Read Online Love and Will by Stephen Dixon - Free Book Online Page A

goes, the real incident ends. The dream goes on. My mother complains my father’s messing up the newly made bed. He lifts me off the bed, looks for a place to set me and puts me in my mother’s arms. He folds the bedspread back over the pillow, straightens the bed, goes to the kitchen, puts his sandwich and tangerine into a manila envelope, kisses my mother and I goodbye and leaves for work. My mother says “Happy birthday, sweetheart, you’re three.” She says “From your father and me.” She gives me a wrapped present. I can’t get the ribbon off. She opens it. It’s a dog doll. She kisses my ear and goes to work in her office at the front of the house. I play with the ribbon and wrapping in the room Anna’s ironing in. The dream ends. I wake up. Grace calls. Grace called. I go to the bathroom. I read. I shave. I clean the toilet bowl and tub. I look in the mirror. I tweeze the hair out of my nose. I part my hair in the middle and pretend I’m someone else. I brush my hair back the way I always wear it. I work on the crossword puzzle. I check the movie listings. I put water on for coffee. I stand at the stove till the water boils. I make lunch. I eat. I drink coffee. I make a snack. I eat. I peel a carrot. I eat. I look through the cookbook. Grace calls. I don’t answer. Grace calls. Grace called. I look out the window. Across the street a woman in the second-story apartment directly opposite mine is looking at an oil truck delivering oil to her building. The oilman reels in the hose and the truck leaves. I stare at the woman. She looks at me. I smile and wave. She leaves her window seat. I look up and down the street. I can’t see a person, animal or vehicle moving on the block. Curtains move in one of the buildings across the street and now a sheet of newspaper moves in the street but nothing else. The leaves on the block’s tree move. A sparrow flies out of the tree and disappears over the row of buildings on my side of the block. A man comes out of a building reading a magazine. He pats his pockets. “Dam,” he seems to say. He goes back into his building. Several children on rollerskates and with hockey sticks pass. A car passes. A bus. I’ve never seen a bus come down this sidestreet. Maybe the street the bus usually goes down is blocked up. The man leaves the building again carrying a briefcase and with the magazine under his arm. The bus stops a few doors down from my building. The car in front of it is double-parked too far from the car parked adjacent to the curb and the bus can’t get past. The bus driver honks. His passengers read, talk, look outside, one’s asleep. The bus driver and the drivers of the two cars and a truck behind the cars honk. A woman comes out of a building. She jiggles her keys to the bus driver. He honks. She points to her watch and raises her shoulders and hands. The bus driver and the drivers of the cars and the truck behind the cars honk. She gets in the double-parked car and drives off. The bus starts for the comer right after her but has to stop for the light. The woman just made it through the light. The bus and car and truck drivers honk and honk. Grace calls. Grace called. I drink a glass of water. I go to the door. The afternoon paper’s on the mat. I throw the paper away. I reheat the coffee. I do exercises and run in place. I wash my hands and face. The pot’s burning. I put out the fire. I throw the pot through the window. The police come. One policeman says “Your landlord called to complain. First fires, he says. Now deliberately destroying his property.” I hear honking from the street. I go to the window. The policeman says “When I’m talking to you you don’t move.” The driver of another bus is honking the double-parked police car in front of my building. I point to the street. The policeman says “What now, for god-sakes?” He looks outside. He says