“I didn’t mean false contractions. I know what those are too. But false alarms. Or false labor. When the contractions can actually be timed. With the false contractions they can’t be timed — the stomach just stiffens up. So I wouldn’t run if I were you because sooner you get home, sooner you’ll probably want to go to the hospital. And I bet after the doctors examine her they’ll send her home. That’s what they did with my mother the first two times till she learned. And my older brother’s wife too. But only once with her. A week after she went to the hospital with that false alarm or false labor, she got real labor pains and that’s when the hospital admitted her. She lost the baby though.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It practically devastated her. My brother took it badly but okay. Anyway, I hope I got my point across before about this thing,” waving his manuscript. “That my story wasn’t supposed to move forward at all. It was supposed to—”
“I know. It’s clear to me now. And if you don’t mind I’m going to go.”
“Not at all. I hope I haven’t detained you too long.”
“To tell you the truth, Gene — yes, why not? To tell you the truth I’m kind of surprised that — well, just that I think you have kind of a nerve detaining me as long as you have and I’ve been kind of stupid or remiss or something in letting you.”
“I don’t think that’s fair. What did I do? Actually, if you take what I’ve said about labor pains seriously, I’m probably stopping you both from rushing to the hospital and then being sent right home.”
“Stopping us? Hey babe, maybe my wife is in pain right now, did you ever think of that?”
“I’m sure she isn’t, if these are her first contractions, but I’m sorry — you should go. And I just hope this isn’t going to affect your attitude to me in class and my grade.”
“You know what I think about grades in my class.”
“Then just your attitude to me.”
“I don’t see how it can’t, but I’ll try not to let it.”
“Thank you, because I didn’t mean any harm. And I certainly don’t have anything but the greatest respect for you as a teacher and also as a—”
“Forget your respect and telling me how much you have. You know what I think about that too.”
“Right. ‘Don’t you praise me, let me just praise you.’ A bit onesided perhaps, but I’m sure your line of reasoning in that area is valid and very fair. But could I — as long as we’re thrashing it out — mention one more thing about my story and then let you go?”
“What are you—”
“It’s a minor point. You said at the end of your critique — and I appreciate every one of them, especially for their thoroughness, despite what I’ve said about anything else here — that my story has no ending. I think I discussed with you in our last conference that one of my principles, if you like, about my writing is not to write stories with endings. That life — though we as creatures die — has no ending, and that stories, when I finish them — ah, let’s scrap that ‘life’ business for the time being, since it’s weighing it down too much and I think complicating my argument unnecessarily. Just that my stories or longer fictions have no endings, period. I just don’t like the contrivance of endings and I doubt I’ll ever write—”
I take his story from him. He points to the second page of my critique and says “Right here you said it.”
“Do you have a copy of this original?”
“This is the copy of the original. You told us to make at least one — that you wouldn’t be responsible for losing a manuscript turned in, though you’ve never lost one in four years of teaching.”
“You know where the original is?”
“Sure, in my writing desk, why? What are you going to do, tear this copy up?”
“That’s right, I am.” I tear it in half and throw it in the air. “Did I make my point or do I have to go after your pen and pad?”
“Sloppy,” he says, looking at the pieces on the ground. “Who do you think picks them up, God? An angel? Hardworking workmen pick them up. Or concerned passerbys, if we’re lucky, who don’t like seeing messes like this blowing all over the campus. It’s unaesthetic.” He picks up the half still stapled and some of the other pieces. I grab the stapled half from him and tear it into smaller pieces and stick half of them into my jacket pocket and try stuffing the other half into his shirt pocket.
“What are you doing?” he says, pushing my hand away. “You’re crazy, did you know that? I’m dropping out of your class.”
“Good,” and I walk away.
“Besides all that, I hope your wife has a very safe delivery.”
“Oh, thanks,” I say without turning around, and start running the five blocks to my apartment building. I’m three blocks from it when a bicycle pulls up beside me and continues moving at my speed.
“I had to steal this bike to catch up with you,” he says. “I’ll get it back before the owner finds out. Stupid guy, just had a chain wrapped around it with no lock.”
“How do you know it’s a guy?” I say, still running.
“It’s a man’s bike. But you’re probably right. A writer should be an acute observer of the most seemingly trivial things in life, you once said, but also shouldn’t make summary judgments or general statements in his fiction without providing the reader with the correct facts.”
“‘Correct facts’? ‘Summary judgments’? No, no. Again, you either misquoted me to some incredible degree or are mixing me up with another teacher. Anyway, I’m going to stop saying things that sound anything like a quote or maxim or whatever if students are going to start repeating me.”
“That’s what I like about you and the way you teach — that you don’t pretend to know all the time why things in writing work. That’s what everyone likes about you in class.”
“Good. Look, you stole a bicycle, so it must be important what you have to say.”
“I wanted to apologize to you. I can understand why you tore up my story, and I don’t want to drop out of your class.”
“Tearing it up was dumb of me — overwrought, sensational; and you want to stay, fine, stay.”
“Do you know if it’s a girl or boy yet?”
“No.”
“I thought because of your age and your wife’s you would have had an amniocentesis done.”
“We did but didn’t want to know the sex.”
“While your doctor knows? That’s interesting. But I can also understand why you wouldn’t, though I’d want to know.”
“Hey. It’s difficult to talk and run at the same time. And even if I’m going at a good speed, I think I could run faster if you weren’t right next to me and scaring me that at any moment you’ll lose control of a bike you’re unfamiliar with and swerve into me.”
“How about if I pace you then? I’ll stay a few feet in front and in that way provide a service to your getting home sooner.”
“I’d feel safer if I did it alone.”
“Okay. Just wanted to be helpful. And if I haven’t said it a million times, I think you’re a terrific writer, Mr. Taub, whatever I think of your teaching — which is good but not as good as your writing. And much luck to you and your wife — if not today, if you don’t have the baby, then whenever when.”
“Thank you.” I wave. He turns around.
I reach the building, run up the three flights and unlock the front door. “Magna?”
“In here.” She’s in the kitchen making a pesto sauce in the blender. Big pot of water’s coming to a boil on the stove. “Salad’s already prepared, though you might want to do a dressing.”
“What’s this? Contractions stopped?”
“No. Here.” She points to her lips and I kiss them. “Since we probably won’t have to leave for hours, I thought you should have dinner. I can’t. Then we might even read or you read to me, and if the contractions still aren’t regular, we’ll go to sleep and see what happens.”