Time to Go (23 page)

“You'll just get bored to death there and then have to come home, just as I said. It's going to be a long haul. The first one always is. But let me give you my phone number in case you do need a driver. I can drive you in your car or mine. I'm only a five-minute walk to your place, and by car, less than two.”

“Gene, we'll be all right. Thanks for your thoughtfulness.”

“No problem. You've been more than thoughtful to me in class. And your long written critiques and some of the office discussions we've had—”

“Good, I'm glad, but I have to go.”

“Before you do may I ask one more thing? I mean, since there's no emergency now.”

“What is it?”

“It's about my story. Is it okay to speak of it now?”

“Go ahead. One thing. What?”

“You once said that every first line of a story should get the reader right into the story. Should sort of pull him right in. That's the same thing, I realize. But you said the first line should usually be brisk, brief, with almost no adjectives if we can help it, and be something like the first line of a news story. To get the how, why, what—”

“I didn't say like a news story. I said—”

“Anyway, it's been one of the greater points of our disagreement. Since you also said that there are no rules to writing except one which really isn't a rule and that's to write as well and as honestly and uncompromisingly as one can. Terif. I go along with that. What's not to? So why the rules that a story must have an ending and that the first line should get the reader right into the story? Because don't believe and never have and maybe I never will, though I admit I'll change some of my attitudes about writing in the future and maybe this will be one of them, that a story should grab the reader from the start. I believe the first line should show the style of the writing rather than the content of the story. Should stamp the writer's mark on the page rather than the narrator's. Should say to the reader ‘Okay, pal—or enemy, or whatever you are to me—I the writer—'”

“I got to go, Gene. Seriously, something's changed. My wife, she just came into the room and—oh my God, she's having the baby right now. Hold it, honey, wait—there, my arms are out, let it come—push, push—holy God, I can see the head.”

“If your arms are out—since one of your other big points about writing is plausibility, something else I can argue against strongly—how are you able to hold the receiver?”

“Lots of ways. It could be one of those receiverless phones you can talk to from any place in the room. But it's between my shoulder and neck—how could you have missed that?—and now—hold it, Gene.—Okay, honey, here comes another contraction. Push, push—one more should do it—got it. What do you know, a boy. What do you want to name it? Gene? Nah, I don't like that name. Here, let's get the mucous out of its nose and mouth before we do anything. There—great—and sponge its top and then in a blanket and under the light bulb to keep it warm. Want me to bite through the cord now?”

“I'd wash its eyes first. That's almost the first thing they do after the birth—to prevent infection, I think.”

“Right. Eyes. Clean. And boy he's a big beaut. I'd say around nine pounds. And why don't I like the name Gene? You relaxed now? Yeah, baby's just fine. Well, you know, you just about always associate the name you're going to give your kid with the people in the past who had it, and I once had a Gene in my class—that right, the—”

“I'm still in your class. I haven't dropped out but I am thinking of it again, though it wouldn't be the courageous—”

“Well, this kid Gene—all right, not a kid—a student—was kind of a pest. Not just extrapolating too much in class and hogging a lot of the talk. But lauding me one minute, damning me the next. And on the students' evaluation reports of their teachers last year—for the course guide they publish for themselves? I got one comment that was so nasty and cheap—that I was only in teaching for the money? Remember that one? ‘Mr. Taub says he can't teach writing, that we can only teach ourselves. So why is he at this university then? I'll tell you.' That my chairman wanted to speak to me about it, because he said one of the deans had called him—not that I gave a goddamn—and you know who I think wrote that report?”

“I hope you're not saying it was me. I know who wrote it—or at least have two good possibilities, since I think it was a combined effort—but I of course can't give their names.”

“Not only that, this kid Gene likes to take his shoes off in class, and he doesn't wear socks. And he occasionally picks his toes or plays with them during most of the class, which wouldn't be so bad if he sat at the other end of the table—bad for me I mean—but he always sits a seat or two away from me. I've hated this habit of his but never said anything. Okay, I've given plenty of reasons why it can't be that name, so enough complaining. And baby's nice and comfy now. Cord's neatly tied, face and body thoroughly sponged. He's as clean and healthy as can be. What a kid. Want to feed him now?”

“I don't think your wife will have much luck feeding him so soon, with a bottle or by more natural means. And what about the placenta? Has it come out yet? If it hasn't at the next contraction you should get her to push.”

“The placenta, honey. Has it come out yet?”

“You'd know if it had. It looks like the raw horsemeat they feed the lions in the zoo. I was there when my mother had my youngest sister. I watched the entire delivery—special permission for siblings sixteen years and over—she was a change of life baby, in case you're wondering—and my parents also told the doctor I was pre-premed. And she couldn't feed Ramona for two days, till the milk came. Even after that it was rough for weeks.”

Magna's standing by the door. “What are you yelling about a placenta for? Who's that?”

“Gene you-know-who. Here, take the baby and see if it will feed, honey,” and lodging the receiver between my shoulder and neck, I pretend to give her a baby.

“Are you really talking to a student that way? You don't want him to think you're insane. You shouldn't get so close to your students. Dinner will be ready in three minutes. Spaghetti's already in and you like it al dente.”

“Make it softer tonight.”

She leaves. “But you were saying about me, Mr. Taub?” Gene says.

“Whatever it was, I got to go. Nice talking to you.”

“But if you had the baby and she's feeding it or is trying to, you have time to talk a few more moments, right?'”

“About your work?”

“More about the principles involved in writing and technique overall. Because, quite truthfully, not once have I ever fully agreed with a thing you've said about technique, as much as I admire—”

“Oh stop that nonsense and leave me alone. I'm busy and I wish you'd see that and I shouldn't have joked around with you on the phone in the first place and I'm hanging up now, Gene.”

“Oh say, a real conclusion. A hanging-up. My teacher is going to hang up on me. What finality.”

“Not
on
you. I'm simply putting the receiver down. My dinner's ready. I'm very hungry.”

“You're right and I guess I have taken enough of your time. Too much, probably. You'll have to excuse me.”

“Sure.”

“And my offer still stands, despite all the things that went between us. You need a driver of your car or someone to drive you in his car—”

“You return the bicycle?”

“Yes, why?”

“I don't know. Didn't want you to get in trouble or the bicycle owner to think his or her bike was stolen.”

“Very kind of you. You were always a very kind guy. You always have something nice to say about everyone's work in class. I'm not sure if that's good or bad, but there it is. And come to think of it, since we do disagree so strongly about the principles of writing and because I did take you already for one term, maybe I should drop out of the class while I still have time.”

“Maybe that's a good idea. Do what you think best.”

“You do want me to drop, though, don't you?”

“No, you're okay. You cause a little excitement in class that I kind of like. And also having you there as an adversary sort of my countering your ideas as much as you countering mine. Something like that. You can understand if I'm not too articulate tonight.”

“I don't know if I like being used in class like that.”

“You aren't, entirely. Listen—”

“And if you really didn't like my playing with my toes, as you called it, why didn't you just say so? I'm not addicted to the practice.”

“I was hoping someone else would before me. But the class is too damn tolerant.”

“Except for me.”

“Dinner's on the table,” Magna says at the door.

“That was my wife. She says the placenta's ready to come out but she wants to do it in the bathroom where it'll make less of a mess than in this room. So, must go, Gene. Goodbye.”

“I'll wear socks from now on and won't take my shoes off once. I'm staying in your class, in other words. I also like the exchange of ideas we have and—”

“Anything you want.” I hang up.

“You okay?” I say to Magna.

“No, there's another one,” holding her stomach. She looks at her watch. “The last three have come more regularly. I think we should go soon. First eat up. You'll need the food. I'll be resting in the bedroom.”

I walk her to the bedroom, then go to the dining room and start eating. Phone rings. “I'm not going to answer it, Magna,” I yell out. “Don't answer it either.” Phone keeps ringing.

“I'm all right enough to get it,” she yells back and she goes down the hallway, picks up the receiver, says “No, Professor Taub can't be disturbed, Gene. He's eating the placenta and it's bad luck to stop the father in the middle of that rite…I'm feeling fine, Gene, thank you, and you're wrong—I'm telling the absolute truth.”

A man wheels his child. Wheels or pushes? he thinks. She's in the stroller and he wheels her to the shopping mall about a half mile from his apartment house. At the supermarket in the mall he'll get a quart of skim milk for his wife and the green can of Similac and food for tonight and deli for lunch and fruit and cellophane tape she said she needed and bran muffins and low-fat cottage cheese and the pint or quart container of yogurt, depending on how heavy he thinks the total load will be, and also something to cook for the cats for the next few nights she said, turkey legs if they have, turkey wings she knows they always have. He's also to pick up the prints at the camera shop at the mall. His wife said they're mostly of his daughter alone or with his wife's mother when she was here last weekend. If the weather holds he'll then wheel her to the little park near the mall for a half hour to an hour. He'll carry the food and photos in the canvas bag he has her diapers and things and a complete clothes change in, while he pushes the stroller with one hand. Every block or so he'll switch hands. He'll sit on the bench in the shade if it's available. If it's not, he doesn't know what he'll do, since it's been available since he's gone to that park to sit on it, and it's the only bench in the shade there and he doesn't like to sit in the sun. If the baby sleeps while he sits, he'll read. If the baby isn't asleep by the time they get to the park and doesn't fall asleep soon after, he'll play with her: stand her on his knees and on the bench seat, keep her, balanced as she stands and holds on to the top of the bench or tries to climb up the back slats, let her pull his handkerchief—which he'll put there for that purpose—out of his shirt pocket or jingle his keys but not put them in her mouth, cradle her, make funny faces for her, show her the photos of herself—if they're ready—to see how she'll react to them, give her the teething ring to play with or chew, hold her high under her arms and fly her down to his lips or to where their foreheads can touch, hold her not upside down but at a downward angle where the blood doesn't suddenly rush to her head, so she can rip grass from the ground.

He looks down at her as he wheels her. She turns around, smiles at him, turns back around. She has on three layers of clothing. It's sunny but a little cool, so he doesn't think she's overdressed. Her undershirt, stretchie, jogging outfit he supposes it could be called—looks just like the adult ones—and a sweater, but because only one button will stay buttoned, it could be too tight. So, four layers on top, three on the bottom. No, four there too if he counts the rubber pants, and he should since they can make her genital area very warm. Because two of these clothings don't cover her from the top of her legs down, he doesn't think the bottom part's overdressed. But her shoulders are bunched up with clothing. Undershirt and probably the jogging jacket under the sweater must have inched up and she looks humpbacked from behind. She also has a baseball cap on. He bought it yesterday in the variety store in the mall, sewed it smaller in back and cut off the “Little Slugger” patch over the peak. “They had no pink baseball caps,” he told his wife and then a couple of people in their apartment building who commented on a blue cap for a girl, “and the red ones they had,” he only told his wife, “didn't come in size small or they were all out of them.” He didn't ask. He should have perhaps—red would have been better—but he doesn't like to ask sales people for things he can't see or find. Then they go through drawers and display cases or into the stockroom and usually come up with nothing and he always apologizes for their efforts. His wife liked the cap but said “People will say this proves you wanted a boy,” which would be untrue; he just wanted a safe delivery and a healthy child. So he bought the last size—small blue cap because neither his wife nor he liked the typical sunbonnet or baby's white hat.