Ann Beattie - Distortions

“I don’t like that one,” Big Bear says.

“Then look at this one.” She hands Big Bear a blue card with bluer velvet bluebirds on it. The bluebirds trail a ribbon that spells “Happy Birthday, Darling” as it unrolls.

“Okay,” Big Bear says. “Fine.”

The card costs one dollar and fifty cents. For a card! It takes the woman a long time to slip it carefully into the bag. It takes her a long time to count out his change. He is never going to come to this card shop again.

“Thank you, sir,” the saleswoman says, with her usual ironic smile.

Big Bear holds the bag tightly and makes the mistake of crushing the velvet bird.

*

“You’re wrecked. You going to work like that?”

“I couldn’t work there if I wasn’t wrecked.”

“You should avoid getting wrecked sometime and try it.”

“You try it if you’re so curious. You can have my job.”

“I don’t want a job.”

“Then that means I have to have one. So don’t criticize me for getting wrecked.”

“You’re wrecked.” The saleswoman’s boyfriend laughs. He is also wrecked.

*

“Look at this one, look at this,” Bobby says.

His friend’s face turns red. “Put the things away,” his friend says.

“Look, look, this one was Estelle’s idea.”

“I’m sure.”

“No, I swear. She said this was a craze on campus in the sixties.”

“This was something they did at college?”

“And look at this one. This is Bill pretending he’s going to work. Look at it!”

“I’ve seen these things a dozen times already. Put those disgusting things away,” his friend says.

“I’ll put them away, but you’ve got to see the expression on her face in this one.”

“I’m not likely to see her face in this series.”

The spaceman’s friend has just made a witty remark. Bobby appreciates it and starts laughing uncontrollably. He’d be doing that even if his friend weren’t there, though. These pictures really kill him.

*

“Now the Air Force is even admitting that it’s tied up with them,” Big Bear says from his La-Z-Boy reclining chair.

“What do they say?”

“I just told you. All those sightings over Nebraska. The Air Force is coming out and admitting it.”

“What do they say , Bear?”

“You love this subject, don’t you? You love to talk about the spacemen.”

“Who brought it up?” Estelle says.

“I did. I know you love the subject,” Big Bear says.

*

“These bluebirds sing a happy tune. They say that you are mine …”

She is convulsed with laughter, that crazy, wiped-out laughter with no tears accompanying it. The eyes get wider and wider-wide enough to pour tears, but the laughter is all that comes.

“Why don’t you stop memorizing the cards? Just take your shoes off and relax.”

“It had velvet bluebirds on the front with a blue ribbon and a blue background, and it said ‘These bluebirds sing …’”

“You’re going to lose your job the first time you do a wiped-out thing like this with a customer.”

“The bluebirds! The fucking bluebirds!”

*

“What the hell was that?”

“Probably hit ducks again. Remember the time we took off through a whole flock of them?” Bobby says.

“Disgusting,” Donald says, but he is looking at Fred and not thinking about possible dead ducks.

*

“What are you mad at me for?” the little boy asks. “What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything. You got your soft drink. Drink it.”

“You couldn’t make the machine work either,” the little boy says.

“It was broken,” his mother says.

“Then what are you mad about?”

“I’m mad because you just add to the confusion. I want to get the groceries and go home and put them away. All right? Sit back and finish your drink.”

It is just another day in Big Bear City, California.

Monday

Took monthly leaf cuttings to send to her friends in the violet association. Other than that, all routine: turning on fluorescent light, usual watering from dish beneath the pot. Store delivered decorative pots. Now the inside pots must be carefully lifted so that none of the delicate leaves snap. A tricky business. My fingers must not touch the leaves. The clay pots must be centered exactly in the decorative pots, then misted from a distance of two feet. Mrs. Edway has inspected them carefully to be certain there are no bruised leaves. After unjust complaint yesterday, put ice water on the violets today to get even. Wilted a little. Shook my head with her as she called the violets “temperamental.” Annoyed me by talking about too many articles she’d read in the violet association publication. Made note to discard next issue of the magazine in post office when I pick up the mail. She calls the mails “unreliable.” She has been crankier than usual. I suspect her pain is worse, but after years of marriage I know better than to ask. Mrs. Edway has always had her secrets.

Yesterday I began reading Confessions of Z . Next to be read are The Red and the Black and The Charterhouse of Parma . It sounds as though we are literate people. Also in the pile are The Silver Chalice, French Science-fiction Stories , and Man Meets Dog . Every time I read to her she reminds me how lucky we are that the librarian’s mother is her personal friend, so the librarian sends us books by messenger every Saturday at noon, when the library closes. I am not sure whether the books are selected by the librarian or by the messenger, who is a young schoolgirl of racially mixed parentage. Sometimes, as Mrs. Edway called to my attention, we receive a selection of books from authors whose names follow alphabetically: Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Flaubert. Other times there seems to be little method in the selection. Mrs. Edway and I agree, however, that we should be grateful for the service, which began when Mrs. Edway (who had donated half a dozen specimen violets to the reading room of the library) wrote a note to the librarian saying that she would no longer be able to make a weekly inspection of the violets because of her poor health; in fact, she would no longer be able to use the library at all. Our service began the week the note was delivered. On that occasion the librarian came herself, dropping off several anthologies of English and American literature. She declined to stay, although she did wait long enough to be given several Food’N’Bloom pellets.

Something interesting happened: after careful consideration as to whether we wanted a dog or a cat or nothing, we voted secretly, on separate pieces of paper, which we held up at the same time, so that one couldn’t change his mind after seeing what the other had written. Each of us had written “cat.” Next Saturday I will ask the messenger if any of her schoolmates have kittens they want to give away.

Mrs. Edway sees me writing and asks who I think is going to read all this. She is jealous for two reasons: I am using Xerox paper that Bernie brings me (he brings his father Xerox paper, while he brings his mother nothing), and because I have not begun the afternoon reading yet. I am not much interested in Confessions of Z and may call for a vote as to whether we should continue with it. She is cranky today because she did not have a good night, and if she suspects that I am not calling for the vote just out of routine, she is sure to answer, “Yes.”

She is looking through a magazine now, holding it close to her face. I suspect she is studying ads for cat food. The pictures show so clearly which brand contains more liver that it will not be necessary to vote when it comes time. What a coincidence that she received a free coupon for creamy liver dinner in the mail this morning. Is it the same brand pictured in the magazine?