30 Pieces of a Novel (23 page)

Rain stops and they go to the subway station. Car they sit in is empty so Gould says, “Let's go to the next car, I don't like this one.” That one's empty too and he says, “I'm sorry, kids, but for some reason I don't like this one either, you mind if we go to the next?” and his older daughter says, “Why? They're all the same,” and he says, “Just follow me.” The next one has two young women and their little children in strollers. They sit across and a few feet down from them. Doors close, train goes, stops after a few feet, doors open, he hopes more people get on, doors close, train starts moving again, and his younger daughter says, “Look, Daddy, that baby,” and he says, “What? Shh, don't point,” and she says, “But look what she's drinking,” and he sees that one of the girls in a double stroller of two girls, the other about a year younger, is drinking out of a Pepsi can. “She must be two years old. She's going to ruin her teeth,” and he says, “You've got to let people do what they want.” “But she's too young to, she doesn't know better,” and he says, “I'm talking of the mother, but let's forget it, they might hear.” The connecting car door's thrown open and three boys skulk through it and head down the aisle. They're all dressed alike: long shorts about six inches past their knees, top part of their boxer shorts showing above their belts, baseball caps, shirts unbuttoned most of the way down their chests, looking rough, ready for a rumble. One looks at him as they pass and he looks away. They go through the car to the next one, then two stops later that door's thrown open and they're coming back. Several more people are in the car now. Same boy looks angrily at him as they approach, as if saying—well, whatever his look's saying, but something like: Look at me crossly and you're a dead mother. They go through the door they came out of a few minutes before. “You know something?” Gould says to his daughters. “I don't think we should come back to Coney Island next year. Never again, in fact, till they clean it up, but really clean, and it's a bit less dangerous and threatening.” “That's all right with me,” his older daughter says, “but where will we go for our once-a-year trip to the rides?” and he says, “We'll find a place. Rye Playland, maybe. It's in Westchester—north of us, along Long Island Sound, I think, so maybe it has a little beach or swimming pool, and I bet it takes about the same time to get there. I saw an ad for it on the subway the other day. The amusement park there's supposed to be one of the best. And I'm sure they've lots of private guards around and such and it can't be any more expensive than the rides at Coney Island, but we'll see. I'll have to find out how it is first. We can take the car or a train—not a subway but a real train from Penn Station or Grand Central, whichever one the train leaves from, though of course a subway down to the train station.” “The train, not the car,” his younger says. “It's more fun.” His older daughter falls asleep against his shoulder and the younger reads the entire trip back to Manhattan. They get off at Columbus Circle, transfer to the uptown Broadway local, and his older daughter sits against him and says she got a bad burn at the beach—she's read that sometimes the worst burns come when the sun goes through the clouds at you—and she doesn't feel well and is very tired and after they leave the station would he carry her to their building? He says, “You're too big, and I'm a little tired myself. The ocean always does that to me, which I don't think Rye Playland will. I don't know what it is. The salt, the ozone, the air.”

AFTER
HIS
WIFE
left him, what? First woman he had anything to do with was much younger than he. Thirty-five years younger, more. Didn't intend to. Sure, saw her numerous times walking on the street and entering or leaving what he assumed was her apartment building and admired her looks; body and face, intelligent expression, way she walked, her bounce, height, hair. Sometimes would turn around to look at her walking the opposite way and once slowed down so she could catch up and get ahead of him and he could look at her from behind. But she was so young, around the age of his older daughter: young body, young face, rest of it, her clothes. So he would never think of stopping her, saying something, doing anything to initiate a conversation and see where it would lead: even saw her in the market a block from their buildings and could have started something there. “We must live pretty near each other; seen you so often in the neighborhood and on my block and a couple of times here.” (Wouldn't want to give away that he knew what building she lived in; that might seem a bit peculiar to her: Knows what building I'm in? Does he also know what apartment? Does he look through his window into mine? What else has he seen?) Wouldn't think of doing that to any woman stranger on the street or in a market, and probably not in an elevator or waiting for one, even if he knew they lived in the same building or he was in hers visiting a friend. Dinner parties perhaps, but he's only been to two the last six months and both had people mostly his age to around ten years younger. At work at a lunch table might be all right if he happened to sit next to a woman and then found himself attracted to her or walked into the lunchroom and saw a woman he'd been attracted to and sat at her table with the intention of starting a conversation—“Excuse me, but pass the pepper, please? The chicken salad good? I've never had it here, if that is chicken salad”—which might lead to meeting her for a coffee or drink sometime. Possibly in the same lunchroom—“So, nice talking, and see you again, maybe: tomorrow, here at one?”—or to going out with her, even: movie, play, museum, or just for a long walk. But
she
stopped
him
. That's how it happened. He was walking up the hill on his side of the street, she was walking down—her building's almost directly across the street from his—when she smiled at him, he smiled back, they were about ten feet from each other, and he immediately turned away, thinking, That was a nice smile, if he didn't know better he'd say she was interested in him a little; no, that's going too far. But this is the street and New York and even if he were thirty years younger he wouldn't try to capitalize on a smile to make a pass. Should he look around to see if she's looking back at him? If she is it'd embarrass him that she caught him looking and would make her uncomfortable and then when he saw her next he'd have to make a point of not looking at her when she passed or she'd think he was some kind of street lech and after that would avoid looking at him every time she came within a certain distance of him: thirty or forty feet, let's say. It could be she's just beginning to recognize him, having seen him so much; figures he lives on this block or around it on Riverside Drive so she's just being friendly. She could even be from out of town—so many residents around here seem to be—and still has that out-of-town hi-neighbor behavior, and that's all it is. It's true he's fantasized about her, but he's living alone now and hasn't been close to a woman since his wife, so he fantasizes about lots of women, ten a day maybe, especially good-looking ones he sees on the street, and because of all the colleges in the area, and one just for women, there are loads of them to fantasize about—when she said, “Excuse me. Excuse me there, sir, you up the hill,” and he turned around and she was about forty feet away and he pointed to himself and she nodded and started up the street to him and he walked down and said, “Yes?” and she said, “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stop you and then take you out of your way like this, and I should have thought of it sooner,” and he said, “No harm done, a few feet, and I'm not really in a rush to anything, what is it?” and she said, “You see … oh, this sounds silly—will sound, saying it … I'm embarrassed, almost, and really will be if it isn't so, but I believe we're acquainted. It's why I did that smiley greeting before. You're a friend of my father's, knew him a few years ago—as colleagues—and came over to our house with your wife once or twice, or once or twice when I was there. I recognize you, in other words—wow, I don't know why that took so long and was so arduous to get out. I forget your name, but your face is the same. You both taught together, Dad and you,” and gave the name of the school. “Well, that's right, I did. I no longer teach there, but you are … or your father is …?” She told him, and he said, “Oh, how is he?” She told him, and he said, “And how's your mother?—excuse me, I forget her name.” Told him and asked about his wife and children. “Two daughters? I don't think I ever met them but I remember my father waxing ecstatic about them … wanted me to meet them, even be like them, I think. No, why wouldn't they have come to the house with you if I was there, unless they had sleep-overs that night, or I did,” and he said, “I don't recall that ever happening, double sleep-overs. Maybe my wife and I only came by for drinks,” and she said, “Could be, so it was just the adults and a quick introduction to me. But they were supposed to be very smart, artistic and literary—reading, writing, way beyond their years—acting too, I think,” and he said, “Your memory, whew!” “I always had—I still do—an extensive memory for insignificant details—not insignificant to you, naturally, but to my own life,” and he said, “That can't be true,” and she said, “Why do you say that?” and he said, “I don't know. But I'm like that myself in ways, but with significant details—forgetting to take my pajamas off and put my shoes on before I go out—only kidding,” and she smiled, obviously didn't think it funny, said, “Wait a second. Are your daughters even my age? That could be why they didn't come over,” and he said, “One's twenty-three, other's twenty,” and she said, “So I was right. Your eldest and I are the same,” and he said, “Really? And as for my wife—you asked about her—well, she left me. It all happened pretty quickly. I'm sure your folks know. You can say I'm still shuddering from the shock of it and moving back here permanently, or maybe I'm melodramatizing it a bit. Anyway, it's very nice that you stopped me. You probably have someplace to go now too.” Then he just looked at her, had nothing to say, she didn't seem to either, or he couldn't think of anything to say—wanted to but nothing came and he'd save the regards-to-your-folks for when they said goodbye—she smiled, then almost laughed into her hand, he said, “What's wrong?” and she said, “Why?” and he said, “So where do you live, around here? I've seen you on this street a couple of times, on Broadway too, and I think once in the market up the block. Of course you understand why I didn't recognize you,” and she said, “Of course.” “So. Regards home, and I'll be seeing you,” and was about to put out his hand to shake, and she said, “You didn't ask where I live. I mean, you didn't wait for an answer. In that corner building. Moved in a few months ago,” and he said, “It's a Columbia-owned building. So I assume, and I should have asked this before, grad student, same field as your father's? Or maybe your mother's—I forget what she did. Anyway, we're neighbors and both newcomers, though I'm an old newcomer, meaning I used to live here years ago but have recently come back. And that's a funny thing to say, at least to my ears, ‘neighbors,'” and she said, “No, it's all right, and we are. And I know you have to go now—you have your right foot pointed up the hill already, but”—and he said, “Do I? It was unconscious, believe me,” and straightened his feet so they were both facing her—“but maybe one afternoon, if you're free, you'd like to get together for coffee … you're probably always busy,” and he said, “No, that'd be nice,” and asked her first name and said he'd pass by her building on his way back and get the number of it and would call Information for her phone number, if it's in, and she said, “It's in,” though he doesn't get the point. He's certainly attracted to her, what man his age wouldn't be?—any age, if he likes women; she's practically a beauty—so he's flattered, but why would she want to have coffee with him? Entering her intellectual phase or something? No, that's condescending. And he should have found out what field she's in in grad school; it may be the same as his. Wants to talk to an older man, an academic, have her mind stimulated? Well, he'll stimulate her, all right, but fat chance, and why's he thinking like that? She's a kid, has a sweet smile, she must be a lovely girl, parents were very nice people, intelligent, decent, so she must be, and he's got all those years on her, so he doesn't know. Doesn't know what? Doesn't know. “But maybe it's a good idea I take your name and phone number down now—the old mind ain't what it used to be and never was much, when it comes to remembering,” and wrote them down in his memo book. “Or I can call you, you know,” she said. “That's what I originally intended with this open invitation. But to be honest, I forget your name,” and he gave it and his phone number and said, “You don't want to write the number down?” and she said, “I can remember, it's an easy one. So”—smiling—“see ya,” and he said, “See ya,” and they parted, and he thought, he meant to shake her hand but was glad he didn't. Kids don't appreciate it, may even wonder about it, mostly because they're not used to it, or maybe he's wrong. Anyway, looking back—picturing it—it would have seemed funny to do.

She didn't call, and he thought about calling her for a week. Then always thought no, why should he? She can't be too interesting. Or let's say she is, in a little way, but what would they talk about? Well, he'd have to know what she's interested in. But after a while he'd make as big a fool of himself as he's ever done in his life. That an exaggeration? No, because what could be more foolish than an old guy making a pass at what's really a girl? Being rejected, maybe, or accepted—he doesn't know which. For that's what it'd probably lead to if it went on, since if they did have coffee he'd say at the end of it, “Why not let's do this again? That is, if you want to and have the time; it's been enjoyable”—politics, they could have talked about, literature, writers, painting, teaching, learning, living in the city—and if she agreed, fine, and if not, well, that'd be okay too, but if they did meet again for coffee, or a couple of times after that—“We got a regular coffee-klatsch going,” he could call it—he'd say, “What about we go out to dinner one time, for a change of pace, or just lunch? My treat, someplace fairly simple around here—actually, I'm not much for lunch; if I eat a carrot it's a lot—but I'll go and have something,” and suppose she said yes or “If you don't eat lunch, then let's have dinner.” He'd pick her up at her door? Probably lives with a roommate. University housing off-campus can be very expensive. All this is to say if she doesn't have a lover or serious boyfriend, and with them is there a difference? And then what? When you have dinner or even lunch, you talk about things you don't when you're just having coffee—he thinks that's right, at least about dinner. And different too from when you're just having a drink. A drink—a bar—picturing it: all those college kids in the bars around here; it'd look absurd. And what would they drink: beer, wine, and the first time clink glasses and make a toast? What would they even talk about that second time for coffee, and the third? Her father, mother. Siblings, if she has any. Growing up in an academic household. What she's taking in school. They probably would have gone over that already. Well, what she learned that day or week in classes or read for them. A paper she might be writing; maybe he could help. But would he be interested in any of it? How does he know? And he hated writing papers in school. Movies, that's what young people like most today, and music, but not his kind of movies and music, he's almost sure. And no going to her apartment building if it's only occupied by young college students and no married couples and some with kids, nor going there either if she has a roommate, female or non-lover male. Maybe they could skip lunch or dinner and just go to a movie—he could meet her at a corner or in front of her building or the theater—and discuss it over coffee after, no matter how bad it is. Actually, the worse it is the more he could pinpoint what he thinks is good in a movie from old ones he saw. And while they were talking he would probably look covertly at her body and no doubt fantasize having sex with her, which would be wrong—sex with her would. She's too young. Besides, she'd be put off by the suggestion. How would he even make it? He wouldn't have the words, and if he found them, he'd feel too silly saying them. But say she was open and relaxed about it and said something like, “Your look; what is it, Mr. Bookbinder?” and he'd say, “Gould, please call me Gould; what is it with you?” and she could say, “It's still hard for me to, but okay, Gould, even though my folks”—Oh, your folks, he'd think; just at the right time—“my folks weren't the type, when I was small, to insist I call all adults by mister and missus and their last names,” and he could say, “But you were saying?” and she could say, “About what was on your mind. The look you had. I'd never seen it on you but recognized it from other men,” and he'd say, “Then I guess I'm caught and will have to come clean,” and would apologize while saying it: “I know it's wrong, stupid, our respective ages, all of that …” and she could say, “I don't know. It's true I haven't done it with a man more than five years older than me, maybe because there was never one who interested me. But it's not like I have anything terrible against it. And isn't it every young woman's fantasy—” and he'd say, “Don't talk about girls and their fathers,” and she wouldn't have; she could just say, “I don't mind the idea,” or, “The suggestion's not the worst one, so what do we do next?” or not even that: none of it. He'd just come out with it, find the words—“I've been thinking”—say them clearly, wouldn't give any kind of look, and she'd go along with it and they'd go to his apartment—well, where else? unless she was living alone in a building which didn't only have other young students in it and wanted to go there, and they'd do it—have a drink, sit down and kiss, whatever they'd do first—and it wouldn't work. Sure, it'd be pleasurable for him, though you never know what can happen when you get too excited, and maybe in a way for her too: the pleasure, as he knows what to do and still has plenty of energy for it and would just hope that he could go slow, because once is usually it for him till the next morning. But she'd see his body and even if it's in pretty good shape for a sixty-four-year-old, it's nothing like the bodies of the boys she's used to and she might be turned off by it, even repulsed. The gray pubic hair, or most of it gray; chest hair that's totally gray and in fact mostly white; wrinkles everywhere; way the body sags in places no matter what strenuous exercises and long running and swimming he does; this, that, from top to bottom—the elbows; especially around the eyes—it's a ridiculous notion, sex with her, so what's he even thinking of it for? It won't happen. He shouldn't call. It's probably why she didn't call; she somehow saw it in his face that time they spoke: that this is what he was interested in, not talk. And even if they had sex once—her experiment with a much older man, let's say—that'd be it, because she wouldn't want to do it again. Why would she? He's an old fart, far as she's concerned, and if she doesn't see it at first, or blocks it out for some reason, she'll see it after: older than her own father by more than ten years, he figures, as he had his children late. So: nice to talk to, perhaps, but not to make love with, and then they'd see each other on the street once every other week, which is about how often he saw her before, and what then? What would he say? She? And suppose she let on to her folks about it? “I met this old colleague of yours—you'll probably remember him too, Mom—or former colleague, rather, though he's quite old also but still in some ways considerably attractive for his age”—not intending to tell them what happened, but her father's a smart guy and was a very good college teacher so knows how to ask questions and extract answers from students, and kids can't hide things well the way adults can, and maybe it's also not how they act today: the compulsion to tell the truth, lay it all out, no matter how much it hurts or shocks someone else, as if that's a virtue, or is he thinking of a time ten or more years ago?—and then her father could call or write him and say something like, “How could you? Not just that you knew she was my daughter. You're forty years older than her. What are you, some sort of predator, ravener, plunderer, vulture, hyena, monster, perverse addled dirty old dotty fool? Women twenty years older than she, which a man your age of any decency and brains would still think far too young for him, aren't good enough as pickings? Why are you trying to mess up her life? What's in it for you but a slap on the back you give yourself for fucking a child? If it weren't that I didn't want to embarrass her and that she's five years past the legal age of consent, I'd report you and probably try to prosecute you, and if there were some academic court of law I'd work to get you fired from your teaching post.” Or he wouldn't write or call but he'd think it, or it could be he'd think, Lucky stiff. Shacking up with a girl so beautiful and young. Wish it could be me, though naturally not with my daughter.