Ann Beattie - Love Always

“Lose Hildon?” Myra said.

“He’s outside,” Lucy said. “I’m just taking a breather.”

“It’s quite a place, isn’t it?” Myra said. “Have you been here before?”

“No,” Lucy said.

Stony politeness. What did Lucy think she was going to write? She wasn’t trying to create a scandal out of nothing — she was just doing her job. It wasn’t as if anything she had said or done had indicated that she was a piranha.

“It must be nice to have a friend like Hildon,” Myra said. “Someone you’ve been close to that many years, and now you even work together.”

“How do you mean?” Lucy said.

How did she mean? She meant, in English, that Lucy was lucky to have a close friend, and to have the further advantage of working with that friend. It was also nice that he was her lover, but Myra had not meant that; she had meant what she said.

“I meant what I said,” Myra said. “I don’t have the slightest interest in what you do with your private life. I’m not nosing around for information. It’s just a coincidence that we were invited to the same party.”

She saw why reporters turned mean; if everyone was that on-guard, that hostile, it was bound to anger the reporter and make her lash out, to get even. All right, she envied her. But she never intended to do a hatchet job. She hadn’t said anything shitty to Lucy. She didn’t deserve this. Not knowing where she was going, but wanting to get away, she started up the stairs. Much to her surprise, Lucy stood when she passed her. She was following her up the stairs. Myra stopped.

“I’m sorry,” Lucy said. “I apologize. I know I was too on-guard. It’s one of my problems. It’s my problem. I’m sorry.”

“I honestly don’t have any interest in the fact that he’s your lover,” Myra said.

“Who?” Lucy said.

“Hildon,” Myra said, pointing off into space.

“Hildon and I aren’t lovers,” Lucy said.

“Lucy — I know you are.”

Lucy was looking at her. Her hand was on the zipper to her jacket. She was as still as a statue in a wax museum. She was just looking at her.

“Les says he is,” Myra said.

Lucy’s eyes widened. She dropped her hand to her side. “You know Les?” she said.

Myra had gone too far. She didn’t know what to say.

“I don’t know what your opinion of Les is, but mine isn’t very high,” Lucy said. She turned and began to walk down the stairs.

“He’s sorry,” Myra heard herself saying.

Lucy turned again and looked up at her.

“Listen,” Myra said, “I don’t even know him. I’ve been trying to call you. I was in the mail room. Hildon told me to go ahead and go through the mail. He wrote you. The letter is there.”

“What are you talking about?” she said.

“Hildon wanted me to see the mail. There was a letter to you in the pile. It was from Les.”

“What did the letter say?” Lucy said.

“It was about your affair with Hildon. He said he wanted to see you again.”

“Les Whitehall wrote to inform me that I was having an affair with Hildon?” Lucy said.

“He just mentioned it. He was talking about seeing you again.”

“Where is he?” Lucy said.

Myra shrugged. “I don’t know him,” she said.

“There wasn’t a postmark?”

“I didn’t notice the postmark. Lucy: I don’t care . I just wanted you to know.”

Lucy sat on the stairs. “Les doesn’t care either,” she said. “It’s just completely out of character for him to do anything instinctively. I couldn’t be more surprised.”

POLICE Sergeant Brown was always unhappy. His partner, Sergeant Pasani, was equally unhappy, but for a different reason. He was unhappy because Brown was unhappy, and there was no reasoning with him. Many things made Brown unhappy. Pasani had told him for years that he was his own worst enemy. You just can’t go around thinking that McDonald’s food is going to be steaming hot. It’s like expecting the hamburger to be served on a French roll. It isn’t going to happen. The bun is going to be mush, and the food is going to be tepid. It’s just going to be what it is, and having a debate with the cheery high-school girl at the drive-in window, even if you’re a cop, and as big as a barrel, is going to do you no good. Day after day, Brown decided they should have lunch at the drive-thru McDonald’s, and day after day, Brown could hardly chew for finding fault with the food. Brown also hated the car they drove around in. In particular, he hated the suspension system. “You want to be suspended, go home and get in a hammock,” Pasani said to him. Brown didn’t like Reagan or Mondale, and you couldn’t even say Jesse Jackson’s name in his presence. He liked one of his three children and so far the fourth had a fighting chance; his wife might be pregnant with a girl, and the one child Brown liked was his girl. He had mixed feelings about his wife. He had recently learned the word ambivalent. Every day, he mentioned to Pasani his ambivalent feelings about Essie. Pasani wasn’t married — he had been married for less than a year, long ago; his wife had run off with the house painter — and Brown had created quite a fantasy life about Pasani, and all the women he had, and what a good time he had, and how few responsibilities he had. Pasani usually took the bait and spent long periods, every day, trying to dispel Brown’s illusions, but it did no good. These fantasies were a necessary part of Brown’s existence. It depressed him to have to tell Brown how unadventurous and how unmeaningful his life was, so unless Brown was really out of control, he rarely even broke into Brown’s monologues anymore. He automatically pulled back the bun on top of his cheeseburger and gave Brown his pickle. This kept Brown’s raving about the need for “some taste, some flavor” down to a minimum. After two years of riding in the car with Brown, he was at least used to him. He was able to guess pretty well when he should speak and when he shouldn’t, and just because he was tired of hitting his head up against a wall, he had learned to be quick to make concessions. Brown was even in his dreams; the night before, he dreamed that Brown drove them over a cliff. He often dreamed that Brown shot him. In the dreams, they were always at McDonald’s. Then Pasani realized that the drive-thru line ended on a steep precipice. Brown became so angry that he gunned the car, and they fell what seemed like a million miles before Pasani woke up, clutching the sheets. In the dream in which he was shot, they were again in the line, approaching the window, but when they got there Brown wasn’t handed the food, but a gun. He simply grinned and turned and shot Pasani.

This day had been a normal enough day. Brown was incensed because the Montrealer was back on the tracks so soon. He was also furious at the fools who rode the train. He had seen some of them on the evening news the night before, and they just said that they were sure Amtrak would be very careful this time, so there was nothing to worry about. People who didn’t look at the evidence were as stupid as people who couldn’t see the nose on their own face. Amtrak would kill them all, over and over. “What starts that stops?” Brown said. “Go ahead and tell me, Pasani.” “A cheap watch,” Pasani said. That pleased Brown; he thought that everything that was manufactured now was junk. He changed the subject from the derailed Montrealer to the fact that the war had ruined the way the Japanese thought. The Japanese didn’t care about anything anymore. “You ever see them say goodbye?” Brown said. “They stand there bobbin’ like birds. Everybody’s got to be more gracious than the other guy. If they put more of that energy into making their products, maybe the shutter wouldn’t fall off the camera and the watch would tick. Tickee tickee,” Brown said. He started bobbing his head at the steering wheel. “No clickee, no tickee,” Brown said. “The world’s going to hell. You know what I mean?” Brown dropped his jaw open and bobbed his head at the steering wheel again. Pasani braced himself. Brown stopped just inches short of the bumper of the car in front of him. “I ought to audition for a job drivin’ the Montrealer, huh?” Brown said. Once something caught his attention, Brown usually talked about it for six months. Around Christmas, Pasani would stop hearing about the Montrealer.