by Ann Beattie
“I didn’t forget, but since when does she have classes on Wednesday night?”
“Since they canceled classes on Tuesday because there was a bomb scare,” the girl said. “Pleased to meet you.” She extended her hand. There was a tattoo of a spider’s web on the back of her hand. “Somebody got a credit card? We can call Domino’s,” she said. Candace gripped the girl’s hand, looking at Sterling for guidance. He gestured toward the single piece of furniture: a sofa in the living room. He took his credit card out of his wallet and handed it to the girl. “I like extra cheese,” he said.
“You?” the girl asked Candace.
“Just . . . what he has will be fine,” she said.
“What exactly is a niece?” the girl said to him. “It’s the daughter of your brother or sister, right?”
“Sister,” Sterling said, as if this were an often asked question.
“College girl?” she asked, still not looking at Candace.
“Used to be,” Candace said. “Now I work in Washington.”
“Ooh la la,” the girl said. She texted the pizza place on the phone she’d been holding in one hand all the time, the motion of her thumb rippling the spider’s web, then placed the phone on the table. “Pepperoni on half, extra cheese on the other,” she said. “It comes with a free bottle of Dr Pepper tonight.” She sat on the floor and stared at them. “That’s not your niece, is it?” she said to Sterling.
“Candace, my niece,” he said.
“Cool,” the girl said, lightly fingering a hair roller. “It’s between you and Lana.” She picked up a magazine and twirled a bit of loose hair around a finger. “I been irradiated like you, I might do whatever I had a mind to do myself. You drink your protein shake today? I heard her call you this morning to remind you.”
“I drank it,” he said.
“Sounded like a little love buzz going on, maybe? She didn’t tell you about the makeup class tonight?”
“No,” he said.
“Well, maybe because you’re not part of the family, proof being that you got a credit card that works,” she said. “So I’m glad you’ve got your niece there, and your very own family.”
“I am his niece,” Candace said. “I love him very much.”
“I’ve had some loving very much,” the girl said, “so don’t go claiming no superiority in that department.”
Sterling sat on the sofa. He reached up and turned on the floor lamp, and his already pale face blanched white. He had hardly any eyebrows, Candace saw for the first time. Instead, there were a few scraggly hairs; above them, his skin was wrinkled like a Shar-Pei’s. How could she not have noticed before? His hair was sparse, his thinness quite obvious with his long legs stretched in front of him. He’d looked healthier before he’d taken off his jacket. Candace’s jacket was pulled tightly in front of her, and she had her arms folded over her chest. It seemed colder in the apartment than it did outside. She glanced to the side and into the small kitchen. There was a child’s high chair. Every door to every cabinet seemed to be open. Piles of dishes sat on either side of the sink. She was thirsty, and wished for a drink of water, but not enough to get up and walk in there.
“I’m nobody,” Sterling said to Candace, as if he were saying “Good morning” to a colleague who meant nothing to him.
“That’s not true,” she said. “You’re my favorite relative. Somebody took a liking to you tonight and gave you a very nice present this evening, remember that? Things are going to be okay. I really feel like they are.”
The girl was twirling her hair, listening to them talk and pretending not to.
“I’m a coward,” he said, “but not in the way you think. They made me see a shrink in order to get my pain meds refilled. Every Friday I have to report in. He told me not to compartmentalize, to open myself up more. If that’s what it takes, me making my report of success, I guess you came along at a good time for me, maybe not such a good time for you.”
“It’s fine,” she said.
“Everybody understands everybody. I’ll be back when the pizza shows up,” the girl said, getting up and walking out of the room. They both stared after her; she went into another room and quietly closed the door.
“She’s looking after her friend’s kid,” Sterling said. “She’s got a good heart.”
“There’s a child in there?” Candace said.
Sterling nodded. “Asleep, I guess. Maybe it’s better if I sit by the window and watch for the pizza guy. Maybe that way he won’t wake up.”
“Why would she walk out of the room like that?” Candace said.
“Not sure,” Sterling said. “Not a hundred percent sure she’s telling me the truth about her mother and where she is tonight, either.”
Candace looked into the kitchen. “Maybe we should go,” she said. “Let’s go back to the inn and I’ll order us a pizza. To be honest, I wouldn’t mind having a beer from the honor bar. It’s quiet there, maybe somebody in one of the rooms, but quiet. Warm.”
“A perfect place, complete salvation,” he said. “A cloud.”
He took a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet and put it on the table next to Allure. He picked the bill up, creased it, put it down again, folded so it looked like a little roof.
“Is it your child?” Candace said quietly.
“Mine? No. What would make you think that? Mine? It’s her best friend’s two-year-old, Jake. She took the train to Albany to visit the kid’s father. He’s in jail. She apparently always takes her time getting back to Virginia.” Sterling looked at his watch. “Domino’s usually gets here fast, because they’re just down the street,” he said. “Maybe it would be nicer to wait for the pizza guy. Have a slice with her, then leave.”
“I think he’s here,” Candace said, looking past his shoulder to the stairs. She saw the top of someone’s head, coming nearer. But it wasn’t the delivery person, it was two EMTs. Below, in the parking lot, a white light blinked atop the ambulance. The pizza delivery person was, however, coming up the stairs as the two men returned, carrying an empty stretcher. She could hear them greet the Domino’s guy as if it were all in a night’s work, as Sterling stood with the door thrown open, his wallet removed from his pants pocket, another few bills pulled out to put in the delivery guy’s hands. Some leaves blew into the room, and she thought: Autumn! Not the most colorful autumn, but autumn! Next, winter. Then her wedding in early spring, six months from now, May. She looked at her diamond ring. At her uncle. Who must have ordered from Domino’s before, because he was on good terms with the delivery guy. They exchanged a quiet joke as the two men carrying the stretcher moved past them. Into the middle of it all streaked the big cat, but with fancy footwork, the man carrying the back of the stretcher avoided tripping on the animal. She looked at the twenty-dollar bill on the table. Had he forgotten it, or did he mean to leave it? He’d walked past Candace, box in hand, and when he returned from the room minus the box, he pulled on his coat and said, “You’re right, Candy. Let’s go.”
She exited behind him, relieved that when the door was pulled closed, you could hear it lock. From the landing, the cat’s eyes flashed as it stared down. She stopped briefly before following her uncle down the stairs. Somewhere, she’d scuffed the toe of one boot. There was a scratch, though there’d been nothing in the apartment but the ugly rug she’d heard about, so how had she done that? She followed Sterling down the stairs, into the driveway where the doors of the ambulance were open, and she saw, inside, an old woman being transferred onto a gurney. Candace instantly looked away, followed Sterling to his car, eyes averted, shivering a little as she waited for the click of the button that would allow her to open the door. She felt ashamed. Because she hadn’t been nice to the girl, who, she’d decided, was much younger than she. Because she hadn’t even had the courage to go get a drink of water. Why had she felt humiliated, why had the thought of eating the same pizza she’d eaten for years, all through college, washed down with milk, why had the thought of oily residue on
her fingers depressed her so much? Sterling had left the apartment because of her, hadn’t he? She didn’t think she was better than other people. She really didn’t. Even when she’d been in school, she’d realized there was animosity in the community because of the haves and the have-nots.
“I married her,” Sterling said across the roof of the car, “but she kept thinking about her ex-husband, she was a lousy actress, so I said, ‘Hey, I’ll continue to make your car payments as a wedding present, and we can get this annulled.’ Four days? What’s four days? So I called a frat brother of mine, a big-shot lawyer in Ivy. But now Lana’s daughter pretty much hates me. She thought I was a real improvement over him. She was a bitch tonight, but she’s got her worries, taking care of that kid for however long she’ll have to take care of him this time. She flunked out of the same program her mother’s going to, and I guess she’s flunking out of beauty school, too. What the hell must that be like? She’s twenty-two, and she hasn’t pulled off one thing in her entire life.”
“Sterling . . .”
“I do consider them family. Lana picked me up all but one time from the hospital, and she sent a guy who’s a friend of hers the time she couldn’t be there. Who knew all that cancer shit was going to broadside us? It’s okay. It was a big mistake, a big mistake, but we’ve put it behind us, we’re still friends. The ex-husband’s got his nose out of joint, but maybe they’ll work it out. I don’t know.”
“This is hard to believe,” she said. “Did you know this is where we were going to end up, or was this just—”
“Impulsive?” he said. “Yeah, I’m a little impulsive sometimes.”
She sat in the passenger seat mutely. Had they even been inside for half an hour? She thought back to the last time she’d seen her uncle. It had been at the zoo. They’d gone to the reptile house, which had been her favorite when she was a child. Her mother had been with them. What was it—three years ago, more? March or April? He’d bought her a balloon, saying that she could let it go any time she wanted, none of that little-girl fumbling, none of those clumsy attempts to tie it around her wrist, no little-girl tears if the balloon got away from her: It would be liberating to deliberately let it go high into the cloudy sky. And so she had; she’d released the string, her mother frowning, disapproving. Later, they’d had Chinese food on Connecticut Avenue, Claire sulking a bit as Sterling and Candace toasted liberation. Of course people became more mature with age, her mother had protested: Candace had grown up; of course a balloon didn’t mean the world to her anymore. She just didn’t get her brother, really she didn’t. So her daughter being happily in collusion with Sterling—she didn’t get that either. The day would have been better if Claire hadn’t been along, though it was likely neither of them would have thought of a balloon if she hadn’t been there as a witness. What was Candace going to say to her mother about this night?
Nothing. The next time she saw her uncle, he’d be dancing at her wedding. While all this had been going on, had Daniel tried to call? She wondered, but she didn’t reach for her purse. Neither did she spit on her finger and hope against hope that the mark on her boot was dirt, not a scratch. Her throat was too dry to swallow, anyway. Dinner? Who wanted that? But a drink of water . . .
She opened the window—it rolled down—picked up the little cluster of birds, and extended her hand until the wind sucked them out the window. She thought of the eerie cat, of how it would find its perfect moment on Halloween. How it would have liked to pounce on the pretty birds. How much it would have liked to kill them.
Autumn leaves spun in the breeze under the streetlamps.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, not speeding, but not braking for a yellow light, either. “Here, Sperryville, I’m not going to be able to come to your party.” He reached down and gave her hand a squeeze, and again she realized that his hand was bony, much too light. Daniel, she thought. I’m engaged to a man named Daniel? The wind was whipping her hair across her face. It stuck to her lips, chapped from being bitten. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her hands fluttered uselessly.
HOODIE IN XANADU
Most nights my neighbor, a middle-aged man in a red hoodie, would stand on his front porch, reaching up every now and then to knock the icicle Christmas lights dangling from the roof back and forth. He’d survey the street and usually smoke a cigarette. When he finished, he would fumble for his keys, then open his front door slightly, ducking his head to enter as if the doorframe were too low. If he saw me watching, he’d give a desultory wave, or I’d lift a hand in his direction. He didn’t go out at night, and he seemed bored or not too bright or, like many Key Westers, pretty incomprehensible—at least he would have been in any other context. The icicle lights burned all night.
Sometimes I could hear Glenn Gould playing loudly, and then my neighbor—the drawstrings of his red hoodie tied under his chin—would emerge and stand with a blanket wrapped around him, shivering in his jeans and clogs, looking forlornly down the empty street. If Hoodie had anything resembling a life, you wouldn’t know it by his chagrined expression and by the way he sagged in the chair on his porch like a shot duck, too heavy-assed to rise, even when he needed to sign for a package: quite a heavy fellow, for someone who smoked dope—I’ve smelled it—and whom I’ve never seen carrying a bag from the grocery store. When, and how, had he put up the Christmas lights?
Hoodie—on the night in January we became better acquainted—silently greeted me as we stood across the street on our porches: “two citizens of Planet Earth,” as my late husband used to say. What does Hoodie do all day? I’m in my sixties, so if anyone wonders about me—which I doubt—I’m sure they assume I creak and groan and sprout chin hairs. My own son, Roland, appears once or twice a year for a brief visit, then returns to Miami. He’s never invited me to visit wherever he lives. He’s never even given me an address. If Roland knows that Christmas has come and gone, he’s given no indication. My best guess about Hoodie? He sleeps late (many in Key West do), then does errands (which occupy everyone, always, until the second you pitch over dead)—errands that, in his case, might include a certain number of doctor visits, given his weight. I assume he has a hobby as well, because of the number of boxes delivered to the house. I’ve been asked many times by the UPS or FedEx driver to sign in his absence. One recent rainy afternoon I’d taken in two boxes, then walked across the street with them later that day. The shippers had names like OxyLoxy, in Newtville, TN, and StarLady in Winches, NH. The boxes were heavy, they often smelled nice (though sometimes they smelled of smoke) and were more or less the same size. Once, when a box was shipped through the U.S. mail, I’d paid the postage due of thirty-four cents, for which Hoodie had thanked me profusely.
* * *
I arrived in Key West in 1986, leaving a cruise ship that could continue to transport its weary just fine without me: passengers tainted with flu; not-quite ex-wives, giving the marriage one more try; geezers under the delusion that the high seas were a watery limbo where they could revert to their youth and not take their medicine; shrilly entitled, run-amok grandchildren; the eccentric who came aboard with his parrot in its cage. My husband had died in 1985, Roland was in boarding school in Connecticut (courtesy of his grandmother), and I’d impulsively responded to an ad in The Washington Post for discounted cabins on a winter cruise whose first stop was Key West, Florida—which also became my last.
When I’d left, I’d gotten a job cleaning at Tra La La Tropics Guesthouse (I was also given a temporary room there and permission to swim in the pool). I had soon branched out—there’s a pun!—creating displays for their entryway from flowers discarded after rich people’s parties, or stuffed in florists’ trash cans the night before garbage pickup. Fallen palm fronds have always been free, and a gold-and-silver glitter stick costs next to nothing and really adds panache. I would pinch-hit for the cook (Zachary “Zit Man” Chisholm) when his diabetes made him too weak to serve the last meal of the night. I’ve been retired for years, living on my—and my husband’
s—Social Security payments.
I still do the flowers for Tra La La, which morphed into Sea Breeze House when straight people bought it in the nineties—though I don’t Dumpster-dive anymore. I supplement my income when I’m called upon to make bridal bouquets and—to my surprise—wrist corsages, which are especially popular in transsexual commitment ceremonies. Who knows what Hoodie made of me, with these people coming and going from my apartment.
Well, here’s what he makes of me: He crossed the street, after all this time, wearing his customary red sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, which he untied and pushed off his head as if gallantly removing a fedora, and said, “I’m embarrassed to say we haven’t really met,” and I said, “Joe, I know your name because of the packages addressed to you,” and he said, “Right, so let me ask: What’s your name?”
Audrey Ann was the answer, but no one had ever called me either name, and Annie wasn’t my favorite nickname—Flora was. It had been bestowed on me in 1986 by Zit Man, whose nickname had preceded our meeting. I told Hoodie I was Flora.
“Happy to know you,” he said. “I’m taking a pill called Zoloft, and I find I’m able to extend myself to people now, so I think it’s about time we made each other’s acquaintance.”
This, of course, made me feel bad. The poor man was depressed, and I’d never so much as introduced myself. After my husband died, I had retreated inward.
“I’d like to ask you in for tea,” he said. “I’m feeling much better these days. We’ll have a chat. Not about anything in particular, just a neighborly visit.”
“Joe, that would be a pleasure. When would be a good time to come over?”
“In half an hour?” he said.
Half an hour! Well—why not? “Fine,” I said. “Thanks so much.”
I went inside and saw the answering-machine light blinking. The red light upset me about as much as seeing a palmetto bug scurry under the sink. You can do it, I told myself silently. I hit play.