Late Stories by Stephen Dixon Page A

them tremendously, but they come down for weekends now and then.” “Have you ever thought of visiting me? It’d be a good change for you, doing something new, and I’m not that far away. Two, two and a half hours by car.” “I never go anywhere. The local Y; the local food market; that’s about all. Oh, for a book at a nearby bookstore about once a month. I don’t think I’ve been out of Baltimore County since Abby died seven months ago.” “That’s what I’m saying. I’ll show you around here, take you out to dinner, and you can spend the night. I’ve a guest room.” He said “Maybe you’re right. Let me think. No, you’re right. It could be a major emotional breakthrough for me, just reaching the entrance to 95 North, and my kids will love it that I even attempted to get away from the house for a day. They’ll think, next time I might even drive up to see them in New York. Okay, I’m coming. But dinner’s on me. And breakfast out also, if we have that too.”
    He drove to her apartment near Philadelphia. During dinner he thought she’s still so lively and funny and beautiful. In great shape too. Slim, very fit; tight behind. She even shows cleavage of a woman thirty years younger. Same with her skin. Hardly a wrinkle on her face and neck, and nice texture to her hair and just a few wisps of gray. “How can you look so young?” he said. “Pardon me, but we’re almost the same age, and I’ve gotten to look like an old guy.” “No you haven’t,” she said. “And it’s not through surgery. You know I’d never do anything like that to my body. It’s exercise, yoga, long walks every morning, and lots of filtered water and harmless facial oils and creams. And of course healthy organic foods, which is why I chose this restaurant and why it’s a bit pricey. As for my hair, this is its natural color. What can I say?”
    He slept in the guest room. “Oh, one problem,” she said when she invited him to come. “I’ve only been here a few months and haven’t a spare bed yet. I’ll buy it this week. I’ll need it sometime. For instance, if my son ever decides to visit me.” He knew she was short of money, so he said he’d like to pay for the bed. “It’ll probably cost no more than a motel room would, but so what if it costs more.” She got it at Ikea, set it up. He gave her a check for it when he got there.
    He didn’t sleep well. The bed was uncomfortable. And it was a hot muggy night and she didn’t have air conditioning because she never liked it, nor an extra fan. “Take mine,” she said. “The heat doesn’t particularly bother me.” “Wouldn’t think of it,” he said. “I’ll be fine.” He was hoping, as he lay in bed for hours, that she’d knock on his door and say something like “Would you like to sleep in my room with me? With the fan and cross-ventilation, it’s much cooler.”
    They had cold cereal and yogurt and coffee for breakfast. He said he wouldn’t mind a slice of toast and butter if she has, andshe said she was all out of bread. “I should have planned it better. But the nearest natural food market is ten miles from here and I only do one shop a week.” Then they walked for more than an hour along an old restored canal. “I do the same route daily,” she said, “even when it rains. It’s so tranquil. I get my most inspired thoughts here. Poems; even stories, I’ve begun writing. And ways to bring in enough money so I can quit my awful job.” His older daughter called him on his cell phone after they got back and asked how he was. He said in front of Vera “I’m having a great time. I’m so glad I came.”
    He said to her in her building’s parking area before he left “It’s already past one.