Ann Beattie - What Was Mine

In a sweat, he sees clearly that he and Francine have made a mistake. That the way they’re living, with only an occasional moment for time out, is wrong. It comes to him — in the way analysands get good at understanding their dreams — that he imagined the two of them as tiny figures in a painting because he sensed they were not living up to their potential. He conceived of them as bits of human-shaped plastic in a snow dome because they have been immobile, trapped, going nowhere. They’ve wanted to think they were adventurous, but what adventure have they gone on? First he convinced her to marry. To have the child. Then she convinced him to quit his job. To stay home while she worked. They changed roles, but aren’t they still two little people going nowhere? What have they been doing but applauding themselves, and each other, for the slightest effort?

By the time the kettle whistles, he has regained some equilibrium. Certainly a death so close to home would make anyone question the way he has been living. Everyone would have to admit there were flaws in his life. What exactly had he been thinking just a second ago? He had made the image of a snow dome a metaphor for their lives. It was as ridiculous as his epiphanies on acid, years before. He is standing in a two-thousand-square-foot house, not on the two-inch base of a snow dome. It is just a crazy irony that out the window it has begun to snow.

Lifting the kettle from the burner, he begins to talk himself down, to convince himself that they are average. That things are essentially fine. Quick images come to him of their early days together: Francine, curled on her side, crying on the mattress in the apartment on Sixteenth Street. But on top of that image he superimposes the image of the upstairs bed, queen-sized, neatly made. Then he sees Francine pantomiming in acting class, the one time she invited him to sit in and watch. On top of that image he lays a memory of Francine looking into his eyes, the neon sign flashing behind her head, talking animatedly as she drinks champagne. He closes his eyes. The then-and-now game could go on all morning. Forever. It could go on as long as he let himself think about things.

He picks up the phone book again. There is, as he suspected, only one Angawa listed. He looks at the address. Then he flips to McKee. There are seven, but the third McKee lives on the same street as Mr. and Mrs. Angawa.

He dials the number and almost hangs up without saying anything, he is so startled by Mr. McKee’s thick, sleepy voice saying hello, as something topples from a table.

That is how he comes to be the bearer of bad news. Mr. McKee has been asleep. No one has yet called to tell him.

* * *

Francine takes the day off and stays home to comfort Julie. She smells faintly of chemicals. With their red eyes, mother and daughter look very much alike.

A little after five, Stefan goes to the bar where he has arranged to meet Mr. McKee. Mr. McKee’s first name is Tony. He holds out a big rough hand and shakes Stefan’s hand without looking into his eyes. He is wearing a brown plaid jacket. Both elbow patches need to be resewn. Tony McKee has already had a few drinks. The whole school was given a half day, he says. He is not a drinking man, but if ever there was an occasion for drink, it is a day like the day that just passed.

“What can I do for you?” McKee says, as Stefan slides onto the bar stool next to him.

“Forgive me,” Stefan says. “I don’t know exactly why I’m here. The one time I had a real talk with Mrs. Angawa, she mentioned you very fondly. I think I’m here just to let you know she cared about you.”

McKee takes a sip of beer. The bartender stands in front of Stefan and raises an eyebrow. “Same thing,” Stefan says, looking at McKee’s Budweiser. McKee is running his hand over his forehead.

“I know you were neighbors,” Stefan says. “What about Mr. Angawa? How is he doing?”

McKee shrugs. “I don’t see them on a daily basis, you know. I live next door, and she always sought me out. She was a real lady, a very kind person. But Hideo — he was a hard one to figure. In fact, half the time he wasn’t around.”

“He traveled?”

McKee looks at him. He seems to be judging Stefan’s sincerity. “Traveled? No, he didn’t travel. He just took off.”

The bartender puts another bottle in front of McKee and walks away.

After staring at the bottle silently for a long time, McKee turns toward Stefan. “You got a kid in the school, right? Brokenhearted to lose her teacher.”

“Yes. She and her mother are writing a good-bye note. She wanted to write a farewell note to Mrs. Angawa.”

McKee twists off his beer cap. “Tell me again, is there something I can do for you?”

“Actually, you’re going to think this is crazy, but I have some concern for the rabbit. Do you think someone went into the classroom to take care of the rabbit?”

McKee frowns deeply. Again, he searches Stefan’s face.

“In the closet,” Stefan says, gesturing as if the closet were in some corner of the bar. “The rabbit. In the closet, for the night.”

“You’re wondering if anybody remembered the bunny rabbit?” McKee says. “I take it you’re being perfectly serious?”

Stefan nods. He shrugs then, to let McKee know he realizes his concern is a little ridiculous.

McKee leans closer to Stefan. “She was a real lady, and it ain’t none of my business,” McKee says, “but one time she told me she had a secret love, and when you called this morning, I put two and two together and wondered if that might not be you.”

“No, no,” Stefan says. “We only talked once, actually. In passing, on Parents’ Night, but only once in person. She was a very special lady, but no: there was nothing like that between us.”

“And the situation is, you have a little girl who’s in her class, and the little girl is worried about the bunny rabbit.”

Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of that? “Exactly,” he says, almost pouncing on McKee’s words. “She won’t rest easy unless she knows the rabbit’s taken care of.”

McKee runs his tongue back and forth over his front teeth a few times. “Kids,” he says. “Ain’t they somethin’?”

McKee shifts on the bar stool. “Of course, worries can get the best of all of us,” he says. “One night not so long ago, Mrs. Angawa had a mental picture of it dead, and I tell you, when she and I went into that room and the bunny rabbit was just lying there in that cage, my heart fell into my boots. I was so spooked by her being so sure it was dead that it took me a minute to realize that the bunny rabbit was sleeping, just like you might expect. Stretched out sleeping, and we woke it up.” McKee shakes his head and laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “I don’t guess Bugs Bunny’s gonna die for lack of a drink of water. Of course, he might not have a drink of water left.” He runs his hand over his chin. Stefan realizes that either McKee has not shaved that day or his beard grows in quite quickly. “But if it would make your little girl feel better in the midst of this tragedy, I don’t guess there’s any harm in openin’ up and seeing if the bunny rabbit’s okay.” McKee narrows his eyes. “Your name, Stefan,” McKee says. “Is that an Italian name?”

“Named for my grandfather,” he says. “My grandmother never wanted to leave Ravello. My mother was her only child. She named me Stefan, after my grandfather.”

“Never was in Italy, myself. I was in the Philippines during the Second World War,” McKee says.

“You were?”

“I was. You know what I accomplished for the United States of America? I was head bartender for the monkeys. Made every man leave one big swig at the bottom of his beer can, and I’d hand them up into the trees. Sometimes they’d lose their grip and fall right down.” McKee looks at his beer. “Kids,” he says. “We was stupid as shit.”