Long Made Short by Stephen Dixon Read Free Book Online Page A

I broke up. I wanted to change the pattern with you, as
     if my luck would change if I did. It was actually hard leaving these women, because
     of their kids. I ended up loving the children much more than I ever did them. Anyway,
     she’s not out after me—or wasn’t, before she called. She’s smart and knows that some
     of whatever it was that kept us from sticking together the first two rounds probably
     still exists. Our backgrounds, what we both think serious and so on. Too many differences,
     intellectual and otherwise. Acting. I mean, how could I have thought I could live
     the rest of my life with an actress, and she with a hermit who likes to work in a
     hole? She needed someone to really laugh and joke and go to a lot of movies and plays
     and socialize with, nothing I liked doing and apparently her last husband didn’t either,
     and she still seems that way. She’d be bored with me and I probably would in ways
     with her. The initial fleshy and bubbly attraction might still be there but that might
     be all. Maybe I’m wrong. Besides that, if I took up with someone now, though of course
     it’s never going to happen, I’d want to have a child by her, since I’m sure you’d
     take ours. I know, I know. I could see them almost every weekend and month in the
     summer and so on—holidays for a couple days and probably when it was more convenient
     to you than me—but it wouldn’t be enough. I’d want one around all the time.” “So,
     we’re not going to split up—okay. And you had a good conversation with her?” and I
     say “Very much. You know me, I’m terrible on the phone, almost afraid of it, and this
     one was easy and what I like best from it—plenty of info, several short bios, some
     laughs, lots of filling in. Except maybe it was an oversight on her part or some minor
     quirk not to ask more about you. I admit that. But now and then we all forget what
     we’re supposed to do in certain situations, even things we want to and have prepared
     ourselves for. The mind slips. I wouldn’t make anything more of it.”
    The next day I see my mother and say “Remember Ramona Bauer?” and she says “Who’s
     that?” “Woman I was engaged to when I was in my early twenties and whom I saw and
     was head over heels for for years—blonde, an actress. Very pretty. Had a couple of
     good Broadway parts, and one of them when I was seeing her—I even took you to the
     play. Neither of us liked it but we thought she was very good. Then she broke off
     the engagement a month or so before we were to be married. This happened during my
     second time around with her, but I don’t want to make this any more confusing than
     it has to be.” “No, the engagement breakoff I don’t remember, though it seems something
     I would. And usually I’m good at things from that far back.” “It was going to be at
     her parents’ house in Connecticut. A small wedding, which was what we wanted; maybe
     thirty, forty people.” “I’m sorry, it still doesn’t register. Maybe I’m not functioning
     well today.” “Ramona Bauer, Mom. How many Ramonas have I known?” “None, it seems,
     as far as I’m concerned. Maybe try being more specific about her looks other than
     for her being pretty and blonde. Anything particularly striking or noticeable about
     her size or face or manners then?” “Long hair. And a real light blond, not dirty or
     honey-colored or anything like that. Usually combed straight back and hanging over
     her shoulders or tied on top into that bun that dancers wear; I think it’s called
     or was called then a chignon. About your height, maybe a couple of inches taller.”
     “So my height when I was her age.” “That’s right. And vivacious, very lively, energetic
     and a very distinctive voice, though I don’t know if I can describe it. A bit throaty,
     though not from smoking, and every word clear. A trained actress, so she enunciates,
     but not affected.” She shakes her