30 Pieces of a Novel by Stephen Dixon Read Free Book Online Page A

brains, no, but the guts? Well, he’ll find out, and stops at a pay phone against the side wall of the first service station in town, has three dollars in change; if the call’s more he’ll forget it: he’d have to get change from the guy inside, and besides, it doesn’t make sense if it has to be so expensive. Looks in the phone book attached to the phone stand for the Palm Beach area code—it isn’t listed but West Palm Beach is—and he dials it plus the Information number and asks for Ottunburg and spells it, “I don’t know the exact address but it’s there, in the heart of the city, and I think this Ottunburg’s the only one.” He’s told that there are five Ottunburg numbers, all at the same address—Nelson F., pool, cottages two and three, and the children’s phone—and he says, “Give me Nelson, not the pool or cottages but the main house,” dials, sticks two-seventy-five in when asked for it, and a woman answers and he thinks it could be the maid or cook or someone, what with the spread they must have, and says, “I’d like to speak to Mr. Ottunburg, please”—not sure why he asked for him; if a man had answered he might have asked for Mrs. Ottunburg, probably to give himself a little more time—and she says, “He’s not home; who’s calling?” and he says, “Is he at work?” and thinks why’d he ask that? since he’s not going to make another call and not just because he has no more change, and she says, “He’s on a business trip, may I take a message?” and he says, “Is Mrs. Ottunburg in?” and she says, “This is she, who am I speaking to?” and he says, “Then this is for you too, ma’am. Your daughter Sage—who’s fine, by the way, best of health, no problems—is having an intense affair with a fifty-eight-year-old man in Bar Harbor, Maine, I’m sorry to have to report to you,” and she says, “My, my, not Sage,” and he thinks, She kidding him or what? because she doesn’t sound serious, which even if he didn’t expect her to that much he didn’t think she’d be mocking and he says, “Yes, Sage, a waitress, I believe, at the Popover Palace or something there in Acadia National Park—I never get to those places because I can’t stand the crowds,” and she says, “May I again ask who’s calling, since this is quite alarming, sir?” and he says, “I can’t divulge my name, I’m sorry, and I have to go now,” and she says, “One thing I do know, though, is that you can’t be the man she’s having this affair with—Sage would never take to someone so gross,” and hangs up.
    He knew it—didn’t he?—that it wouldn’t turn out right but was somehow worth the risk, or he didn’t know it but somehow sensed it; maybe that’s what the stomach pains were about, the nervous churnings: a warning not to make the call because he’d be embarrassed by it after, for it was crazy, really too crazy, and the call could be traced—he hadn’t thought of that before—people have the technical means now, the caller’s number showing up somewhere on the phone called, he’s read about it, remembers seeing in the article a photo of a little box like an electric shaver with numbers in a narrow window, and telephone operators have been using this equipment for years and the very rich would probably be the first home customers to have the device installed, not only because they could afford it, though he doesn’t know if it costs that much, but also because they might think that since they’ve more money to lose than other people they’re more likely to be the targets of cranks and criminals and solicitors over the phone and so on, but it was a public phone he called from—he’s in his car now, heading for a