might also be that she hasn’t a boyfriend and only said that to end our chat and discourage me from developing further interest in her. Maybe then I could propose the coffee or beer. If she consented, then at the coffee shop or bar I could suggest we have dinner that night. She could say she has a previous engagement though not one she couldn’t break. We could also see a movie, at her door kiss good night. Forget the kiss and previous engagement: she accepts my dinner invitation outright. The next weekend we could drive to a lake for the day or shore if she likes and bring a picnic there and that evening have an open-air lobster dinner somewhere and if she lives alone she could later invite me in for a nightcap. More likely it would be then we’d first kiss. Because on our first date I’d be ultrareserved and even gallant without seeming like a fop. As I’m sure she’d still be a bit wary of me from my having followed her to the corner when she was waiting for the light and next morning yelling good morning to her across the street and then waving to her whenever I see her those remaining school days and speaking openly to her in a store if it’s in a store I bump into her. The weekend after that we could plan to camp out I’d bring the sleeping bags and just in case there’s a bug problem I’m sure I could also borrow a tent. In a month I could ask to move in with her or if she’s with her parents or roommate we could look for our own place. But I’d prefer going abroad with her for around six weeks. Ancient hotels, inexpensive bistros and cafés. Light and dark native beers and stouts and all the time drawing a chronicle of our trip: everything from the rickety buses and flying buttresses to Judy dressing, undressing, sipping cafés au lait in big fluffy beds. We could return by ship if the fare’s not too steep, rent a flat in this neighborhood so I could be near my school and folks. And maybe after a while we could get married and have a child or get married without having a child or have a child without getting married but living together, loving one another, subbing for most of the year and drawing, engraving, maybe trying my hand at woodcuts and aquatints. I think this will happen one day though I don’t think the woman it will happen with will necessarily be her.

THE SIGNING
    My wife dies. Now I’m alone. I kiss her hands and leave the hospital room. A nurse runs after me as I walk down the hall.
    â€œAre you going to make arrangements now for the deceased?” he says.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen what do you want us to do with the body?”
    â€œBurn it.”
    â€œThat’s not our job.”
    â€œGive it to science.”
    â€œYou’ll have to sign the proper legal papers.”
    â€œGive me them.”
    â€œThey take a while to draw up. Why don’t you wait in the guest lounge?”
    â€œI haven’t time.”
    â€œAnd her toilet things and radio and clothes.”
    â€œI have to go.” I ring for the elevator.
    â€œYou can’t do that.”
    â€œI am.”
    The elevator comes.
    â€œDoctor, doctor,” he yells to a doctor going through some files at the nurse’s station. She stands up. “What is it, nurse?” she says. The elevator door closes. It opens on several floors