Interstate by Stephen Dixon

so easy for her to leave, but nothing I could’ve done—I was crazed, as they say—‘nuts,’” to Saul—“since I knew but couldn’t do anything about it that nothing like finding and knocking off those guys or beating my head blue against a wall would help, and after I left my long-term residence…how much does he know?” and Glen says “ Niente ,” and Saul says “ Niente what?” and she says “Nothing, it means nothing,” “…it was too late for a second wife if she couldn’t be another mother and I was in such ugly shape that none that young could be gotten around,” their other sons’ names again? how come nobody in their family’s got a nickname? his is Nat which he hates for it sounds like a buggy rat, but at the place he works he can’t escape from, what’re they doing this summer for vacation? “Me, I’m staying home for the two weeks I get and just sleep—I’ll be that bushed…oops, sorry again and then for the last time before for not waiting for your answer but I guess I’m in too much of a rush to let you know everything about me before dinner’s finished and you’re gone,” and she says “Don’t worry, there’ll be other times,” and he says “When, you coming in again?” and Glen says usually they go to a British Columbian beach for three weeks but this summer they’re driving to Alaska for a month and he says “Boy, what I wouldn’t have given to do either of those with my family but closer to home in the East—Maine, upper Canada or just Canada, camping and occasionally stopping off at sort of an inexpensive sea resort to sleep and eat and wash off, flying into the ocean with my two kids or if the water’s too cold, into a pool or just stepping into one and splashing and swimming around, worth almost the other fifty working weeks, why didn’t we ever do that? how come I think of these things always much too late?” and she says “Maybe we did them and you don’t remember, for I think we once went to Chincoteague for a weekend—I remember the name and wild ponies or mules by the ocean and that you got me a plastic figure of one that I slept with I loved so much,” and he says “I don’t remember but I’ll have to work on it till I do,” and what did the figure look like? how big? did she give it a name? did it have a mane? attached straps or any apparatus like that? saddle and rider? but wouldn’t if it was wild, dessert, coffee, Glen pays and gets up and taps Saul’s shoulder to and he says “Well, guess I ought to be going too,” and starts to stand and she presses his hand to the table and says “Stay for more coffee, Dad, or another beer—they have a discount record store to go to the likes of which doesn’t exist in our neck of the woods and I’m sure you’ve plenty more you want to talk over with me,” and they go, “It’s been great, Mr. Frey, and hope to see you again soon,” “Nathan, or Nat if you prefer and which I promise to answer to without asking if you like your coffee black or with sugar and milk or cream,” “What do you mean?” “Nothing, just being silly, and I saw and am such a pro that I’ll probably never forget how you like your coffee unless you switch it around from day to day,” “Nice to meet you, Grandpa,” and he kisses Saul’s head when Saul sticks out his hand to shake, and she stares at him while they share another beer and he says “What’re you staring at, do I look that funny, like a big wizened old fart?—excuse me,” and she says “Not at all, for your excuse or your supposition, this is an event and I’m remembering it and then remembering that I’m remembering it to help me not to forget, and what are you saying?—you look fantastic