Ann Beattie - Chilly Scenes of Winter

Charles had the same teacher for fifth and sixth grades. Her name was Mrs. Witwell. Of course she was called Witchwell, or just Mrs. Witch. This name was given to her when Mrs. Witwell dressed up as a witch at Halloween to pay a call on a friend’s first-grade class. She showed the fifth grade her getup: a long black skirt and blouse, pointed black hat and broom. She had powdered her face white. “The first grade will think I’m a real witch!” Mrs. Witwell said. Her fifth grade believed she was a real witch. The Japanese boy looked terrified.

Mrs. Witwell came to the funeral parlor. He was embarrassed to have her see him there. She came with an old lady, her mother. The book was signed “Eleanor and Dora Witwell.” It was the same handwriting with which Mrs. Witwell criticized his penmanship. He got up and ran to look at the book when she left. He no longer has any idea what he expected to see.

He turns into his driveway, surprised that Doctor Mark’s car still isn’t there. He has trouble getting up the driveway; it’s very slippery. After spinning awhile at the bottom, the car finally makes it halfway up, and he settles for that, putting on the emergency brake.

“That really wasn’t bad with Pete,” Susan says.

“He does try,” Charles says. “I just don’t feel comfortable with him. I was around him for so many years that I should, but I just don’t.”

“I hope he goes ahead and buys the Honda Civic,” Susan says. “I think he’s sad. Not to ever get to do anything.”

“He’s a grown man. There’s no reason he can’t bring himself to do anything. Living with her depresses him.”

“He ought to get out,” Charles says.

“Don’t wish that on her,” Susan says. “What would she do?”

“Plug in the heating pads, drink, read movie magazines. What she does now. I can’t believe she loves him.”

“It’s hard to tell how she feels,” Susan says.

“He should corner her and ask her that.”

“That’s cruel,” Susan says.

“I know. I don’t know. I feel sorry for them. I feel sorry for everybody,”

“If you just categorically feel sorry for everyone, it must be something bothering you.”

“That’s profound,” he says, taking off his coat. She hands him hers and sits down on the sofa, pulls the afghan over her.

“Can I say something you won’t want to hear?” Susan says.

“I have to hear things I don’t want to hear all the time. Go ahead.”

“I think you’re an egomaniac.”

Charles laughs. He had been expecting something terrible.

“Yeah. So what?”

“So you dismiss everything , even helpful criticism. You refuse to think.”

“Susan, I think all the time. I shake my head to try to stop the thoughts from coming.”

“What do you think about?”

“Isn’t that a little broad?”

“I know what you think about. You think about that girl. You deliberately make yourself suffer all the time because then you can be aware of yourself .”

“What’s all this?” he says. “Some dollar twenty-five Bantam paperback philosophy? One of those books with multicolored arrows going off in all directions or something?”

“Don’t you think I could have any thoughts of my own?”

“Everybody’s thoughts are acquired. Where did you acquire yours?”

“I don’t know, Charles. I just realized that what I’m saying now is true. You’re infantile.”

“Thanks for coming here to stay with me so you could put me down.”

“It’s not to put you down. I can tell it’s not working. You’re probably thinking of her right this minute.”

“You keep bringing her up. Don’t you notice that, Susan?”

“Just tell me whether I was wrong when I said that. Were you thinking about her?”

“I wasn’t,” he says. He was.

“You’re even a liar. I know you were thinking about her.”

“I was. So what?”

“It proves my point. That you dwell on it; you try to make yourself miserable. You’ve got to snap out of it.”

“What’ll happen to me if I don’t?” he says. He really is curious, but she thinks he’s making fun of her.

“You want me to preach so you can accuse me of preaching. You always have to be in control, like a two-year-old.”

Sam comes into the living room. He has on the same pajamas, the same ski socks.

“She’s giving me hell,” Charles says.

“I heard,” Sam says.

“Hi,” Susan says.

“Hi,” Sam says. “Some woman not Laura called,” he says to Charles.

“How do you know?”

“I know her voice. I’m very good with people’s voices on the phone.”

“A woman … who was it?”

“I should have asked. I was asleep. Wasn’t thinking.”

“Then it might have been Laura.”

“No. I’d know her voice.”

“Did she say she’d call back?”

“Yeah.”

Charles shrugs. Sam sits down on the floor and takes the ashtray off the sofa arm, lights a cigarette and throws the match in the ashtray.

“This thing wiped the shit out of me,” Sam says.

“Mark didn’t call again?” Susan says.

“Nope,” Sam says.

Sam sits with his elbows resting on his knees. He seems to have lost weight. His hair is dirty and stringy. He is still just as hoarse when he talks. Charles no longer thinks that he is dying of pneumonia. He is glad. He has known Sam since fourth grade, when Sam’s family moved to the area. He remembers Sam’s mother holding her son’s hand, leading him into the fourth-grade classroom. Sam whirled and slapped her hand as they came through the door. Sam was a troublemaker. Charles was not. He worshiped Sam. Sam would pretend to have coughing fits so that he’d be excused to get a drink of water, and then he’d go into the bathroom and get the door off the stall before he came back. Sam was quick, and he always had the right tools with him. Once he got the handle off the drinking fountain, and when everybody came in from the blacktop and raced for the fountain, the handle was gone. He was too smart to have it on him when the teacher checked. He had put it in a girl’s desk. After school the teacher watched Sam, so he couldn’t get it. The next morning when the girl opened her desk she found it and gave it to the teacher. Sam waited until the end of fifth grade, but he finally thought of the perfect thing to do: throw a mud ball at her. The girl threw a mud ball back and hit him in the forehead. There was a rock or something in her mud ball, and he still has the scar above his left eyebrow.

Charles picks up a pile of mail and opens first a small blue envelope addressed to him in unfamiliar handwriting. It is a small blue booklet: “Why you didn’t get a Christmas card from us.” He begins reading: “Did you wonder, in all the holiday hassle, why you didn’t get a Christmas card from Carolyn and Bud? The answer can be quickly given: Carolyn and Bud were having problems. But there’s more to the story than that. After all, each could have sent a card. But each was too preoccupied during the season of brotherly love to do so. To wit: Bud told Carolyn a week before Christmas that he was going to divorce her for a blonde cutie. Carolyn cried, agreed. Bud ran off that night with the cutie, and Carolyn ran around in her sweat suit in the cold streets all night, crazy with jealousy. The next morning she found Bud back, but she threw him out. The cutie called: Please, Carolyn, take him back. I know he never loved me. Not on your life (jog, jog). Bud then got irate. Mad at both of them. Would Bud have thought of sending you a Christmas card? Non, mesdames. Non, messieurs . Would Carolyn? Non . But here’s a late wish from her, and a ‘Here’s hoping your New Year is Merry.’ ” On the back page is written: “Sequel: Bud and C. are back together. How tasteless of C. to send this. Wait till Bud finds out. Will you be the one to tell? Love, C.”