Ann Beattie - Love Always

“If you care about the kid, you ought to get her around some people who have a brain.”

“She’s around us,” Lucy said.

“You just proved my point,” Hildon said.

She hit his arm and got up. St. Francis, lying on his side panting in his sleep, opened one eye, saw that nothing was moving that he could kill, sighed deeply, and went back to sleep. Lucy went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There was some white wine. She poured a glassful and went back to the living room.

Dear Cindi Coeur,

I am a struggling artist, but lately I have had more than my share of struggle within my own family. I am a painter, and recently my wife has begun to eat my art supplies. At first she gnawed the bristles on some brushes. I thought this was a nervous tic, because she had given up smoking and was trying to give up chewing gum. Then, my pastels began disappearing, or I would find stubs of them, wet at one end. I know that for a long time she has eaten bits of charcoal. The other day I saw Burnt Umber smudged at the corner of her mouth. I am worried that this is harmful to her health, but whenever I try to discuss it with her, she pretends that she has accidentally rubbed up against some paint or that she mistook a nub of charcoal for a loose chocolate chip. Do you have any advice about how I can solve this problem? I am now a

Reluctant Rembrandt

Dear Rem,

Forgive me for reciting contemporary cant, but I do believe that we are what we eat, and your wife must believe this also. The problem is simple: she wants to make herself into a work of art. Consider the relationship between palate and palette , and you will immediately understand your wife’s symbolic quest. She obviously feels that you have concentrated too much on your work and not enough on her. It is, of course, a problem with all artists that they tend to become very self-involved. Think about having a romantic evening together regularly, with wine and candlelight. You might take the occasion to admire her, and perhaps suggest that she stand against the wall. When she feels more secure and feels that she occupies at least an equal part in your affections along with your artwork, you can confront her with your findings and tell her that she has been framed.

“I’ll go tell her to call some of her friends, and we’ll take the dog to the falls, okay?” Lucy said.

“Okay,” Hildon said.

She went upstairs. Nicole’s door was closed. The TV was on again. Lucy knocked on the door.

“What?” Nicole said.

“Are you serious about wanting us to go without you?”

“Yeah,” Nicole said.

“Can I open the door?” Lucy said.

“It’s your house,” Nicole said.

“Nicole — when have I ever said that it was my house, or done things because it was my house?”

“So open the door,” Nicole said.

Desi Arnaz was beaming on the television. The contestant put her hands over her mouth and jumped up and down in her seat. Bells rang, and everyone was screaming at once.

“Are you feeling lonesome?” Lucy said.

“Why would I feel lonesome?”

“Would you like to call some of your friends?”

“What friends?”

“Friends in California. You haven’t talked to anybody in a long time, have you?”

“I don’t know where Jane is,” Nicole said.

Lucy didn’t know what to say. “But you could call some friends,” she said.

“I don’t have any friends,” Nicole said. “If I knew Edward’s phone number, I’d call him.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t call Edward.”

“Information did. It’s unlisted.” Nicole rearranged her nightgown. “Surprised?” she said. “I was going to call him to apologize for the crazy way everybody acted.”

A monkey was playing the drums on television. It was dressed in overalls and a straw hat. The hat fell off as the monkey beat the drums. Loud canned laughter filled the room. The monkey jumped onto one of the drums and started swaying. “Oh no!” someone screamed.

“I know you think we’re boring,” Lucy said. “Why don’t you call some people and talk to them? It’s better than watching this idiocy all day.”

“Who am I gonna call? Blueballs? And hear about how he’s got the hots for Tatum?”

“No. Call somebody you really like.”

“Lucy — I don’t have any friends. You know who I hang out with all the time? Mom and Piggy.”

Lucy tried to think of the names of Nicole’s friends, but she could only remember names she had read in the tabloids. It wasn’t possible that Nicole didn’t have any friends her own age; L.A. was full of kids, even kids who were actors and actresses.

“Boy, you really look weirded-out,” Nicole said, smiling for the first time. “What did you think? That those guys I show up places with were my friends? We just show up together to make each other look good.”

“Are you telling me the truth?” Lucy said. “Don’t you want friends?”

“I don’t need any more hassles,” Nicole said. “You’ve got to do things for friends. They jerk you around. It’s all I can do to keep Piggy cooled out.”

Lucy sat on the bed. “You must at least like some of those guys you’re photographed with.”

“Boy, this really interests you, doesn’t it?” Nicole said. “People don’t have friends when they’re my age and they’re in the business. It’s a thing from your generation that people have friends.”

“You had friends when you were a little girl,” Lucy said.

“Playmates?” Nicole said. “We were just a bunch of kids that our mothers parked together. We got along all right. We had to.”

“I guess I’m naïve,” Lucy said. “I guess that on some level I bought it: the exciting life. That every teenager has an exciting life, I mean. Not just you.”

“Big excitement. Go out to Spago or something and don’t eat anything because you’ll ruin your figure and your skin, and if you drink — you can’t do that in public until you’re almost out of your teens. You just get all dressed up and hang out for a few hours with some kid that’s real vain, or a fag, and then they take your picture and you go home.”

“What do you do around the house?” Lucy said. She suddenly realized that she knew very little about Nicole’s life.

“Exercises and stuff. Watch TV. Deal with the phone. Think about what places you should show up. Read scripts.”

“What does Jane do while you’re doing that?”

“Exercises. She goes out and swims in the pool. She’s got friends, so she talks on the phone. She obsesses about her relationships with guys.”

“Don’t you think that’s boring — what you do?” Lucy said.

“I could jog or go sky diving or stuff like that. Maybe not sky diving because of Piggy. What am I thinking of? You know — it’s just passing time. What does anybody do?”

“But Jane — but it depresses your mother.”

“I don’t know what she’s got to complain about. She’s got Piggy around her little finger.”

“But, I mean, you realize that you’re in a special environment, don’t you? That other fourteen-year-olds aren’t like you?”

“Oh, sure. They eat pizza and hang out at malls and have two-dollar allowances, or whatever they have. Everybody’s just hangin’ out, Lucy. I don’t think people go around having friends. Like, they’ve got to sit still with fifty other people in school listening to stuff all day, so maybe they know those guys better, but they don’t keep them for friends.” Nicole was warming to her subject. She shifted on the bed. “It’s pretty much the way I’m telling you. You know, what would I talk to kids about? We all know the same stuff. I know kids I talk to about movies and what’s happening down at the beach and all that, but I wouldn’t make a phone call to tell them. If you really want to know what somebody else thinks about a movie, you can hear people talking around the lot, or you can read a magazine. You’ve got to have something to talk to people about when you’re thrown together, so you talk about the movies. Or maybe if you’re a guy, you play video games. Talking’s not a very big thing.”