Ann Beattie - Distortions

“She ought to be back by now.”

Sugar’s hair looks like snow in the moonlight. “Go to bed when we get back and I’ll talk to him,” Sugar says.

When they get to the house, the light is on, so it’s easier to see where they’re walking. As Sugar pushes open the sliding door, May sees her father standing in front of Gus in the living room. Gus does not turn around when Sugar says, “Gus. Hello.”

Everyone looks at him. “I’m tired as hell,” Gus says. “Is there any beer?”

“I’ll get you some,” Sugar says. Almost in slow motion, she goes to the refrigerator.

Gus has been looking at Ray’s pictures of Sugar, and suddenly he snatches one off the wall. “On my wall?” Gus says. “Who did that? Who hung them up?”

“Ray,” Sugar says. She hands him the can of beer.

“Ray,” Gus repeats. He shakes his head. He shakes the beer in the can lightly but doesn’t drink it.

“May,” Sugar says, “why don’t you go upstairs and get ready for bed?”

“Go upstairs,” Gus says. Gus’s face is red, and he looks tired and wild.

May runs up the stairs and then sits down there and listens. No one is talking. Then she hears Gus say, “Do you intend to spend the night, Ray? Turn this into a little social occasion?”

“I would like to stay for a while to—” Ray begins.

Gus says something, but his voice is so low and angry that May can’t make out the words.

Silence again.

“Gus—” Ray begins again.

“ What? ” Gus shouts. “What have you got to say to me, Ray? You don’t have a damned thing to say to me. Will you get out of here now?”

Footsteps. May looks down and sees her father walk past the stairs. He does not look up. He did not see her. He has gone out the door, leaving her. In a minute she hears his motorcycle start and the noise the tires make riding through gravel. May runs downstairs to Sugar, who is picking up the pictures Gus has ripped off the walls.

“I’m going to take you home, May,” Sugar says.

“I’m coming with you,” Gus says. “If I let you go, you’ll go after Ray.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Sugar says.

“I’m going with you,” Gus says.

“Let’s go, then,” Sugar says. May is the first one to the door.

Gus is barefoot. He stares at Sugar and walks as if he is drunk. He is still holding the can of beer.

Sugar gets into the driver’s seat of the Cadillac. The key is in the ignition. She starts the car and then puts her head against the wheel and begins to cry.

“Get moving, will you?” Gus says. “Or move over.” Gus gets out and walks around the car. “I knew you were going crazy when you dyed your hair,” Gus says. “Shove over, will you?”

Sugar moves over. May is in the back seat, in one corner.

“For God’s sake, stop crying,” Gus says. “What am I doing to you?”

Gus drives slowly, then very fast. The radio is on, in a faint mumble. For half an hour they ride in silence, except for the sounds of the radio and Sugar blowing her nose.

“Your father’s O.K.,” Sugar says at last. “He was just upset, you know.”

In the back seat, May nods, but Sugar does not see it.

At last the car slows, and May sits up and sees they are in the block where she lives. Ray’s motorcycle is not in the driveway. All the lights are out in the house.

“It’s empty,” Sugar says. “Or else she’s asleep in there. Do you want to knock on the door, May?”

“What do you mean, it’s empty?” Gus says.

“She’s in Colorado,” Sugar says. “I thought she might be back.”

May begins to cry. She tries to get out of the car, but she can’t work the door handle.

“Come on,” Gus says to her. “Come on, now. We can go back. I don’t believe this.”

May’s legs are still sandy, and they itch. She rubs them, crying.

“You can take her back to Wanda’s,” Sugar says. “Is that O.K., May?”

“Wanda? Who’s that?”

“Her mother’s friend. It’s not far from here. I’ll show you.”

“What am I even doing talking to you?” Gus says.

The radio drones. In another ten minutes they are at Wanda’s.

“I suppose nobody’s here, either,” Gus says, looking at the dark house. He leans back and opens the door for May, who runs up the walk. “Please be here, Wanda,” she whispers. She runs up to the door and knocks. No one answers. She knocks harder, and a light goes on in the hall. “Who is it?” Wanda calls.

“May,” May says.

“May!” Wanda hollers. She fumbles with the door. The door opens. May hears the tires as Gus pulls the car away. She stands there in Sugar’s raincoat, with the red belt hanging down the front.

“What did they do to you? What did they do?” Wanda says. Her eyes are swollen from sleep. Her hair has been clipped into rows of neat pin curls.

“You didn’t even try to find me,” May says.

“I called the house every hour!” Wanda says. “I called the police, and they wouldn’t do anything — he was your father. I did too try to find you. Look, there’s a letter from your mother. Tell me if you’re all right. Your father is crazy. He’ll never get you again after this, I know that. Are you all right, May? Talk to me.” Wanda turns on the hall lamp. “Are you all right? You saw how he got you in the car. What could I do? The police told me there was nothing else I could do. Do you want your mother’s letter? What have you got on?”

May takes the letter from Wanda and turns her back. She opens the envelope and reads: “Dear May, A last letter before I drive home. I looked up some friends of your father’s here, and they asked me to stay for a couple of days to unwind, so here I am. At first I thought he might be in the closet — jump out at me for a joke! Tell Wanda that I’ve lost five pounds. Sweated it away, I guess. I’ve been thinking, honey, and when I come home I want us to get a dog. I think you should have a dog. There are some that hardly shed at all, and maybe some that just plain don’t. It would be good to get a medium-size dog — maybe a terrier, or something like that. I meant to get you a dog years ago, but now I’ve been thinking that I should still do it. When I get back, first thing we’ll go and get you a dog. Love, Mama.”

It is the longest letter May has ever gotten from her mother. She stands in Wanda’s hallway, amazed.

Walking across the parking lot, she becomes fascinated by the sameness of the surface: so black and regular. She rubs the tops of her arms — more to protest the cold than to warm herself. When she was a little girl her father rubbed her arms for her. She doesn’t remember complaining about the cold, but her father often stopped, just the same, and rubbed her arms, which hung stiffly at her sides as she walked in a heavy winter coat, always one size too big. He rubbed so hard she was almost lifted off the ground. She gives another rub. Her shoulder bag swings forward and interrupts. She’s awkward. Tired — the end of the day. She has been working here, in this gigantic building, for five months. She used to walk across the parking lot smelling the air, knowing it was almost spring. Now it is autumn. The surface of the parking lot, which she suddenly realizes she has been studying for five months, doesn’t change.

At home, which is a four-room apartment (Do you count the bathroom? She always forgets), she collapses in her favorite chair. Collapse is no exaggeration. After she sits down it takes her at least an hour to get up. He has to bring her a drink, smooth her hair. He hovers over her. He’s always lonesome without her. The other reason he hovers, she knows, is to make her nervous about all the fussing so she will get up. When she gets up she starts their dinner, and she is an excellent cook. He is a good cook too, and has offered to do the cooking, saying that she works hard enough during the day. Secretly, he wants her to continue. He is a good cook, but she is excellent. From her he learned to frequent gourmet shops, to sneer at frozen vegetables. In the morning before she leaves, she writes a note telling him what he needs to buy at the store. Tonight he watches as she squeezes lemon juice over chicken, picks parsley from the herb box and sprinkles it gently over the top. A dash of nutmeg. Her energy comes back to her as she prepares their dinner. She pats his hand, where it rests on the counter. His hand is in her way, but as she begins to feel less tired she becomes more tolerant.