Ann Beattie - Falling in Place

Spangle got up and felt his way along the wall into the kitchen. “He closed it,” he called. Then everything was silent, except for the water slapping down in the tub. The showerhead was broken and had to be tilted a certain way to make the water spray out instead of pouring out of the spigot. Jonathan didn’t know that. She thought about going in and telling him, but she couldn’t move.

“Here,” he said, holding out a joint to her. It was wrapped in blue paper, and she had no idea where it had come from. “That’s a pencil,” she said, taking it.

“I know it. Write down my number so you can call me. It’s unlisted. It’s not in the phone book, and if you go to call me, you won’t be able to. Write this down.”

“What am I supposed to write on? The rug?”

“I don’t know where there’s any paper. We both closed the refrigerator door. You could get up and find the paper.”

“Call me and tell me your number,” she said, dropping the pencil.

“Maybe we should order a pizza,” he said. “Is there somebody who delivers?”

“There’s a book by the phone. Look under ‘pizza’ in the book.”

“You could write my number in the book, then,” he said. He walked over to the phone. She thought, watching, that he looked like a person standing upright and swimming. It was dark in the room, but things had bright edges, because of light from the sign across the street.

“I’m writing in the book,” he said. “I’m writing you a poem. What rhymes with Nina?”

She sighed and closed her eyes. New York working girl.

“Piña colada,” he said. “Will they bring a pizza with onions and meatballs and a pitcher of piña coladas?”

“The pizza man brings his dog. It’s a corgi. It’s named Bess.”

“Is that the truth?” he said.

“One time he brought it, one time he didn’t. I don’t like pizza. I never eat pizza.”

“New lover’s got a lot of money, huh?”

“What did you do with all your money?”

“I spent it. If you have money, you can buy things. I bought some things. My possessions all linked arms and disappeared over the hill.”

“Be serious.”

“I am. I want to order a pizza before he gets out of the shower. There’s nothing in the book under ‘pizza.’ ”

“Give it to me,” she said.

He got up and gave her the book. He sat down beside her and blew into her hair, to watch it separate.

“What’s this?” she said, pointing to the word “pizza.”

“Tell him to bring piña coladas, too,” he said. “I’m going to have a drink. Do you want a drink?”

There was about an inch of vodka left in the bottle. He swirled the vodka, shook it, stared at it and put the bottle down.

“Does anybody have any money?” she said.

“The plan is,” he said, “we call him and order the pizza. When he comes we overpower him and kidnap the corgi, and if he wants it back, we say that he has to leave the pizza and find a pitcher of piña coladas.”

“So he leaves and finds the cops.”

“So we throw the corgi out the window.”

“Were you two drunk before you got here?” she said.

“All day,” he said, holding up both hands in surrender. “I swear to you. We have a high tolerance level. That grass is a wipeout. Moves your brain cells around like a tidal wave. Little deuce coupe.”

“What?”

“The Beach Boys singing Saturday Night Fever music,” he said. “Double whew.”

“The Bee Gees,” she said, closing the book and dropping it on the rug.

“Bee Gees. Sure. What a relief. Thank God,” Spangle said. He sprawled on his stomach next to her. “You think somebody who came in here would think I was Tab Hunter and you were Sandra Dee?”

“Let’s see if he guesses when he comes out of the bathroom.”

“What’s he doing? He’s taking a shower? I thought he was going to call for a pizza.”

“Forget it. I don’t want anybody up here.”

“You’re unsociable. Even avoid all your old friends. New York chic. We can go out for a piña colada.”

“Really,” she said, “really, it’s true, I have to work tomorrow.”

“Tell ’em they don’t have to buy stockings if they don’t have any legs. Tell ’em all they’ve got to do is head for some subway platform and wait for a loony to push them under and their stocking problems are solved.”

“They reattach everything.”

“Surgeons? They don’t drink. They’ve got to be sober men. Bite my mouth: Surgeons are women, too, right? Women — what do you call them?”

She could hear him breathing. The water. A sound that might have been Jonathan, breathing louder than the water was falling. She shook her head in confusion. Had he just asked what you called women?

“Microsurgeons!” he said. “I thought of it! It’s microsurgeons. Women microsurgeons reattaching legs — they call them limbs, right? Microsurgeon attaching a limb that a train ran over, some loony just stands there and pushes and splat! Lady microsurgeon to the rescue.”

She thought he was funny. She couldn’t stop laughing, and she was too weak to laugh; she was trying to pay attention to something, but when she was laughing she couldn’t think what. “Go in the bathroom,” she said. “See what that sound is.”

The sound was the hair dryer Jonathan had turned on for some reason as he got into the shower. It was blowing a blast of air into the shower. He had the shower curtain back so he could feel it, and he was smoking a joint with no hands, letting the water pelt his back. The hair dryer lay on its side on top of the toilet.

“That’s what it was,” she said, when he came back and collapsed beside her again. “I told you I heard something.”

“Maybe some street vendor will come by and holler and we can get a pizza. You’re right about not having somebody come here when we’re so wrecked. We could all take a shower and not dry off, and if we seemed odd, we could tell the guy with the corgi that a tidal wave hit us. The Beach Boys. The fucking Brian Wilson Beach Boys.”

“Don’t you have to work tomorrow?” she said.

“No,” he said.

“What about Jonathan?”

“No. Nobody has to work tomorrow. You don’t have to work tomorrow. Call and tell them the work went away — you tried to catch it, but it got away.”

“When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a dancer,” she said.

“That’s totally off the subject,” he said. He blew gently into her hair and watched a strand lift up and fall back in the same place. “I couldn’t get it up to save my life,” he said.

Jonathan came into the room, dripping wet and naked, strutting around singing “Yes, We Have No Bananas.” Jonathan shook his head, went back into the bathroom and closed the door. She heard the roar of the hair dryer again.

Spangle picked up the phone and, without dialing, cupped his hand and said, “Yes, that’s right: large pizza with anchovies and lasagna on top and a pitcher of piñas to travel. Thank you.”

“He’s fucked,” Jonathan said, coming out of the bathroom with his too-big jeans falling down his hips, one toe cut — no, wait: big joke — one toe with polish on the nail. It wasn’t dry, and when he stumbled, it smeared on the wood floor. “What’s he doing?” Jonathan said.

“I have to work tomorrow,” she said.

“You can’t,” Jonathan said. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You left the hair dryer on,” she said.

“Refrigerator door, dryer, next you’ll nag me to make my bed. I don’t have a bed. I don’t even live here. I’ve got to shove off. Is he okay?”

“I don’t think I’m okay,” she said. “I can’t drink and smoke. Why did I drink vodka if I was going to smoke?”