Ann Beattie - Distortions

Riding into Arizona, she says, “Do you think that maybe the reason you want to see the Grand Canyon is because you had something to do with it in your former life?”

“I didn’t have a former life.”

“You don’t remember it,” she says.

“That reincarnation crap is all silly. There’s nothing after death. Nothing happens to change you. You get put in the ground and you rot.”

“I knew you didn’t believe,” she says.

“It’s all a lot of crap.”

“Then how come I can remember being on a big cushion in a cold house somewhere? A castle, maybe.”

“You made it up. It’s all in your head. A story you tell yourself.”

“I remember it,” she says, and looks out the window with that funny expression again.

*

A cat runs in front of the car and Hale hits the brakes. It looked like one of Gloria’s cats, the fat orange one, and Hale knows what he’s in for. Gloria sucks in her breath. “Antonio,” she whispers. “What is he doing on a road out here in the wilderness?”

“Somebody’s pet,” Hale says.

“You almost killed him.”

“It’s okay. I saw it in the rearview mirror.”

“Poor Antonio. He was trying to tell me something.”

“What are you crying about now, for Christ’s sake?”

“He risked his life. There was something he wanted me to know.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake. Somebody’s damn pet.”

“You don’t even like cats, do you?” Gloria asks. She is squinting hard, much harder than the setting sun requires.

“Why should I care about cats?” he says.

“They all died,” she says, as though he’s unbelievably stupid.

“That’s right. They died. They’re gone. They aren’t coming back as motel owners or as messengers in the night, and they aren’t running in front of your car to attract your attention, Gloria.”

“Let me out.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I want to get out of the car.”

She has her hand on the door handle. As she turns to lift the lock, Hale reaches around her.

“For Christ’s sake. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Just let me out.”

“I’m not putting you out on some highway in Arizona.”

“Let me out and pick up some pretty hitchhiker. Why don’t you pick up some hitchhiker? You can have my car. Just let me out.”

Hale notices that her body is not as large as it was when they began the trip. But she still seems larger than life, with her wide, big eyes and her big mouth, her lips more prominent because they’re chapped. She’s been biting her lips. If he did let her out, no one would ever pick her up.

“Come on, Gloria. Calm down. In a few minutes we’ll be at the Grand Canyon.”

“You think it’s silly for me to think about my cats, but you don’t think you’re silly to always talk about the Grand Canyon. My sisters’ husbands are all like that. Anything my sisters want is silly. But they’re never silly. At least I’m not married to you.”

Gloria hates him now. But Hale doesn’t hate Gloria. He is so used to her, to this big woman who sits complaining and crying day after day. He almost wishes she could be happy again.

“Just sit still and relax,” Hale says. He is still covering the lock with his hand.

*

Gloria refuses to get out of the car when she has her chance, when it is parked at the Grand Canyon. Like a big, sulking child she sits inside with the doors locked, looking at Hale looking into the Grand Canyon. She has figured out the message the cats meant to give her. She weeps for her cats, her soft little kittens. She also cries a little because for the first two days of the trip she thought she might really be starting to love Hale, that it wouldn’t be just another romance that ended sadly, like all her sisters’ marriages.

Hale knows that he is locked out of the car. He stares into the Grand Canyon knowing that, and stands for a long time thinking before he goes to a refreshment stand. It is a little cooler under the red, white and blue striped awning. He buys two vanilla ice-cream cones and goes back to the car. He taps on the window. She puts down the map she is fanning herself with and rolls it down a crack. “More,” he says. “This is for you.” She rolls down the window enough to take the ice-cream cone from him. The first lick is so cold that she shivers. She wipes her forehead on her arm, shifts in the seat to unstick her legs. He puts his hand through the window and strokes her hair.

“We could rent horses and ride down into the Canyon,” Hale says. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“No,” she says. She has started to cry again.

“Maybe your cats would all be there waiting for you.”

“Do you think I’m a fool? That I think my cats are in the Grand Canyon?”

“There’s a mysterious elephant burial ground in Africa, isn’t there?”

“So what? What does that have to do with me?”

“Come on, Gloria. Get out of the car.”

“No,” she says, but Hale can tell that she’s wavering. It must be very hot in the car. Gloria looks terrible, sweating and crying. Her ice-cream cone is melting and running down her wrist.

“When you get out we can freshen up over there, by the refreshment stand. And you can buy us a couple of hot dogs for dinner.”

“You think I’m going to get out now and buy you dinner?”

“Come on, Gloria,” he says, trying to pull the door open as if it’s unlocked. She moves away from the door.

“Then leave,” Hale says. “You’ve got the keys. Go home.”

“And then what would happen to you? I’d drive away and leave you here, and some pretty girl would give you a ride, and soon I’d see you again. You’d come after me.”

“Of course I would, Gloria. I love you.”

“No!” she cries. “I don’t think you love me at all.”

He tries the door again, but of course it does not open. Gloria has moved into the driver’s seat now, but she makes no attempt to start the car. She is crying too hard to drive, anyway. Figuring that the car won’t be going anywhere, he climbs on the hood and mournfully, chewing the last of his ice-cream cone, gazes into the vast pit of the canyon.

I

His wife is a very sick woman, because she thinks these things through very thoroughly. He wouldn’t be surprised to find out that she likes the big white house so much not because it’s big or white, but because the post office is across the street. She is very sick, and she mails letters to him from the post office. She gets up at night, and while other wives might read or do housework with their insomnia, she writes him a letter — usually a brief note, actually — and pulls the raincoat over her nightgown and crosses the street to the post office. Some nights when he too has insomnia, he raises himself to one elbow and parts the curtains to watch her. She is a pretty wife, and he’ll be glad when she’s come back to bed.

The matter of reading the letters, the matter of reading the letters. He is never sure what is best to do. He very rarely throws them out, though. He can’t tell what reaction she wants — it seems to be neither extreme nor anything that he’s tried yet in the in-between range. For example: one morning, reading a note detailing what hotel she went to at what hour with her lover (she doesn’t let his name slip), he screamed with frustration, banged his hands on the breakfast table. She sipped coffee, shrugged. Another time he handed the note back to her saying, “So what?” She smiled, shrugged. There was also the time he asked her if she wanted to see a psychiatrist, and she said they hadn’t helped anyone she knew, or the time he telephoned her mother and her mother said she didn’t want to get involved. Sometimes he dreams that the messages will stop coming, that the mail will bring only blessed bills. Sometimes when he looks out the window to see her crossing the road at night a thought goes through his head: it’s not for you. It’s for someone else. That’s no consolation, though, because if it’s to someone else, chances are it’s to her lover. He accepts her getting out of bed to do something related to him — mail him a letter — but what of her awakening to jot a fond message to someone else?