Ann Beattie - Secrets & Surprises

“No,” he said. “I just think you’re both upset and you oughtn’t to do this.”

Delores was standing in the doorway holding Meagan, with Meagan’s head fallen off of her shoulder, and Francie beside her. Freed stood with his back to the fire, tilting the clock on the mantel back and forth absent-mindedly. He tilted it too far and had to turn around and set it back in place.

“We don’t want to have a fight,” Francie said. “Let’s talk about this some other time.”

“He doesn’t think we can get to Florida!” Freed said. “What’s he talking about?”

Nobody sat down. They stood awkwardly until Meagan began to squirm, and then Delores whispered to Francie and the two of them walked out to the car. Freed looked at Perry and didn’t say anything more. He put out his hand, and Perry shook it again, this time taking care not to shake it firmly. Freed mumbled something that Perry couldn’t catch; it sounded as though he was saying “How do you know?”

Perry sat on the sofa and waited for the inevitable starting of the motor and the car driving away. Francie came in, shaking her head. “I forgot to tell her that her mother called,” she said.

Perry remembered, suddenly, what T.W. had asked to be reminded of in the car.

“I feel like a criminal letting them go,” she said.

“What could you do? They’ll probably wake up in the morning and forget the plan. You can expect one or both of them by tomorrow night.”

“I don’t want them. I’ve really had it.”

He felt sorry for her, and sorry for himself that he wasn’t what she wanted. He thought about what she had told him a long time ago about how she had been a fat kid, and the last one picked to be on teams. Of course it would be important to her to be the center of things. She was slender now, and pretty in spite of her frizzed hairdo. He had thought all the time he was repairing his house that eventually he would have the nerve to ask Francie to live there. He had not thought beyond that — that Francie would say no.

“Some days I think I’m going to be famous,” Francie was saying.

He got up and looked out the window. There was a three-quarter moon shining on the pyramid bushes, and he sighed because he suddenly felt that he couldn’t derive power from them or anything else.

“I’m sure you will,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning, Francie.”

At the top of the stairs he stepped on a little twisted tube of paint, and orange oozed out on the floorboards. He sat on the mattress and listened to her walking downstairs. He heard her put on the tape of T.W.’s band. He got up and took off his belt and his watch and put them beside the mattress. In a little while he heard her walking again.

“Listen,” Francie called up the stairs. “I’d like to come live in Vermont.”

“You don’t have to,” he said.

“I know it. I want to.”

He waited to hear her foot on the stairs.

“Is that all right?” she said. “I can live in Vermont and be a painter.”

He thought that she sounded like Meagan, who liked to tell stories back to people as well as have them read to her.

“Okay?” she said. She was climbing the stairs as she spoke.

“It’s morning,” she said.

He opened and closed his eyes several times; the crosshatching on the floor drew his attention. He looked at Francie and saw that she was already awake.

“I think I have bad news for you. I think Carl’s poking around here.”

“Carl?” he said.

“I’m not going to answer the door,” she whispered.

His arm had gone dead stretched under her neck during the night. He withdrew it and put it outside the covers. Lying together, they drifted off to sleep again. They slept for about an hour, until the crosshatching began to slant and grow pale. He heard a noise and woke up.

“What’s that?” she said.

“I don’t know. Is Carl hanging around because he thinks Delores is here?”

She pushed herself up and looked out the window. She didn’t see Carl’s car, or any car but hers and Perry’s.

“Be quiet,” he said. “Listen.”

But there was no more noise downstairs. He lay back, waiting for another sound. It came, eventually, in the form of faint radio music.

“Who’s down there?” Francie whispered to him. She curled into him and didn’t move.

He was curious now, so he got up and pulled on his jeans. “Hey — who’s downstairs?” he called.

The radio continued to play.

Francie got up after him and put on her jeans. She picked up his sweater from the floor and pulled it over her head. Barefoot, they went down the stairs.

“Carl?” Francie called. It was the first time that Perry was frightened; her voice echoed in the house, and there was no answer, just the radio music. They saw him at the same time, and both drew back a little.

It was the boy from the party — the boy who had stolen Freed’s car. He had on a stocking cap, but his face, which had seemed unremarkable before, seemed unforgettable now. There was what looked like a large mole on his temple. Perry took one step forward and saw that it was a fly, but not a real fly — a little black plastic fly, with glue smeared underneath it.

“How did you get in here?” Perry asked. Francie took one step forward to stand beside him.

“I’m not here. You just think I’m here. You’re sleepwalking.” When he said that last thing, his voice changed from mocking to serious. “This is a very nice house, but I’m not interested in comfortable furniture or nice oil paintings. What I’m interested in is money, and that’s what I haven’t found. Where’s your money, Francie?”

They were both shocked that the boy knew Francie’s name.

The boy said, “I have a hunting knife with a fat straight blade, and I have a Swiss army knife with little corkscrews and curved blades. What I don’t have is money , and I know that there has to be money, Francie, because this is a very fancy house you have here.”

Perry reached in his back pocket and took out his billfold and tossed it at the boy. He did it because he was afraid to walk up to him, and he hoped that money was all he wanted.

The boy looked inside and saw the money: about forty dollars, although he didn’t count it. He threw the wallet back.

“Let’s play ‘Mother May I,’ ” the boy said.

Perry turned to walk for the phone, but stopped. The gleam he saw out of the corner of his eye was the knife: not the Swiss army knife, but the other one — a knife you would use for skinning animals.

“I know your brother,” the boy said to Francie.

Perry heard her voice as if it were filtering through something. “You do?” Francie said.

“And I know your friend Freed better than he told you. I slept with your friend Freed. That’s why I can’t understand his pretending I was just some hitchhiker at your party. He was going to give me the car. The plan was, he was going to buy a car from your brother, and he was going to sell me his car.” The boy’s voice changed. “His car wasn’t worth anything,” he said.

Francie looked at Perry. He was too frightened to do what he wanted to do and look back at her reassuringly.

“I don’t understand,” Francie said.

Perry held out the wallet again but didn’t throw it.

“Do you think I’m lying?” the boy said. “You didn’t know that he picked me up hitching two days before he brought me here? I was on my way somewhere else, but he took me home with him and then he brought me to your party.”

“We don’t know anything about it,” Perry said. “You can have any money we have if you’ll get out.”

“Where’s your brother’s car?” the boy said to Francie.

“I don’t—” Francie broke off, not wanting to say that she had no brother. “I don’t know anything about what Freed told you.”