Ann Beattie - Picturing Will

“How many women have you been in love with?” Zeke asked Wayne.

“Seven,” Wayne said. He always answered automatically, though he rarely ever spoke seriously to Zeke. Zeke thought that Wayne was approachable and forthright.

“Seven,” Zeke said, thinking it over.

“Why did you ask?” Wayne said.

“You’re five up on me,” Zeke said. “I wanted to see what the older generation had on me.”

Wayne looked at Zeke. “Put your hat on,” he said. “They have to cut any more skin cancers, your nose is gonna look like a potato with all the eyes cut out.”

“Sun block,” Zeke said, tapping his nose. “Susan bought it for me.”

“Probably hoping for an exchange — a diamond ring,” Wayne said.

“Shit,” Zeke said, shaking his head. “You won’t even give her credit for giving me a good present.”

“I give her credit for knowing you’re a good present,” Wayne said. “I don’t care what you do as long as you don’t get hooked up with her.” Wayne wiped his forehead. “Why don’t you get the truck and back it up?” he said. “Put some of those wood chips around these bushes.”

Zeke did whatever Wayne told him to do. He left the shovel sticking in the ground and started toward the driveway,

How many times have I been in love? Wayne wondered. He had loved his first wife. Only after this many years could he admit, grudgingly, that he had also loved Jody before they were married and for about a year afterwards. Corky was like a salve. She was what most people would think of as ordinary, although her kindness was exceptional: an empathy that could etch circles below her eyes in your presence, a dogged kindness that made him feel protected. Rather than being in love with Kate, he was addicted to her; he had felt that way about women many times, and he had always fallen hard, then struggled to break the addiction, though each time he succeeded, the success assured that he would fall harder for the next woman. He had thought that marriage to Corky might break the pattern. Before he met Corky he had lived briefly with a woman who pitied herself so much he would sink in her sadness as if it were quicksand. When he was completely submerged some odd moment always transpired between them, as if they were two fish all alone at the bottom of the sea deciding to give each other a look. They would make love and, panting, dash for the surface. It turned out that she had been two-timing him with a scuba diver. When he met Corky — the day he pulled off the road to go to a garage sale to see if they had hubcaps he could use — he had felt something like a shock of recognition: Here was a woman with a liveliness in her eyes that he had forgotten. To exorcise his self-pitying former lover, he had slept with someone who was physically similar, but who was not her. He had decided, by the time he met Corky, that this time around he would put no premium on talk. No asking about her past, her regrets, or even how she felt right that minute. He would take it easy and see if she would respond in kind. He would take what he wanted in calm moments, instead of moments fraught with emotion, and see if she found that allowable. He would ask no questions and hope that she wouldn’t speak of problems she expected him to solve. Corky did not see herself as particularly put-upon. She could adapt to things — thank God for that, because she would certainly know better what to do with Will than he would. She was going to make cupcakes for his arrival and planned to take him to Bathing Beauties to let him play in the store, and at lunchtime she would take him to the rock store — rocks, or something like that — and introduce him to the owner and buy him some things. Wayne knew that Corky wanted to show him what a good mother she would be, and how manageable a child could be. The truth was, having a child made it harder to leave. He would have left Jody sooner for being such a ball-buster, telling him what to do with his life and disdaining him if he didn’t do it, if it hadn’t been for Will. Now it was difficult to remember what his scenario for staying might have been: him suffering her silent criticism, and Will shooting up, like fast-growing bamboo, until he was a stake that stabbed his father’s heart? If Jody thought the way he did things was so unimpressive, see if she didn’t give him credit for being able to inflict a little shock when she woke up and he was gone, no explanation, no “I’m sorry” that implied she should be sorry — just gone, and the next thing she got would be a telephone call, when he was good and ready to get in touch. In leaving he had scored his point. Though he had to concede that in coping — not even calling the police to report him missing — she had proved hers.

But beyond all this, there was Will. Will, who, when Wayne saw him, always seemed to be surrounded by Jody’s aura. Men cheating on their wives are advised to be careful that they do not carry home the smell of hairspray or perfume to betray them. What about the telltale signs of a mother on a child — those smells trailing memories of the mother’s scent, the child’s clothes selected in her favorite colors, the Mercurochrome on the scratch painted by her professional hand? Something was coming clear to Wayne: that the child was just a springboard for the mother, a launch pad from which her presence could shoot up to hover hugely over the scene. As long as Will existed, Jody would be larger than life. She had seeped under Will’s skin as surely as a ghost passing into the walls of a house. If she could not remain in Wayne’s heart herself, she would send an envoy to penetrate his world.

As if he could read Wayne’s mind, Zeke reappeared with a question about Will. “Your kid,” Zeke said. “What’s the deal about the pool? I’ll bring an inner tube, and what else do you want us to bring? I forget.”

Wayne rolled his eyes. “Us” meant he was going to have to endure a day of swimming with Susan.

“I just thought that if you had a tube, the kid might like to float around. I don’t think he swims.”

“Maybe we ought to get him some of those arm-float things you strap on,” Zeke said. “Maybe that would be better.”

“He’s not a doll we’re dressing up,” Wayne said. “Bring the tube. If the kid’s not interested, we can use it.”

“You know, in Texas Susan used to go down some river in a tube. One of those places you enter one place and end up another, and they shuttle you back to where you started. She says she really misses Texas, but, you know, her grandmother she was living with had to go into a rest home, God rest her soul, and she figured makin’ the move to live near her sister was the best thing to do, since she wouldn’t be livin’ with family no more.”

“Her grandmother died?” Wayne said. Every girl Zeke dated had a history as long as War and Peace . How he ever managed to get any action except talk was a mystery to Wayne.

“No, she didn’t die,” Zeke said. “I told you: She went to a rest home.”

“Didn’t you just say, ‘God rest her soul’?” Wayne asked.

“Hey, it’s just an expression.”

“It’s not just an expression. It’s what you say when somebody’s dead. Like ‘Happy Birthday’ isn’t an expression. It’s what you say on somebody’s birthday.”

“God better look out for those folks in the rest homes,” Zeke said, hating to be corrected.

Wayne sighed. A bee buzzed his hat. The job was almost done. Soon he could have a final shot of lemonade, and then he would head home to wait for Will’s arrival. Corky would be there, frosting cupcakes. He should think about what his first line would be when the doorbell rang. How he should act. Every time he saw Will it was awkward. He always hugged when Will wanted to shake hands, or bumped his forehead, leaning down for a kiss. The holier-than-thou bodyguard would be with Will, too: Mel, with a proprietary hand on Will’s shoulder.