Another You

by Ann Beattie

  “I don’t assume that’s all that happened?”

  Another beagle darted in front of the headlights, moving dangerously close to his car. That’s all I need, he thought, to kill a dog. He wondered if it might be the same beagle: if the dog might have circled around at a greater speed than the car in order to tempt fate one more time. Not likely, yet it reminded him of being a young child, having no sense of distance or time, thinking the craziest things might be possible. That if you sat on your horse on the carousel and kept waving your arm with your fist forward, you could catch up with the other horses. There had been a carnival in their town when he and Gordon were young, and the two of them had gone constantly, their pleading so frenzied their father had simply given in, and he and Gordon had made up a series of rituals they thought would make their desires materialize: if you could blink fifteen times before you passed the devil’s face in the ride in the dark, you’d find money on the ground when you exited; if you said “Whirl” out loud every time the Tilt-a-Whirl circled, the ride would last longer. But, he thought, this wasn’t a ride on a gilded horse, and he wasn’t seated in a metal cage that would twirl around a tipping disk; here were two people in a car, about to have a conversation in which would be revealed—no matter what ritualistic incantation he might try to banish the announcement—that sometime after Thanksgiving, McCallum had screwed Cheryl Lanier’s roommate in Boston. He turned his head sideways to receive this information. As he did, Cheryl reached up with her gloved hand and touched him briefly, lightly, on the jaw. It was so unexpected, and so intimate, that his mouth dropped open. It was the way a person would touch you if they loved you, or perhaps if their own sadness was inexpressible except through touch. Was she this sad? Was he?

  In front of them was the tavern, the deeply rutted entranceway lined with cars and trucks, the string of half-burned-out lights casting a yellow haze under the roof. As he guided the car through the deep mud ruts, he realized he had both hands on the wheel. When had he let go of her hand? He turned left, where he saw parking space at the end of the lot. He turned off the ignition and thought: Only in some stupid Hollywood movie would the man lean over, now, and kiss the woman. What woman? Cheryl Lanier was nineteen years old. The woman he had been holding hands with, the “woman” he had been about to kiss, was his student, though for a few moments he had entirely forgotten that. What did Cheryl Lanier want, or expect? Certainly not McCallum’s treatment, if she was so upset by what McCallum had done. McCallum with his peanut-butter sandwiches and the huge apples he shined on his pants leg, then tossed in the air with his hearty “God bless” if you passed his open door and had even the briefest exchange with him.

  He opened his door, meaning to go around to her side, but she opened her door at the same time and stepped out, standing on tiptoe as she surveyed the mess she’d have to maneuver through. She’d walked a straight line as perfectly as a tightrope performer by the time he caught up with her—he’d forgotten to lock the car and had to go back—and when he did catch up, he took her elbow, though she was already maneuvering with no trouble. Her parka was so thick he could barely feel her elbow beneath the padding.

  He steered her to a table away from the jukebox. The table was round, small, covered with a red-and-white-checked cloth. Salt was sprinkled around the salt and pepper shakers. He put his thumb into the salt spill and shifted it into a straight line, then brushed it into the palm of his hand. He dropped it on the floor, and as if he’d rung the dinner bell, a large waitress with dyed yellow hair appeared, her hair clipped back with a butterfly barrette, the butterfly motif echoed by a silver butterfly pin above her name tag, which said MYRTIS.

  “Let me have a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks,” he said.

  “A Heineken, please,” Cheryl said.

  The waitress was preoccupied; she didn’t register Cheryl’s age. Marshall wished that Cheryl had ordered a double, in case the waitress eventually snapped to and noticed. But how could you do that? How could you order a double beer? He called after her, “Let me have a draft as a chaser.” Myrtis nodded and kept going.

  “You know,” Cheryl said, “when I was in your office the other day and you were recommending poems to read in that anthology? It took me a minute to realize that sometimes you were telling me the title of a poem, and other times you were saying the poet’s name. When you said ‘Orr,’ I thought you were contradicting yourself about my reading Roethke. Or someone else, I thought you were saying. And ‘Wright.’ I thought you were, you know, corroborating what you’d just said—that you’d given a title correctly. That you were right.”

  “You’re avoiding the subject,” he said.

  “I don’t even feel good about telling you what I’ve told you,” she said.

  “Let me make a phone call,” he said. “Take a look at the menu. Let’s go ahead and order.” He pulled the plastic menu out from between the napkin holder and a bottle of ketchup and put it in front of her as he got up to call Sonja. There was someone on the phone, so he went into the men’s room and peed, standing next to a balding man in a black motorcycle jacket and blue-and-green-striped pants. As the man zipped his fly, Marshall heard the man humming “Rock of Ages.” Outside again, the phone was available, and he reached in his pocket for a coin, then dialled his number.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” Sonja said.

  “I’m listening to some kid’s problem,” he said. “I’m giving him a ride back to his dorm, but the weather’s gotten so bad, we’re going to have coffee and sit it out for a while. You didn’t have to go out in this, did you?”

  “No,” she said. “I’ve been home all afternoon.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.” Then: “Love you.”

  “I love you, too,” she said.

  “I’m actually with a girl, not a guy. We’re drinking. She’s telling me about her roommate’s problems, which I’m about as interested in as reading random names in the phone book.”

  “Marshall,” Sonja sighed. “Why do you make fun of me for being paranoid when I’m not paranoid?”

  “I love to tease.”

  “Well, so do girls love to tease, so be sure it’s her roommate she’s talking about while you drink, not herself.”

  It had never occurred to him. What Sonja had just said was absolutely correct: she might be having such trouble talking to him because she was making a personal confession. There might not even be a roommate.

  “Marshall?” Sonja said. “Has my brilliant warning struck you dumb, or do you have something else to say before you go back to your boozing and flirtation?”

  “I love you,” he said. It seemed the simplest thing to say.

  “What’s the kid’s name?” she said.

  “Henry,” he said. That, too, seemed the simplest thing to say. It was written beside the phone, in green ink: “Henry gives Alex good head.”

  When he hung up, he walked slowly back to the table, turning sideways to give their waitress more room. She was holding a big oval tray loaded with bowls of spaghetti and meatballs. It smelled wonderful, but as he inhaled he realized he’d been breathing shallowly because he had a headache. The glossy, wet roads, the same winter itchiness everyone else had, a lying phone call to his wife, whom he did love, something happening between himself and a young girl he hardly knew that was not entirely in his control—why bother to wallow in your midlife crisis if you were going to clamp down on your itchiness by exerting control?—and now, the idea had been planted that there might not be a roommate, that Cheryl Lanier might be making a personal confession.

  “I drank your Jack Daniel’s,” she said, as he returned to the table.

  He looked at her empty beer bottle. He looked at the empty glass. “I see you did,” he said, trying not to sound as surprised as he was.

  “Because you’ve got a beer anyway,” she said.

  “Should I have stayed gone longer?”

  She smiled at his little joke.

  “I could turn my head,” he said.
“I’ll count to ten, and if the beer’s still there, I’ll assume you didn’t want to take the opportunity.”

  “I also took a Valium.”

  “You did?” he said. His thoughts raced: Sonja was right; this girl was someone to beware of; she wasn’t just revealing herself to him, she was flirting with real danger. Mixing Valium and alcohol, let alone tossing down a generous shot of Jack Daniel’s.… Good he’d come back to the table in time to stop her from drinking everything from every glass, her desire for him turned suicidal, or—less flattering to think, by far—her suicidal desire provoking a desire for him.

  “Like to order anything?” Myrtis said. “Another J.D.?” she said, before he could answer.

  “I’ll have another beer,” Cheryl said. She turned to Marshall. “Are we going to eat?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Sure you want another, or sure you’re eating?” Myrtis said.

  “Both,” he said. “I’ll have a burger. Medium.”

  “And for you?” Myrtis said to Cheryl.

  “The same,” she said, “but well done.”

  “Fries with those?”

  “Yes, thanks,” he said.

  “I’ll eat some of his,” Cheryl said.

  As the waitress left, Cheryl took a sip of his beer. When she saw how upset he looked, she laughed. “You’re not one of those people who are territorial about food, are you?” she said.

  “Listen,” he said, “be serious. It’s a very bad idea to take Valium and drink.”

  “One pill’s not going to kill me. I’ve never taken Valium. Are you worried I’m going to become a rag doll and embarrass you, or something?”

  “Will you stop after this next beer?” he said.

  She saw that he was serious. “Yes,” she said. “Now can we talk about something else?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Your roommate’s problem?”

  “I shouldn’t,” she said. Then, suddenly, she said, “You know, I know quite a few students who think you’re a prick. Because of the way you seem to have all these in-jokes with yourself when you talk to them. You call the guys by their first names. Or if you really like them, by their last names. But you always call women ‘Ms.’ The ‘Ms. Lanier’ bit. But I think you’re very nice. So I’m saying this as a friend. I think that you should tone it down.”

  Myrtis put a plate of french fries on the table, along with the Jack Daniel’s and another Heineken. She moved the ketchup bottle to the side of the plate. “Enjoy, enjoy, for tomorrow … we enjoy!” Myrtis said, picking up Cheryl’s empty bottle.

  “It’s so nice not to see students everywhere,” Cheryl said. “It makes me crazy, sometimes. They think they’re so radical, but they all talk about the same things. The environment. The reefs dying. Clear-cutting. They move around in a little pack and they talk about forests in Oregon and polluted reefs, and they act so self-righteous, like they’d never flush their toilet if they lived in Florida.”

  “You’re not worried about the future?”

  “I’m worried, right now, about Livan. I think she needs to talk to somebody about what McCallum did to her and also what that stupid woman at student health said. You know what the woman said? She said, ‘Can’t you see past this situation? What exactly do you think it’s done to your future?’ ”

  “It’s difficult to say anything, because I don’t know what the situation is,” he said.

  “He tied her to the bed and had sex with her.”

  “One burger well, one burger medium. How are you doing with that drink?” Myrtis said to Marshall. He looked at his glass. It was half-full. “In a while,” he said. Myrtis nodded and walked away. He looked at Cheryl. She was looking at him intently.

  “Is it possible … just possible, I mean … maybe it was something they were doing and then she freaked out? Or felt bad about later?”

  “She had to piss in the bed,” she said.

  He looked at his hamburger. It looked like the strangest thing in the world. He looked at the drink. It was half-empty. He took a sip and put the glass down. Cheryl picked up the glass and finished it, the ice sliding, causing a small rivulet of bourbon to splash down her chin. She wiped it away. She pushed back her bangs.

  “He asked her to piss in the bed?”

  “No, he didn’t ask her. She was tied up so long that she had to piss right there. She was humiliated.”

  “Cheryl,” he said, “wouldn’t it make sense that if they were there in a hotel, she’d scream for help? That …” He broke off. Jesus: McCallum tying up some kid in Boston. What had he done, polished his apple while she struggled? “God bless” indeed.

  “It wasn’t a hotel,” she said. “It was in Revere. Somebody’s triplex in Revere. When they got there, there were other people, but the next day the place was empty. She had sex with him the first night. She wanted to. I mean, she didn’t go to Boston wanting to, but she agreed. And when she agreed, it made him mad. She said she knew she’d done something wrong. And the next morning the whole house was quiet, and when she woke up, he tied her wrists to the bed.”

  “And you’re telling me some counsellor in student health only wanted to know what impact this was going to have on the rest of her life?”

  She nodded yes. He sensed Myrtis approaching. At least for the moment, she was occupied by people complaining about the blueberry pie; then, at the same table, someone wanted directions for driving the back roads to Portsmouth. Go up to the Texaco station, he heard. And: quarter mile, maybe just a bit over. The song on the jukebox was “Where the Boys Are.” Connie Francis. Good God—Connie Francis. Hadn’t something happened to her, hadn’t she been raped herself, when someone broke into her motel room? I’ll wait im-pa-tient-ly, Connie Francis sang.

  “I just saw that on the tube,” Cheryl said. Cheryl was looking beyond him, nodding, signalling yes to Myrtis. Rubbing her hamburger around in the grease on the plate. Cheryl said, “That movie. Where the Boys Are.”

  “It’s so depressing,” he said.

  “Unbelievably depressing,” she said.

  “Your roommate,” he said. “I meant your roommate.”

  “I’m glad you’ve forgotten her name,” Cheryl said. “I never should have told you.”

  “She needs to see somebody else at student health. I’ll go with her if I need to. You’re right. Of course she’s got to get help.”

  “Go with her!” It was almost a yelp. “She would kill me if she thought I told anybody about this, let alone a teacher. She would never trust another human being as long as she lived.”

  He thought about it. “Then I’ll go to student health myself and talk to whoever’s in charge and they can contact her.”

  “Isn’t that—I mean—you mean you can just go over there and tell them to call her, and they will?”

  “I assume so,” he said. He was beginning to think more clearly. Sonja had a friend who was a doctor at student health—a woman who was in her book discussion group.

  “Can you find out the name of the therapist?” he said. “Get the name. My wife has a friend who works there and she can be sure that person won’t see her again.”

  “But you swear you won’t go there?” Cheryl said. “I mean it: if she found out, she would kill me. She trusts me totally.”

  “You’ve done the right thing to tell me,” he said. “I’ll give you my phone number, and you can call me tomorrow night. I assume my wife can get in touch with her friend by then. But wait a minute. Wait a minute.…” What he was thinking was that, if Cheryl called the house, Cheryl might say something and Sonja might find out that he had, indeed, been out the night before with a female student. If only he hadn’t said “Henry” on the phone. If only he’d laughed and sidestepped the question. But no: he had to blurt out a man’s name.

  “I’ll call you,” he said. “That’s better.”

  She reached in his shirt pocket and took out his pen. She wrote her name on a napkin, and her telephone number. It was a young girl’s writing. Natural
ly, he thought, since she was a young girl. Even the piece of paper would have to be hidden from Sonja. Or maybe that was ridiculous. Sonja wasn’t paranoid; she’d believe him if he said this was the name of the girl who was the roommate of … Livan. That was the girl’s name. How was he going to look McCallum in the eye?

  He looked at the red smear of ketchup on his plate. He had wolfed down the rest of his hamburger as Cheryl wrote. Now all he needed was … thank you, Myrtis … the last drink of the evening, which he meant to hold on to tightly so Cheryl couldn’t get the glass away from him, and maybe a glass of water … thank you, Myrtis … to swallow aspirin with. He asked Cheryl if she had aspirin, knowing that if she didn’t, he could buy some at the cash register. But she did have them, and she produced them from her fanny pack, unzipping it and taking out a small bottle of Bayer, even opening the top and shaking two into the palm of his hand. He thanked her and washed them down with the last inch of her beer.

  “So does a little part of you think that people my age invite trouble?” she said.

  “I think what happened was horrible, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Marshall, you’ve never been anything like a prick with me, and I appreciate it,” she said.

  He tried not to reveal his surprise that she had called him Marshall. But why not, for heaven’s sake? He’d been in the restaurant with her for more than an hour, drinking and listening to the troubling story she’d needed to tell. He’d held her hand in the car. Who should he be, if not Marshall?

  “Don’t give her Valium if she’s been drinking,” he said. “Promise?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “And don’t take it yourself, either.”

  “It didn’t do anything,” she said.

  “Just don’t do it,” he said.

  She nodded.

  Myrtis gave them the check, her name and the word “Thanx” written on the back, three horizontal lines under “Thanx.”

  “Thanks,” Cheryl said, as he reached for his wallet. “I have five dollars, but I don’t suppose you’d take it.”