Late Stories by Stephen Dixon Page B

I hope I haven’t taken up too much of your time.” She said “Why would you think that? From now on I’m going to make it my duty to see that you start thinking much better of yourself.” They kissed goodbye—a friendly kiss, lasted no more than a second—and during the drive home he thought he hasn’t been this happy for a long time. Things are looking good. Just that she allowed him that quick kiss on the lips.
    He called her that night. Thought for about an hour whether he should do this and then thought why not? He wants to know. She said “What a surprise to hear from you so soon.” “Wrong of me?” and she said “No, I like talking to you. We’ve a lot to say.” “Listen,” he said, “I want to be frank and direct with you. What else can I be at this stage in my life? Do you think something new and promising has started between us?” “It’s a very distinct possibility.” “You know what I mean, of course,” and she said “You don’t have to spell it out for me.” “Oh, that makes me feel good to hear you say that. So let’s do it again, but soon, and how about this time you visit me? I’ll show you around. No canals. But there’s a beautiful reservoir just a half hour from me, and lots of other attractive places. And Baltimore’s a fairly interesting city, if we want to do a little exploringthere.” “All that might be nice,” she said. “Let me see which of the next few weekends I’ll be entirely free. I’ll get back to you.”
    He called her three days later and she said “Was I supposed to call you? I forget. But I’ve been thinking. Maybe it’s not such a good idea I come down. I doubt my old buggy could make it both ways, the train will be too costly, and I’ve a ton of work that’s piled up at my job and it seems it’s going to be like that for weeks.” “The work you might be able to do here. I’ll leave you alone. And I’ll pay for the train fare. I’ve two spare bedrooms, but I’ll put you up at a bed and breakfast if you prefer.” She said “That might be better—the B and B or an inn. It’s sweet of you to offer all this. Let me see. I’ll get back to you.”
    He called her a few days later. “Tell me. Am I bothering you by being so persevering?” he said. “No, I can understand why you called, and I apologize for not calling you. I thought about it—knew what I wanted to say—but kept putting it off. I’ve decided we shouldn’t meet again except as platonic friends.” “Wow, there’s a word I haven’t heard in a while.” “People don’t use it anymore?” “I’m sure they do,” he said. “And a platonic friendship is what I want with you too.” “No you don’t,” she said. “Be honest. You want romance, love, sex, marriage, constant companionship and the like. And you should have all that, after what you’ve gone through, just not with me. I don’t think it’s the right thing for us and I don’t see that it’ll ever be.”
    He was once engaged to her. Almost fifty years ago. He was 24 and she was 23. She broke it off a month or two before the wedding. The ceremony was going to be at his mother’s apartment and the reception, for the twenty or so guests, in a closed-off section of the Great Shanghai, a restaurant on a Hundred-third Street and Broadway. “I’m not ready,” she said. “It’s too soon after my first unfortunate marriage.” Two years before that, when they’d beenseeing each other almost every day for three months, she suddenly disappeared on him—couldn’t be reached by phone and her parents and a couple of her friends didn’t know where she was, when he called them, and she gave no indication she was home when he