Ann Beattie - Falling in Place

“How do you know that when your spit dried, the hair didn’t fall off?”

“Because I did it three times,” Parker said. He turned around and showed his teeth, like Jaws. Walking behind him, John Joel saw Parker’s head, in profile, and his hands raised again, holding the imaginary cable that his teeth would snap. Parker’s head fell forward and snapped straight. John Joel kept walking.

“Well,” John Joel said, “I’ve got to get home, I guess.”

“What for?” Parker said.

“Because my mother’s working today and she told me to take the chicken out of the freezer at two o’clock.”

“All you’ve got to do is say you forgot.”

“Nah,” John Joel said. “I guess I’ll go do it. You want to come over?”

“There’s nothing to do at your house.”

“What are you going to do here?”

“Read my magazines. I got a new one I haven’t read yet. It’s called Tons of Fun . About fatsos.”

“You’ve started laughing at yourself?” John Joel said.

“I laugh at myself,” Parker said. “If I didn’t want to be fat, I wouldn’t be fat. I like to look this way. It drives my father crazy.”

“My father, too.”

“So?” Parker said. “Then it’s worth it.”

“I don’t have to be fat either,” John Joel said. He had never really thought of that before. “Want to see Tons of Fun?”

“Nah. I’ve got to go.”

“Why doesn’t your sister take the chicken out?”

“Because she’s always over at Angela’s.”

“So call her and make her go home and do it.”

“She wouldn’t.”

“She’s a douchebag,” Parker said.

“A what?”

“Get out of here,” Parker said. Parker flopped on his bed.

“What’s a douchebag?” Parker said. “Get out of here.” He started to laugh.

“Are we going into New York later on, or what?”

“Get out of here,” Parker laughed. “Throw me that box of graham crackers on the floor where you’re standing.”

John Joel picked up the box and threw it to Parker, meaning to hit him. The box hit the side of the bed and fell to the floor.

“I could fix your sister,” Parker said. “Your sister really needs fixing.”

Walking home, John Joel remembered the time when Parker had had poison ivy, the way it had gotten in his ears, the way the swelling had nearly closed his eyes, the sores that were partly inside and partly outside his nostrils; and how he had gone up the stairs, talking to Parker’s mother, and how she had opened the door and there was Parker in the bed, painted with some white stuff that almost covered his body, lying there just staring into the room, though there were only slits where his eyes should be. He was holding a glass of lemonade that Parker’s mother had given him. Parker had not said hello. He had not tried to cover himself, even though he was naked. John Joel had stood there and wondered if what he was seeing on the bed was some huge swollen mummy of Parker, if Parker hadn’t really disappeared, and this was what was left. He had been afraid to get too close to him. He had tried to get Parker to say something, but he wouldn’t. The whiteness of Parker, the way he had looked on the bed, was like those plaster people at the museum; and thinking about the museum reminded him that Parker had gotten his way: Parker had seen the show and done him out of being reimbursed. Parker wasn’t really his friend, and he had always known that. He had been surprised, himself, that when Parker called he had been happy. He had been even more surprised that he had gone over there, and that he had stayed so long. Sometimes he thought that Parker could read his mind. That was part of the reason he had gone: Because whatever he had said to him, Parker would have known what he was really thinking. He would have known that he was glad to hear from him. He would have known, the way he had known that he had told his mother about Parker burning the ticket stubs.

He was thinking about Parker’s poison ivy, and he decided not to risk cutting through the lot that separated Angela’s house from his house, even if he was careful to avoid the shiny-leafed vines that wound through the lot. It was better to walk the long way, and be safe .

Parker knew that he was afraid of firecrackers and snakes. Parker knew what everything sexual meant, and Parker had stopped telling him. For a long while, he had been able to ask, and after an eye roll or a shrug, Parker would tell him; but now Parker was learning more and more and he wouldn’t say anything. And that day he had gone berry-picking with Tiffy and his mother. He was sure that he was right about the way he felt: that if he hadn’t been there, they would have talked during the picnic; that they wouldn’t have just sat there awkwardly; that the only laugh wouldn’t have been about the bird that crapped on the cloth. His mother and Tiffy were like one person, in a way, and he was an extra. He felt the same way about his father and Nick — that they weren’t really talking the way they would talk if he weren’t there. When he was alone with his father they talked, but he always said the wrong thing, even about small things, even about Nick’s girlfriend. He was thinking about his father saying, “Not your type, huh?” He couldn’t imagine being part of his father’s and Nick’s world, even when he grew up. He couldn’t imagine having a good friend when he grew up. He thought that Parker would still be around, and that Parker would always know more than he did, that he would always take risks and not care; and that he would always be in the position he had been in, standing in Parker’s bedroom doorway, trying to get Parker to say something and Parker not talking. He had talked, finally. He had made a joke that wasn’t really a joke. He had said, “Come over here. I want you to get poison ivy.” Then he had laughed, the way his father had laughed on the train when he said, “Not your type, huh?” Both of them were sad laughs: Parker’s because for once he couldn’t impose his will; his father’s because when they talked, no matter what either of them thought about how pretty Nick’s girl was, and no matter that the rocking train threw them into each other time and again, they were still worlds apart .

NINA WAS almost exhausted, and things were starting to get too crazy. She thought that when Horton left things would calm down, but Jonathan and Spangle had almost been on a rampage since he left. She could hardly imagine Horton being a stabilizing influence on anybody, but he had talked so much that the two of them had been outdone. Of course, when Horton was there a couple of hours ago, nobody was as stoned as they were now. She wished that she had had less to smoke, or at least that she did not have to go to work the next day. She knew she was going to be standing there for hours, with her head hurting and her eyes not functioning right, having flashes of this night. It was hot, even with the window open. The window was really open — he had tried to fix the screen and had pushed it out, onto the sidewalk. Thank God nobody had been walking underneath. All of them knew better than to make an appearance outside, even to do something as simple as retrieve a fallen window screen.

The game now was pin the tail on the donkey, but instead of a tail there was her green bathtowel, and instead of a donkey there was a yelping, stoned person who thought he was playing another game, insisted on it, and was getting very annoyed at being pursued as a donkey. At least, that’s what it seemed like. No one was communicating terribly well.