Ann Beattie - Love Always

“It’s really a lot of fun for me to drag along with you and your lover,” Nicole said.

Lucy sighed. She sat on the foot of the bed. Bess Myerson said something that broke them up again. X’s and O’s lit up on the big screen.

“You can tell him to tell you about the woman he’s in love with. He’ll tell you all about Antoinette Hadley-Cooper. He’s not in love with me, if that’s any consolation,” Lucy said.

“Oh great,” Nicole said. “So you let a friend of mine get in trouble with the cops for doing absolutely nothing to me, and you go with a guy who not only steps out on his wife but doesn’t even love you. That makes a lot of sense, Lucy.”

“Nicole, that isn’t fair. I didn’t tell you to go off in the woods with Edward, and I didn’t tell the cops to go find you. Just because you had bad luck doesn’t mean you ought to blame me.”

“I’ll agree,” the contestant said.

“And the answer is, Ronald Reagan gets more mail than Boy George.”

“Do you mind if I turn that off?” Lucy said. “I’d at least like to talk to you. I’m not angry, you know. Most people would be.”

“You’re not most people. You’re my aunt. You’re supposed to be on my side. If you cared about how I felt, you’d talk to the cops about Edward.”

“This is silly,” Lucy said. “They’re not going to do anything but fine him. That’s no big deal. I don’t have the power to make cops do anything or not do anything.”

“You’re just concerned about having a proper image.”

“If that was true, then I’d be mad at you, wouldn’t I?”

“You are mad at me. You just won’t admit it.”

“I’m only mad that you’re acting so stupid. You’re not punishing anybody but yourself lying in bed all day. If you’d cut it out, we could drive to Bristol and have a nice day. Come on, Nicole.”

“Go without me. I don’t want to come.” Nicole turned on her side and put on the radio. Some man was explaining how Peabo Bryson got his name. Peabo Bryson started to sing “If Ever You’re In My Arms Again.”

The radio. Lucy thought about Les and felt like crying — lying in bed next to Nicole and crying until somebody came and did something about it. She took a deep breath and exhaled. She looked at Nicole. Nicole looked very much like Jane at fourteen. She could remember how old they thought they were when they were Nicole’s age — how old, and how misunderstood.

“Is there anything you’d rather do today?” Lucy said.

“I’d rather be left alone. This is my vacation,” Nicole said, the corners of her mouth turned down.

“How about miniature golf?” Lucy said.

“Jesus,” Nicole said. “Next it’ll be a ride on your shoulders and a hot fudge sundae.”

“Come on,” Lucy said, getting up.

“The whole world does what it wants without me,” Nicole said.

“How come you won’t?”

“Because I’m your aunt.”

“I don’t want to go,” Nicole said. “It won’t be any fun.”

“You thought it was fun the other time.”

“I thought it was pretty. I didn’t think it was fun.”

“It is pretty. Come on.”

Nicole didn’t answer. “Come on,” Lucy said, getting up and walking out of the room. “We’ll be waiting for you.”

She went downstairs. Hildon thought that Nicole had no right to sulk. He was dismayed about what she’d done and he was even more dismayed with Lucy because he thought she was ignoring the situation. There were also problems at the magazine: Matt Smith had been calling, wanting to have jokes explained to him. Hildon did not have the time or the heart for it. Who enjoyed explaining a joke? He usually avoided the calls or made up any plausible explanation. Noonan was leaving on the weekend for the West Coast. He hadn’t found a replacement. Many bright, young, half-crazy people had applied. It made Hildon feel old. It made him feel like an anachronism that he thought of so many things for the magazine without even being high. Old, anachronistic, and probably much crazier than those kids. The romance with Antoinette Hadley-Cooper wasn’t going well. She was seeing a lot of other people, and she was either avoiding him or just expecting that he’d stand in line and take his turn like the others. Living with Maureen had become impossible: she had been spending a lot of money on clothes — clothes that were bought from the rack already rumpled and looking as if they had been half inflated with an air pump. They were full of strings and pockets and zippers. The dresses looked like something a person would wear to jump out of an airplane. Maureen was also concerned with her energy. She had been shaking lecithin granules in the spaghetti sauce and serving “shakes” for dinner that were bitter with brewer’s yeast. She dropped seaweed in with yogurt and orange juice in the blender to make salad dressing. He mentioned Adele Davis’ death from cancer. “That’s an old story,” she said. Maureen was studying acupressure, taking an aerobics class, and being counseled by some misogynistic crank who went around giving women instructions on how to be obnoxiously aggressive. Hildon poured himself a glass of orange juice and sat on the sofa hoping to get a laugh out of Lucy’s latest column.

Dear Cindi Coeur,

My problem is that my fiancé loves to dance, and it’s hard to make him be still when I need to have him concentrate. We are going to be married in the fall. He wants us to do the hand jive at our wedding and have break dancing at the reception. He says that dancing is healthy and fun. I love disco dancing, but I’d rather have old-fashioned dancing at my wedding reception than have people down on the floor. It’s going to turn into an all-male thing, because the girls aren’t going to get down in their dresses. Also, we disagree about many important things. I want a water bed, but he wants to buy a trampoline. When we go to the mall, he embarrasses me by popping his joints and doing the splits while I’m buying my trousseau. My mother says that he’s in a world of his own, and that he is a bad bet for marriage, but I really love him. Can you think of anything I can do?

Boxstep Betty

Dear Box,

Many times problems go undetected because of the frantic pace of our world, which we have come to accept as normal. Have your fiancé checked for pinworms. This may be the problem.

Lucy sat on the floor beside Hildon. He smiled and handed her the column. He was in a bad mood, and she didn’t think it was the time to tell him that an agent had called from New York, wanting to represent her. She found it strange to think of herself out there with Hints from Heloise and the Bhagavad-Gita. There was no noise from upstairs. She thought about asking Hildon to go up, just because Nicole knew Hildon less well and his nagging might have some effect.

“Maybe it’s hard for her, not having any friends around. I think she’s a little jealous of the two of us,” Lucy said.

“Tell her to call some of her friends and cheer herself up.”

“I wonder why she hasn’t,” Lucy said. “That must be it. Edward was sort of her property. They hung out together all the time.”

“I wish I could have taken a swing at that guy before he got out of town.”

“Oh, Hildon. He didn’t do anything.”

“You sound like Nicole.”

“Well,” Lucy said. “She sounds like an adult.”

“She needs an education,” Hildon said. “She ought to have a tutor or something. She’s never learned anything.”

“She’s very bright.”

“She knows lyrics to songs and she knows what people are talking about if they say something dirty and she knows who’s who on television. She doesn’t know anything about the world.”

“Hildy — what is this sudden Puritanical outrage?”