Long Made Short by Stephen Dixon Page A

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