Long Made Short by Stephen Dixon Page B

you,” he says. “The problem’s probably what
     you said. It is, let’s face it. One of us has to go because both of us can’t stay,
     and traditionally it’s been the man. But I don’t want to go, I’d hate it. Not so much
     to leave you but him. Not at all to leave you. I’m being honest. Don’t strike out
     against me for it, since it’s not something I’m saying just to hurt you.” “I wouldn’t,”
     she says. “I like honesty. And the feeling’s mutual, which I’m also not saying just
     to get back at you for what you said. But I’m not leaving the boy and traditionally
     the man is, in situations like this, supposed to, or simply has. We’ve seen it. Our
     friends, and friends of friends we’ve heard of, who have split up. The child traditionally
     stays with the woman. And it’s easier, isn’t it, for the one without the child to
     leave than the one who stays with it, and also ends up being a lot easier on the child.
     So I hope that’s the way it’ll turn out. I think we both agree on that or have at
     least agreed on it in our conversation just now.” “Our conversation, which is continuing,”
     he says. “Our conversation, which should conclude. It wouldn’t take you too long to
     pack, would it?” “You know me,” he says, “I never acquired much. Couple of dress shirts,
     two T-shirts, three pairs of socks, not counting the pair I’m wearing, three or four
     handkerchiefs, a tie. Two undershorts, including the one on me, pair of work pants
     in addition to the good pants I’ve on. Sports jacket to match the good pants, work
     jacket and coat, hat, muffler, boots, sneakers, the shoes I’m wearing, and that should
     be it. Belt, of course. Bathing suit and running shorts. Anything I leave behind—some
     books except the one I’m reading and will take—I can pick up some other time. The
     tie, in fact, I can probably leave here; I never use it.” “You might,” she says. “Anyway,
     it’s small enough to take and not use. Take everything so you’ll be done with it.
     So you’re off then? Need any help packing?” “For that amount of stuff? Nah. But one
     last time?” “What, one last time?” she says. “A kiss, a smooch, a feel, a hug, a little
     bit of pressing the old family flesh together, okay?” “You want to make me laugh?
     I’ll laugh. Cry? I’ll do that too. Which do you want me to do?” “Okey-doke, I got
     the message and was only kidding.” “Oh yes, for sure, only kidding, you.” “What’s
     that supposed to mean?” he says. “Oh you don’t know, for sure, oh yes, you bet.” “If
     you’re referring to that smooch talk, what I meant was I’d like to be with my child
     for a few minutes before I go. To hug, squeeze, kiss and explain that I’m not leaving
     him but you. That I’ll see him periodically, or really as much as I can—every other
     day if you’ll let me. You will let me, right?” “For the sake of him, of course, periodically.
     More coffee?” “No thanks,” he says. “Then may I go to my room while you have this
     final get-together with him? Not final; while you say good-by for now?” “Go on. I
     won’t steal him.”
    They move backward, she to the couch, he to the chair. They never drank coffee, never
     made it; never had that conversation. They’re both reading, or she is and he has the
     book on his lap. Their son’s on the floor putting a picture puzzle together. It’s
     a nice domestic scene, he thinks, quiet, the kind he likes best of all. Fire going
     in the fireplace—he made it. A good one too, though fires she makes are just as good.
     It doesn’t give off much heat, fault of the fireplace’s construction, but looks as
     if it does and is beautiful. Thermostat up to sixty-eight so, with the fire, high
     enough to keep the house warm, cozy. He has tea beside him on the side table. On the
     side table beside him. Beside his chair. A Japanese green tea, and he’s shaved fresh
     ginger into it.