by Ann Beattie
He was probably right; like Barbara, Janey did try to see the best in people. Her similarity to Barbara—her similarity, along with the way you could sometimes see her struggling to do the right thing—was probably one of the reasons Frank had been so drawn to Janey, though Janey was much less Pollyannaish than Barbara.
Frank took the fish from me and started to run. It caught the wind on the first try, its tail snapping, and kept climbing.
“Remind you of anybody, with its mouth up to the sky?” he shouted back to me. “It reminds me of somebody who’s real trusting, always ready to bite, even if all they get is a mouthful of cloud.”
That spring, I began typing the autobiography of a woman who was in her seventies and lived in Dell. For ninety-five cents a page, I deciphered her handwriting, deleted most of her commas, and typed the manuscript with wide margins, as she’d requested, on the electric typewriter Bob had given me for Christmas. The book was divided into three sections. She had been widowed three times, and each section was about the trips she took or the day-to-day life she’d shared with each of her husbands. She liked to fish, and she had had little trouble persuading husbands one and three to set off on fishing expeditions. Her second husband seemed to like nothing: not her cooking, or her conversation, or her friends, or even the things she chose to grow in the vegetable garden. As I typed, I was happy to realize that he was in ill health and would soon be gone. I’d already flipped ahead, and the third husband was much more interesting. I had asked Barbara if she knew Grace Aldridge, and at first she’d said no, but then she realized whom I was talking about, and it turned out she had known her at church during the years Grace was married to the sourpuss. She had been Grace Dubbell then. In the second section, there was a long digression that purported to quote Mr. Dubbell’s views on the garden. I could put his opinions in quotes, or in italics, or even in capital letters, she had told me. There were notes on the manuscript, anticipating the questions I’d have when she switched from her customary black ink to red. “Make husband talk with underlining or caps, if that is best,” she had written. I tried it: DO YOU THINK THAT GOOD GARDEN SOIL SHOULD BE USED FOR THE PLANTING OF RHUBARB, WHICH WHEN COOKED HAS THE CONSISTENCY OF SNOT?
That was a little too alarming, though it did emphasize how nasty he was. I decided to use simple quotes, indenting each one, to make a list, and adding an introductory sentence of my own: “He had the following views on the things I planted in the garden.” I could hardly wait to get to the section about her life with husband number three, because I already knew they had gone hiking and fishing in Canada and taken a ride on Maid of the Mist at Niagara Falls. He seemed very pleasant compared to her second husband, and a great improvement over the first, who suffered from asthma, so that many plans got scrapped at the last moment. I was sitting at the kitchen table, recording Mr. Dubbell’s opinions about okra (“like dead fishes”) and parsnips (“you take a peeling of tree bark and soak it overnight, it would taste better than a parsnip”), when the phone rang. I expected it to be Bob, asking me to pick him up. That week, he was leaving Drake his car and taking the bus back to Portsmouth. Though Bob had been pretty closemouthed about it, Drake had a girlfriend. “You didn’t hear it from me” was all Bob would say. But Grandma had told Barbara, and Barbara had told me. We didn’t know anything about her, though. Because he’d apparently never had her to the apartment, Grandma didn’t know anything, either.
In fact, the call was from Grandma, who was calling long distance to say that Bob had asked her to tell me that it wouldn’t be necessary to pick him up. A friend would be giving him a ride home, and he’d get in around eight. Grandma seemed sad to be missing spring where we lived, though she said she and Louise had been to the park, and that the tulips were beautiful. She didn’t mention Drake’s girlfriend, and I didn’t ask, but it did seem to me that Grandma must be hoping things would go well, because if things went well with the romance, perhaps she wouldn’t have to live in Boston and take care of Louise. When Drake had first gone back to school, Barbara had wanted him to leave Louise with her; she and Grandma would take care of her, and he could see her on the weekends. But he’d been bitter about his divorce, and he’d gotten custody, so he wanted to have Louise with him every minute. He was determined to show everyone what a good father he could be, though law school had been more demanding than he’d expected, and his guilt about Grandma’s doing so much only made him more withdrawn. Bob had said to me that he wasn’t sure that Drake wasn’t just depressed—that while he had no doubt law school ate up an astonishing amount of time, Drake’s constant unhappiness seemed worrisome. Bob felt more than a little strange about being at Drake’s: Drake had said emphatically that he must use the apartment and not go to the expense of renting a place, yet when he was there Drake hardly spoke to him. He ate the meals Grandma prepared in silence at the desk where he worked long into the night. “I mean, he could at least sit in a comfortable chair when he reads, couldn’t he?” Bob had asked me.
Grandma said, “Has Barbara gone kite flying, now that the weather’s warmer?”
“I haven’t asked her,” I said. “I do think she had a good birthday, though, don’t you?”
“One of the few more or less intact families I know of,” Grandma said. “There’s great value in having everybody in the same room at the same time.” She cleared her throat. “Not that we expect anything of Drake anymore,” she said. “Not that I do, anyway.”
“Bob thinks he might be depressed,” I said.
“He’s never looked on the bright side. Not even as a little boy.”
“Well, he’ll be done with school soon,” I said. “And I hope he becomes very successful and buys you—”
“He’ll have to buy me a tombstone, by the time he finishes all this,” Grandma said.
“Grandma, if it’s too much for you in Boston, you could come back. Janey and I were talking about that a while ago. You shouldn’t feel you have to be there just because—”
“Hadn’t raised Barbara to be dutiful, I might have the nerve to walk out,” Grandma said. “But you can’t tell your children one thing, and then do an about-face.”
“Barbara isn’t a child anymore, Grandma. She’d understand.”
“Walking out of a difficult situation Barbara would most certainly not approve of. And anyway, if I hadn’t helped raise him to become the person he’s become, I might be blameless, but I always encouraged his independence. I even took his side when he married Jeannette, you know. A girl from another country who was unsuited to him in every way. What did I say then but that he should follow his heart.”
“Grandma, he didn’t marry her because you said he should. He was in love with her.”
“What I honestly felt was that she wasn’t the girl for him, but no, I didn’t tell him that.”
“It would have just made for bad feelings. You know, when I was going to marry Bob, I felt very bad that my aunt—”
“Truth is, I thought you were both too young, but I’m happy to see that things have worked out.”
“I was too young to marry him,” I said, and was surprised to hear myself saying it so simply. There was silence on the other end. “I mean, I might have developed more interests if I’d been on my own awhile.”
“Interests? Every minute of life is interesting. But so what? What’s that Chinese curse? It’s something like: ‘May you live in interesting times.’ ”
“You know what I mean,” I said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “I mean that it’s probably better to feel separate. Because I don’t feel joined—I mean, we’re not Siamese twins, we’re not joined at the hip—but I don’t feel joined to him, and I also don’t feel like I have a real life of my own.”
“Everybody has her own life. You can be sure of that.”
“But Grandma—don’t you hear the cynicism in your voice when you say that? There should be something better you could say. You should feel happier about things. It’s okay if you don’t want to be in Boston with Drake. Ju
st because he made a mess of things, you aren’t obliged to bail him out.”
“I don’t avoid things. I take responsibility. No one can fault me for not doing what I should. I’d think you’d understand because of your aunt’s sacrifices. You can’t say you’d be the girl you are today without her having extended herself.”
“But she didn’t want to.”
“Nevertheless, she did.”
That was irrefutable. When I had needed someone, my aunt had taken care of me. That was entirely true.
“This will make me sound like a silly old lady, which I may be,” Grandma said, “but what kind of a world would it be if nobody looked out for anybody else?”
“You wouldn’t not be looking out for Drake, you’d just—”
“I’d just be tending my garden and watching pretty snowflakes in the winter, and I’d be a selfish person. Though many’s the time I wish I had spoken against his marriage when I should have.”
“He would have done the same thing.”
“Probably, but at least I would have told him what I thought.”
“You know, Grandma, I’ve been typing a manuscript for somebody who was married three times, and that’s the way she’s decided to organize her life—by the husbands. And the one I’m typing the story of now was so awful that he not only wouldn’t plant a garden, but he registered his disapproval of everything she planted, except maybe parsley.”
“Hard to take exception to parsley,” Grandma said.
“I mean, he pretty much insisted she do all the work—plant the garden; can stuff in autumn—and all he had to say was that parsnips tasted like tree bark.”
“Must have eaten them when they’d gotten tough,” Grandma said.
“Did you know Mrs. Aldridge?” I said. “Barbara knew her when she was named Dubbell.”
“The woman who was married to Zack Dubbell? I met her once or twice. He was a religious fanatic.”
“I don’t think so, but I haven’t gotten to the end of this section yet.”
“Well, maybe his views on vegetables made more of an impression,” Grandma said.
When we hung up, I went back to the typewriter and turned it on again. I liked the way it hummed. I liked the way the keys struck the paper when I turned the adjustment knob to the softest touch. It sounded a little like rain. As I typed, I kept the pages of the notebook open with a rock Marie had given to Bob for his birthday. It was a rather heavy, oval stone on which she’d painted curlicue blue eyes. The stone had a mouth with uneven lips, the top lip much fuller than the bottom. Two dots served as nostrils. A worm of a wrinkle passed across the forehead. Marie had glued curly yellow ribbon to the sides and put sequins where earrings would go. Half the ribbon/hair had fallen off one side, because of inadequate gluing. Just as I was starting to type, the phone rang. I got up to answer it.
“Oh, sweetie—can you come out and play?” the voice on the phone said pleadingly.
“Dara,” I said. “I haven’t heard from you in ages.”
“I’ve got the blues,” she said. “It’s Tom. I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Would you like to meet at the bakery and have coffee?” I said.
“I would like to meet there and have six chocolate éclairs,” she said. “And if they served drinks, that would be much better than coffee.”
“I can bring a flask,” I said.
“You can?” she said. She lowered her voice to a near whisper. “Really, would you do that?”
I had been kidding, but Bob did have a flask. He took it with him sometimes when he went sailing. It was a lovely silver flask that had once belonged to Grandma’s husband.
“It could be arranged,” I said.
“What time can you come?”
“Right now, if that’s good.”
“Oh God, I am so glad to have one friend who is not subsumed by marching in step and working for the fucking system all day.” She sighed.
I looked at the painted stone. I was certainly not working for the system.
I went into the bedroom, took off Bob’s flannel work shirt, and changed into a white blouse. I kept on the black pants I was wearing, but traded my heavy socks and running shoes for thin gray socks and red suede flats. I opened Bob’s bottom drawer and found the flask where I’d last seen it. It was still lying on top of a Playboy someone had passed on to him after a boat ride. There was also a jock strap that Bob almost never wore, and a can of foot powder. There were his handgrips, and a metal folding cup. Bob’s toy box: the bottom dresser drawer. I closed it and hung his shirt back in his closet. It smelled faintly of mothballs, and when I sniffed, I sneezed: some mothballs must have gotten onto the floor.
Corolli’s bakery was the newest addition to the shopping center. It was between an AAA office and a locksmith, and even though the day was not very warm, there were three small green metal tables set up in front, and I decided to see whether it might be possible to sit outside. The flask, filled with rum—we didn’t have brandy, which would have been much more elegant—was in my purse. I went inside and bought a cruller and an espresso. I also got a chocolate éclair, which I put in front of where Dara would sit. Then I got up and bought a newspaper. It was thin. As usual, nothing much was happening. I was dismayed to see an ad for Snell’s, though. There was a drawing of the prospective greenhouse. “Now hiring,” it said. Hiring for a greenhouse that hadn’t yet been completed? I was lost in thought when Dara’s old red Ford sloped into the parking lot. She coasted by, not quite sure where the bakery was, looking for the AAA office I’d told her about.
She had on a black John Wesley Harding hat and a velvet scarf wrapped around her neck. She was wearing jeans and some enormous blouse that she looked lost inside. The blouse was draped with a vest, as well as a leather jacket. It looked like she had thrown on almost everything she owned. The amber velvet contrasted nicely with the purple vest. Her hair was newly washed, a bit frizzy, but puffy and curling to her shoulders. I took in all of this as she stepped out of the car, which she had left parked parallel to the curb under a big sign that said NO PARKING. She gave me a smile and rolled her eyes at the same time: an acknowledgment of her harried state. She was uncoiling the scarf petulantly, as if a big snake had curled round and round her neck, confining it in a most annoying way. She stilled her swinging, beaded earrings. She slumped down in a chair and leaned back, exhaling, looking at the sky. “Thank you, sweetie,” she said on the exhale. “I am so glad to see you. And I see by this éclair that you have already expressed your affection for me.”
“Flask in my purse,” I said, patting the bag that hung off the back of my chair.
“It isn’t one of those that has the devil’s face on it, is it?”
I took it out. “Horseback riders,” I said.
“Thank God,” she said. “Do they come to the table, or do I—”
“You have to order inside,” I said.
She nodded and got up, leaving the scarf draped across the chair, and her hat tossed on the tabletop. After a few seconds, I decided to follow her in and ask her to get me another espresso. Then I went back to the table. It was cool, but probably not too cold to sit there. The sky was brightening slightly.
“I have to tell you, because if I don’t tell someone, I will explode,” she said, returning with a tray. “I do not love Tom Van Sant,” she said, pronouncing every word distinctly, removing first the saucer with my little cup on it, then her own mug, domed with frothy milk. She picked up her hat and scarf, put them on the tray, and lowered the tray to the cement. “But I do have to show you this, because I think it indicates that I may be in deep shit,” she said, holding out her hand. With so many colors, and the big earrings swinging, and her windblown, excelsior-like hair, I’d missed the beautiful ring she was wearing on the first finger of her right hand. The ring was in the shape of a flower, with a diamond center surrounded by rubies. The band was either white gold or platinum. It sparkled brightly.
“It’s an engagement ring?”
&
nbsp; “I do not consider it that. I have been very straightforward about not considering it any such thing, but he says it’s not proper to wear it on this finger and that we have to have it made smaller. Sweetie—tell me: Do you think I can get out of this?”
“Dara,” I said, quite honestly, “I don’t know what’s been going on between you and Tom.”
“He’s fallen completely in love with me,” she said, opening her eyes very wide.
“I didn’t realize—”
“There wasn’t anything to realize. Have you ever slept with somebody one time and known you were in love? He swears he’s sure. I just thought I was rolling around in a meadow.”
I shrugged, slightly perplexed: Was she bragging—more pleased than she wanted to let on—or did she really think the situation presented a big problem? I took out the flask, unscrewed the top, and trickled some into her cappuccino, pouring carefully so the steamed milk wouldn’t overflow the rim.
“We went out behind his house with this silly thing somebody had sent him in the mail: Instant Meadow. It’s wildflowers that are supposed to grow when you scatter the contents in your grass, or whatever you’re supposed to do. I’ve spent my life in cities; I don’t know. We’d been drinking brandy at his kitchen table. I’d gone over there because he had a carton of books he wanted to give me. Somebody had left it to him in their will, or they’d left it behind somewhere—I don’t know. I mean, I hardly know anybody here, and he’s been so nice to me. He knew I liked Hardy, and Chekhov, and Dickens, and here he had all these books by these wonderful writers—hardbacks—and he said I must have them, that he’d never read them, he was trying to divest.” She leaned back and looked at the sky. “By the way, darling, thank you for the loan of the John le Carré I snatched from you the second you put it down. I feel so stupid, coveting a book that way, when you were already driving me home on that god-awful day.”