by Ann Beattie
“Yeah,” Bill says. “My impression is that they never speak specifically to any point. You ever sense that?”
“Yeah,” Charles says. It is the easiest thing to say. Bill insists on paying for lunch. “Not only will I pay, but I’ll teach you poker if you want to learn.”
“Thanks. Sometime I might.”
“Tell me the truth, Charlie. Forget that I’m your boss. You were very honest about the electric blanket. Would you ever take me up on my offer to teach you poker?”
“No,” Charles says. “Cards bore me.”
“Ha!” his boss says, and slaps him on the back, pushing him against the door to the outside.
They walk down the arcade, to the record shop. Charles finds Pearl and hands it to Bill.
“Look at that,” Bill says. “That looks like an old lady.”
“She’s only around twenty-five,” Charles says.
“I thought you said she was dead.”
“I mean in that picture.”
“That looks like my mother. Except for the way she’s dressed.”
“Yeah. She burned herself out good,” Charles says.
Bill takes the record to the cashier. It is put in a bright orange bag for him. He swings it back and forth as they walk back to work.
“What do you think of these fancy shoes?” Bill asks.
“I was noticing them.”
“Yeah? My wife put me up to getting them. She said she’d seen enough of black and brown. I don’t know. Everybody looks like a clown nowadays.”
Back in their office building, Bill turns left and Charles turns right.
“Thanks for the advice,” Bill says. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Sure,” Charles says.
Charles stops at the typing pool on the way to his office. Betty is still not there. Back in his office he tries to reach Betty, but there’s no answer. He tries Laura again; nothing there. He reaches in his coat pocket for the piece of paper he discovered early in the morning, when he was rummaging to see if he had his house key. He unfolds the piece of paper and stares at Sandra’s number. He dials that. A woman’s voice says, “Hello?” He has no way of knowing whether it is Sandra or not, because he doesn’t speak, and he can’t remember what her voice sounded like that day in the park. Why has he even dialed her number? He hangs up and throws the piece of paper away. He begins work on a report, then reaches in the waste paper basket and retrieves the number, smooths it out and puts it in his top drawer. Sandra somebody-or-other. It seems like months and months ago that he ran through the park. Why wasn’t he at work that day? Sore throat. But why …? Can’t remember.
He stops at a florist on the way home and buys yellow tulips for Laura. They are in a pot, so they won’t make her sad. It is a silly blue pot, with a ceramic windmill at one end. At least the tulips are pretty. Coming out of the florist’s he sees a hardware store across the street. What the hell. He puts the tulips carefully on the seat and locks the car. He runs through the heavy traffic to the hardware store and asks where they keep the car wax. A salesman points him to the back of the store. “Aisle two,” he says.
Charles picks up three containers of Turtle Wax and checks out. He runs back to the car. A day of good deeds: advice to his boss, a present for Laura, and Turtle Wax for Pete. He drives to his mother’s house. The Honda Civic is parked outside. He will lie to Pete and say that he didn’t notice it, swear that he didn’t notice it. It is so silly-looking—a toy.
Pete’s face is white when he answers the door.
“Charles! How’s my boy?”
“Fine, Pete. I stopped by with something for you.”
“Is that so? Well, I’m mighty glad to see you. What a surprise.”
“How’s everything?” Charles says. He never comes here uninvited.
“Today things couldn’t be better. Come upstairs and see.”
“She’s in bed?” Charles whispers.
“Mommy had, Clara had a bit of a setback, but she’s as bright as a firecracker now. Come on up.” Pete gestures nervously from the steps.
“Honey,” Pete calls, “you’ve got a visitor.”
“No!” she shrieks.
“What’s the matter with her?” Charles says.
“It’s just Charles,” Pete calls.
They reach the top. Charles whispers to Pete: “What is it?” Pete shakes his head, keeps walking.
“What a nice surprise, isn’t it?” Pete says loudly. They stand in front of his mother’s door.
“My firstborn,” she says.
“Isn’t this some surprise, Mommy?” Pete says.
“How are you doing?” Charles says. The room smells very perfumy.
“She’s as fresh as a daisy in the field today, aren’t you, honey?” Pete says.
Clara stares at them.
“Were you … sick?” Charles asks.
“I was in the hospital,” she says.
“What?” Charles says, turning to look at Pete.
“Well, now, you were in the hospital a while ago, but you haven’t been back now, have you?” Pete says.
“You mean when Susan and I came before?” Charles says.
“I know you did,” Clara says.
“We all know that,” Pete says, slapping Charles on the back. “How about taking a seat?” he says to Charles. Charles sits in the pink tufted chair. Pete strolls around like a master of ceremonies.
“I was quite sick,” she says.
“You’re looking fine now,” Charles says.
“Oh, Pete says that I have to be freshened up. He throws me in the tub, Charles, and squirts perfume all over me and I’m too weak to get away.”
Charles looks at Pete in confusion. Pete reddens.
“We have to freshen up,” Pete says. “We can’t lie in bed without a bath for a week, can we?”
“I hate to be freshened,” she says.
“Look at Mommy’s—Clara’s—nice pink bed jacket. Her thoughtful husband got that for her. If Mommy—Clara—takes to bed, she might as well look cheerful.”
“What’s new?” she says to Charles. She looks like she expects to hear the worst.
“Not much. Back to work and all that.”
“I can’t seem to do my household work,” she says.
“That’s all right,” Pete says automatically. “If you’re going to get all confused when you get out of bed, I’d just as soon have you in bed.”
“I get confused,” she says to Charles.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Don’t I?” she says to Pete.
“We don’t want to dwell on this,” Pete says. “Aren’t you mighty glad to see Charles?”
“I know it’s Charles,” she says. “I’m not confused when I’m in bed.”
“Can I fix coffee for anyone?” Pete says.
“No thanks,” Charles says.
“Susan wrote me a nice letter,” Clara says.
“Mommy mislaid it,” Pete says.
“Oh. That’s nice,” Charles says. “How is she?”
“I want you children to keep contact. You do keep contact, don’t you?”
“Sure we do. I was just talking to her on the phone,”
“I talked to her on the phone,” Clara says. “It was in the day, and Pete doesn’t believe me.”
Pete turns red.
“What did she have to say?” Charles says.
“Mice and rice and everything nice,” Clara says. Charles looks at the floor.
“Say,” Pete says. “What about a look at a little something I’ve got?”
“What’s that?” Charles says, playing dumb.
“Come on, come on, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”
“A death car,” Clara says.
“A Honda Civic,” Pete says, louder than Clara. “Come take a look.”
Charles walks in back of Pete, out of the room and down the stairs.
“Here,” Charles says. “This is to celebrate the new car.”
“What’s
this?” Pete says. “Hey! Turtle Wax!”
Charles nods.
“I knew you didn’t really forget. Say, thanks a lot. What do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” Charles says.
“Come on.…”
“Really, it’s a present.”
“Hell,” Pete says. “My own son couldn’t have given me anything I wanted more.”
Pete puts the bag on the hall table, puts on his coat and walks outside.
“She’s much worse,” Charles says.
“She’s out of her goddamn mind, to be honest with you. She gets up and flips around like a fish when I’m not there. Not that water ever touches her. I have to do that once a week. Throw her in. What else can I do?”
“Christ. Have you spoken to a doctor?”
“No. I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“What are they going to do but take her to the hospital? Then what happens? I’m there all the time, the house is like a tomb.…”
“What if she does something to herself?”
“She’d forget what she was doing if the knife was poised at her heart. Really. You can’t imagine what bad shape she’s in.”
“I think I get the idea.”
“I’m not calling any doctor,” Pete says. “I’m not going to run back and forth to the hospital. They don’t do anything for her there, anyway. Put her in a room with a murderer.”
“How do you know that?”
“That foreign broad told me she was a murderer. Showed me all these photographs of kittens and puppies, one hand showing the picture, the other clutching her throat.”
Charles sighs. They are standing in front of Pete’s Honda Civic.
“You know what my consolation is?” Pete says. “You want to know what my one consolation is?”
“What?”
“That car,” Pete says. “Well. It’s very nice.”
“That car must get a thousand miles to the gallon. I get in that in the morning and just leave the past behind.” Charles smiles.
“I do. You don’t believe me?”
“Sure.”
“Sure is right That thing gets a thousand miles a gallon.” Charles stares at the little white car.
“Looks like a whale, doesn’t it?” Pete says. “Friendly like a whale?” Charles resumes his smile. “Wait till I take that wax to her. Some shine.” Pete unlocks the car. “Take a sit,” he says. Charles sits in the car. His legs are cramped. “What a beaut,” Pete says. Charles gets out.
“So what brought you by?” Pete says.
“Just wanted to give you the Turtle Wax.”
“Jesus, that’s very nice of you. When I saw you standing there I thought: he’s come to tell us he’s getting married.”
“What? Why would you think that?”
“I thought for sure. I don’t know.”
“I’m not getting married,” Charles says.
“If you were my own boy I’d pry,” Pete says. “Ask what happened to that California honey.”
“She went back. She’s a lesbian, anyway.”
“What?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re kidding me. How’d you meet one of those?”
“Long time ago. When she wasn’t.”
“No kidding,” Pete says. “Must make you feel bad.” Charles shrugs.
“Whew,” Pete says. “Glad I don’t know her.” He shakes his head sideways.
“I guess I’ll be getting home,” Charles says.
“Don’t bother to go back in,” Pete says. “She’ll have all her clothes off.”
“What do you mean?”
“Every time you have—I don’t mean you, I mean anybody—anybody has a conversation with her and they turn their back, she’s as naked as a jay.”
“Pete, you’re going to have to do something.”
“I’m sitting tight. I know eventually I will.”
“Well. Call if you need me.”
Pete nods. Charles shakes his hand.
“See you,” Charles says.
Pete stands on the sidewalk waving as he pulls off. He waves back, and lets out a long sigh when he turns off their block. His father is dead, his mother is crazy, Pete is all alone. He puts on the radio for the appropriate song. It is “Rocket Man” by Elton John. He listens to the radio and worries all the way to Wicker Street. Once again there is no parking space on Wicker Street. He parks on the same street he parked on the night before and cuts through an alley to Wicker Street, holding the tulips, in their white bag, inside his coat for extra warmth.
Laura opens the door wearing a black sweater and a long gray skirt. He is so surprised by how beautiful she is that he forgets to hold out the bag of tulips.
“Hi,” she says.
“You’re beautiful,” he says. “These are for you.”
“Oh, thank you.”
He walks into the apartment. Incense. He watches her put the bag on the floor and pull it apart at the top. “Tulips! They’re beautiful!”
“They’re in a thing. A container. So they won’t die or anything.”
“Thank you, Charles. It’s so gray out. These will be beautiful.” She looks around for a place to put them, settles on the coffee table.
“Your roommate studying again?”
“Yes.”
“Do you really have a roommate?”
“You don’t believe I have a roommate?”
“I don’t know.”
“I do. She’s at the library. She studies there until midnight. Sometimes later.”
“Did I make you mad?”
“No,” she says. “It was just a foolish question.”
“What’s that on the stereo?”
Damn! He was going to bring her records. He was right in the store and he forgot. “Keith Jarrett.”
“Beautiful,” he says.
He sits on the sofa. The two black lines have not yet done in the rainbow. “Would you like a drink?”
“Yes,” he says.
She goes into the kitchen and takes a bottle off the counter and pours scotch into a glass. She drops in an ice cube. “Just scotch, or water with it?” she says. “Just scotch.”
“I might have a job,” she says, handing him the glass. There is writing on the glass: Hot Dog Goes To School. A dog, knees crossed, is beaming. He holds a piece of paper that says 100%.
“A job?”
“A job selling cosmetics.”
“Oh. Would you like that?”
The perfume in his mother’s room … Pete throwing his mother in the bath.… “It’s a job.”
“When will you hear?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Then you have to wait home for the phone call?”
“Yes,” she says. “You’re not very subtle about playing detective.”
“If you’re here I can call and say good morning. I like to hear your voice.”
She sighs. He looks at the window—the cracked glass. A nightmare: he had some nightmare about that glass. He takes her hand.
“If I’m not all smiles it’s because I just visited my mother,”
“How is your mother?”
“Loony.”
“But, I mean …”
“She’s loony and well cared-for. She’s stopped bathing, and I think she’s stopped getting out of bed.”
“What is your stepfather going to do?”
“That’s a funny way to think of Pete. I always think of him as Pete.”
“What’s he going to do?”
“Nothing, he says. Unless she gets unmanageable.”
“That’s so awful,” Laura says.
“I shouldn’t tell you my problems. You’ve got enough of your own.”
“I’ve got a job, probably. What problems do I have?”
“You’re feeling good now?” he says, his mood lifting.
“No. Heavily ironic.”
“Oh,” he says.
“Would you like another?”
He gives her the empty
glass. The ice cube hardly melted at all. It is the last scotch he will drink.
He looks at her standing in front of the kitchen counter, pouring. He stares at her ass.
“I’ll tell you something funny. My boss asked my advice today about his son, who wants—in this order—to get into Harvard and an electric blanket.”
She laughs. “What advice did he want?”
“He seemed to want to know if there were some poets who advised young men not to worry about getting into Harvard.”
“Were you able to help him?” She is coming back with the drink. The drink is yellow. Her sweater is black, her skirt gray, her boots black, her hair brownish blond. It is Laura.
“You must have been,” she says, “with that grin.”
“Actually, I was. I recommended ‘Get It While You Can’ by the late, great Miss Janis Joplin.”
Laura nods. “A fine selection. Sure to change his thinking entirely. Then all he’ll yearn for is the electric blanket.”
Laura has fixed herself a drink. “You don’t mind eating a little late, do you?”
He shakes his head no. She is really quite beautiful in profile.
“You’re smiling too much,” she says. “You’ve had enough scotch.”
“No,” he says. “I’m just smiling.”
The radiator hisses. He looks at the plant hanging in the window above the radiator and at the yellow tulips. There is loud applause as the record ends.
“Jesus,” he says, stroking her shoulder with his free hand, “I’m going to get that dessert.”
“I didn’t realize you liked it that much.”
“I was wild for it. I crave it constantly. A riddle: how is orange and chocolate soufflé like Laura?”
She sighs again. “You’re so subtle,” she says.
“You’re so lovely. Imagine a taxi driver getting lucky enough to pick you up.”
“Enough! I don’t want to hear any more about the taxi driver.”
“Imagine me being that lucky. When I was that lucky.”
“I’ve never understood why you like me so much,” she says.
“I know it. And you always talk about my ‘liking’ you. You won’t even say out loud that I love you.”
“I don’t understand why you love me.”
“The orange soufflé.”
“Sometimes I think it really is something as crazy as that You love me because of a dessert I make. The recipe is in a cookbook.”