30 Pieces of a Novel (12 page)

IN THE CAR
, heading for kindergarten, Fanny seated beside him with her lunch box and a tiny flexible Disney character on her lap, “Now we're on the peaks of Tunisia, making for the wee seaweed-green beach,” and she says, “What do you mean? It's freezing today,” and he says, “Imagination, you gotta try using it,” and she says, “Are we late for school?” and he says, “We're going down a big hill, that's all, and on time, and after coasting on the crest of it, or cresting on the coast of it—okay, the first one, you like accuracy, one tap for the brake, two taps for a little squeeze,” and taps her shoulder twice, a private signal between them, and she smiles and squeezes his arm, and he says, “What a babe,” when he realizes the brake tap didn't slow the car any, and he taps it again, thinking maybe the first tap was too light, and it's not slowing but going faster, and he jams his foot down and nothing happens, and he says, “Oh, shit, the brakes, they're not working, what do I do?” and she screams and he yells, “Put your foot down—your voice—shut up!” and thinks, Emergency brake, and puts his foot on it and the car screeches and starts stopping, and he thinks, Curb, and steers the car right and goes over the curb—when he hoped it might stop the front wheels—and into the bushes and through about twenty feet of them, car slowing all the time, before a thin tree stops it. He looks at her. She's crying but all right, no cuts or blood, window's intact, no broken glass, and he says, “You didn't bang your head or any part when we were stopping, did you?” and she shakes her head, and he says, “Oh, God, now I can cry too,” and starts crying and continues to for a minute or more, hands over his face, when she taps his shoulder and he doesn't respond and she squeezes his arm twice and he thinks, The signal? and looks up, thinking what a crazy time for her to want to play their game, for when she squeezes him first he's supposed to tap his foot on something twice as many times as she squeezed him—he doesn't know how they came to that ratio, maybe their heights—and she says, “It's over, Daddy, car's stopped. If it won't work now, can you walk me to school? I'll be late,” and he says, “The engine,” and turns it off and has her come out his door because hers is blocked by bushes.

HIS WIFE
'
S GIVING
her a bath, he takes pictures of the two of them in the tub; then she says, “I'd like to shampoo but not in the tub with her; can you look after her till I come back or, if she wants to, just get her out and dry her?” and he puts down the camera, sits on the tub ledge, and his wife steps out, dries herself, and goes down the hallway to the other bathroom, and he says to Fanny, “Mommy wash you good or are you just in here for playing?” and she says, “Come in to play with me,” and he says, “I'd have to take off my clothes and I don't want to. Anyway, I don't like going into dirty water. I like for my water to start out clean and then for me to dirty it. Or if I'm giving you a bath but am in the tub with you from the beginning, then for us to make it dirty and soapy together,” when the phone rings, he yells “Sally, you in the shower yet?” and she says, “I'm on the toilet; let it ring,” and he thinks how he hates to let a phone ring—who knows who it can be, something about his mother or something important concerning work?—when there's a big splash behind him—he's been facing the door since the phone rang—and he turns around and she's under the water, only her feet above it, and he shoves his hands in, water's murky, he can't see her, and quickly feels around and gets her under the arms and jerks her out and holds her up so he can see her face, and her head's slumped and her face has the look of a drowned person, or what he'd think would be one, water running out of her mouth and nose, the eyes looking lifeless, and he holds her upside down over his shoulder and slaps her back and she coughs and he slaps it again and says, “Cough, cough some more,” and she chokes and he holds her right-end-up in front of him again and she spits more water out and he says, “You okay? Speak to me,” and the shower in the other bathroom's going and she starts screaming and he says, “Jesus, you gave me a scare, what were you doing? Shh, shh, it's all right, you'll be okay now,” and hugs her to his chest till she's only sobbing quietly. “And please, sweetheart, don't tell your mother”—sitting her on the toilet seat cover and drying her body with a towel—“if you do she'll never want to leave you alone with me anymore; you hear me, you hear?” and she nods, and he dries as much of her hair as he can and powders her and puts her bathrobe on her, she sobbing all the time. “What's the matter?” his wife says, standing at the door, hair wrapped in a towel. “And how'd you get your clothes so wet?” and he says, “Splashing … Fanny. And boy, that was a speedy shampoo. How'd you do it so fast?” and she says, “Was it faster than usual? Didn't realize. I guess I didn't think you'd want to be left with her so long; it can be boring if you're not in there splashing with her. Why's she crying? What's wrong, dearest?” and he says, “Maybe she was in there too long and the water got cold, or the air was when she got out,” and lifts the rubber disk off the tub drain—regular stopper doesn't work—and the water goes. “I fell in,” Fanny says to her, and he says, “Oh, just a little, and maybe that's what the crying is, but I always had her hand.”

HE
'
S WAITING FOR
the light to change on Amsterdam, cars roaring north past him, on his way to see his mother, got off the bus on Broadway, unfolded the stroller, and strapped Fanny in; now she's sleeping peacefully, head to one side, hair spilled over her face and both hands holding a shaggy stuffed animal, when a sudden breeze moves the stroller a little and he grabs the right cane-shaped handle with one hand and then a terrific wind and he's about to grab the other handle when the stroller's lifted a few inches off the ground and he lunges at it and misses and it's blown into the avenue and lands on its wheels a few feet away and starts rolling farther into the avenue as he runs after it and he grabs one of the handles and looks around, he's about ten feet into the avenue and no cars are near him and he pulls the stroller back to the sidewalk, cars and trucks going past fast and a couple of them honking at him no doubt, stupid man, taking a kid's life in his hands like that, why doesn't he wait till the light's green before crossing? He clutches the handles with both hands, backs up to a store window, can't believe it, where'd such a wind come from, how could it be so strong to lift a stroller with a kid in it? It means he can't let go of the stroller for a second when he's outside, or not till he's absolutely sure the air's calm and only when she's about ten to fifteen pounds heavier, but never on the street no matter how heavy she is, never. It could have rolled farther and would certainly have been hit by a car or truck and that would have been it, she would have been mangled and crushed, all her bones broken, the worst that he could think of and then some, head split open, limbs torn off and carried a few hundred feet, or maybe the stroller, with her strapped in it, carried or dragged a block before the car stopped
if
it stopped, and then other cars running over it and maybe even dragging the torn-off parts. Light's green but he stands there clutching the handles, shaking; wind's died down to nothing, or nothing he can feel, maybe it's because of where he's standing, up against a building, but maybe he's become numb, maybe that's it, from what just happened, but get off this damn Amsterdam, he thinks, it's a wind tunnel here, calm now, you think you're free of it and can push your stroller where you please, when it can suddenly pick up with even worse force than before, and he starts to cross but an approaching truck gives him the long horn and when he looks across the street at the traffic light he sees he's walking against it, “And with your kid,” the driver yells out the window, “you fucking idiot!” He gets back to the sidewalk and waits till the light's green, always holding the handles tight. Then he starts across, eyes on the light and street, freezes when a car enters the avenue from the side street, but it's going to let him pass, he can make out a hand inside waving him on, and he mouths his thanks and runs across to the sidewalk and up the curb cut and looks at her, but she's slept through the whole thing, same position, hair blown over her forehead a different way, but not a peep.

SITTING AT HIS
desk and looking out the bedroom window, just really staring into space to help him think how he wants to word something he's writing, when he sees her riding her bike onto the road from their driveway, and he yells, “Fanny! Fanny!”—regular windows and storm ones are closed but he yelled so loud she still might have heard him—and stands, and she keeps riding and now he can't see her because of the bushes and trees, and a car honks and then tires screech and he runs out of the bedroom for the door—it could have been one car honking and another coming the other way or behind it, screeching—and the living room door, not the kitchen one he usually uses because it opens onto the carport and is closest to the driveway—but no bang, he thinks, didn't hear one or a crash or scream so maybe she's okay—and gets out of the house and runs down the few feet of grass and across the little footbridge separating the road from their property and a woman's standing in front of a car in the middle of the far lane of the road, only car there and bike's not, and he yells, “Where is she?” from about thirty feet away, thinking, Was she hit clear into the bushes or the creek? or she could be under the car or back wheels, bike too, though the woman's expression isn't troubled or horrified enough for that, and the woman says, “The poor dear, I nearly hit her. She came out of nowhere
—
I was lucky to have good brakes—and she got so frightened she ran her bike up that hill”—pointing to his driveway—“didn't even jump back on it. You know her?” and he says, “She's my goddamn accident-prone daughter—she knows never to bike onto Charrenton alone, she knows it … so where are you, you damn brat?”—looking around—and the woman says, “Please don't blame her. I'm sure after that scare she'll never do it again,” and he says, “Oh, you don't know her—she's always taking chances, thinks she knows better, always getting into near misses. Fanny! Fanny, goddammit, come back here! You've caused this woman and me some great grief, so I want you to apologize,” and the woman says, “Really, it isn't necessary for me. And it wouldn't be the right time for it. She's probably cowering in seclusion like a scared rabbit. Just see to her, sir, I'm fine.” She left her bike leaning against a carport post; she's not in the house and doesn't come home for two hours. He goes out looking for her in the car a couple of times: nearby market, which he's biked or walked to with her, homes of her best friends in the area. When she walks through the door he says, “Jesus, where the hell you been? And do you know what you did to that lady this afternoon?” and she says, “What lady? The one whose car almost hit me because I biked in front of her? I'm sorry,” and he says, “A heart attack you almost gave her—no warning—not to say why you did it, riding alone there, and so dangerously, when you knew you shouldn't. But okay, I don't think I have to say any more about it, you know not to do it again,” and she says yes. “Can I be excused now?” and he says, “Sure, go on,” and she starts for her room, and he says, “Wait a second, where were you the last two hours?” and she says, “Walking around—at the drugstore for a while
—
I was safe and dressed warm,” and he says, “Anyway, I don't think you should be let off so easily, so I'm going to dock your allowance this week,” and she says, “What's that mean: I won't get it?” and he says, “That's right,” and she says, “You're not being fair, and I don't care,” and storms into her room and slams the door. “Fanny, come back here. I'm not kidding, you either come back and apologize for what you just said and did or it's going to be two weeks you're docked, even three, and no bike riding for that time either,” but she doesn't come. “All right, if you hear me, that's it. The bike riding, I don't know about, if you stay off Charrenton, but I'm not changing my mind about the allowance—three weeks.” Later he talks it over with his wife, how frightened he was. “Honestly, when I saw her biking onto the road and heard those car honks and tires, I thought she was going to get creamed,” and she says, “You were right the way you first approached it—the scare punished her plenty—so don't make any more demands on her for it and without any fuss Saturday give her her regular allowance,” and he says, “No way, absolutely not, maybe a two weeks' docking instead of three, but that's as far as I'm giving in or else my word will mean nothing,” but on Saturday, when he's driving her to a swimming lesson and she's in the front seat, she says, “Excuse me, but can I have my allowance now?” and he says, “In the car, while I'm driving?” and she says, “Sorry, then when we get there?” and he says, “No, I can get it,” and presses the catch to open the compartment under the dashboard, gets three dollars out of it, and gives them to her, though all the time remembering what he swore to her the other day and also later told his wife he absolutely wouldn't do.

POPSICLE STICKS
to her tongue; she gags, points to it; he says, “You can't get it off?” and she shakes her head, and he says, “Pull gently, not hard, you don't want to rip something,” and she tries but it doesn't come off, and he says, “Wiggle it a little,” and she shakes her head and tears are welling and she looks panicky and is gagging again, and he says, “Jesus, what do I do?” and, to the vendor who sold it from a cart in the park, “What do you do in a situation like this?” and the man looks as if he doesn't understand, and Gould points to her and says, “Her tongue, the Popsicle's stuck to her tongue and she can't get it off,” and the man says, “Dry ice, the dry ice,” and raises his arms as if he doesn't know what to do either; then, after pointing to his own tongue and then inside his mouth, speaks a foreign language Gould's never heard before or can't place, and he says, “Speak English, English, she's gagging … choking,” and makes choking sounds and points to her, and the man says, “No can, don't know, first time, ice cream, that's all … police, maybe police, go to police,” and Fanny's gagging and crying and looks at him as if to say, Do something, Daddy, or I'll die, and he thinks she could choke to death if he doesn't get it off her tongue in the next minute, and the only way he can think of is to pull if not rip it off and that'll hurt like hell for her, and puts his fingers on her hand that's holding the stick; she screams in pain, and he says, “Oh, God, what else can I do, sweetheart?” and slides her fingers off the stick, grabs the Popsicle part, and pulls it off her tongue and quickly throws it on the grass. Part of the skin or whatever it is of the tongue came off with it, and she's screaming loud as he's ever heard her, and he gets on his knees and holds her and says, “It's all right now, darling, it's off, it's off,” and pats her lips with his hanky where some blood's dribbling out, and a woman passing by says, “What happened to the little darling, she fall?” and he says, “She got a Popsicle stuck to her tongue—the dry ice, it must've been—but was gagging and I had to pull it off and some skin came with it,” pointing to where he threw it, and the woman says, “You should have put warm water on the Popsicle, that would have dissolved the ice,” and he says, “Where would I get the water? I'd have to walk her out of the park to Columbus, and that's a good ten minutes from here and she could've choked in that time. But now what do I do about the skin and her tongue?” patting her lips again, and the woman says, “There's a refreshment gazebo right down this path; they sell coffee, so they must have warm water. But the best thing for it now—and you'll think me mad but it's what I'd do for one of mine; after all, what you first want to do is get rid of her pain—is have her lick a Popsicle or frozen fruit bar, but one free of dry ice. That'll anesthetize it,” and he says, “Which is better?” and she says, “Either, though plain ice, if he has it, would be simpler and, probably for her sake, best,” and he asks the man, “You have any regular ice?” and the man shakes his head he doesn't understand, and he says, “Ice, like in a drink,” and curls his hand as if he's holding a glass and then makes as if he's drinking from it, “Ice, ice, as in a glass with soda,” and the man says, “No that ice, only dry,” and he asks him for a fruit bar, and the man says, “What kind?” and he says, “Any,” looks at the pictures of the flavors on the stand and says, “Lemon,” and pulls out his wallet to pay for it—the man waves no with his hands—wipes the fruit bar on his shirt till all the white icelike part is off, blows on it till the side he's blowing on and wants her to put her tongue to looks wet, and says to her, “Here, touch this to the sore part of your tongue, sweetheart…. Fanny, calm down a moment, you have to stop crying—I know how much it hurts but both this woman and I and the man here think it'll make your tongue feel better and take away the pain,” and holds it up to her mouth and she knocks it out of his hand and resumes screaming.