Ann Beattie - Chilly Scenes of Winter

“Is that your cat?” he says.

“Yes. That was a Christmas present from my nephews.”

“My best friend had a dog that died not long ago,” he says. Why did he say that?

“Did it have heartworms?”

“What’s that?”

“Heartworms. They can cure a dog once, usually, if they get it in time.”

“I don’t know what it died of. It just died.”

Betty shakes her head. “Heartworms, I bet.”

Betty is eating cottage cheese. She is trying. She is trying to lose weight so she will get a husband and not have to rely on her Siamese cat. Poor Betty. If only she were Laura he would love her madly, blindly, forever.

“You’ll only have to type two more from me today,” he says.

“Have you gone to lunch?” she says.

“I’m on my way back.”

“Oh,” she says. “Okay. I’ll be down for them later.”

He leaves, convinced that there’s no possibility of romance. She should have said something witty. She is so dogged. But what could she have said witty? What’s the witty comeback about a dead dog? If she were Hemingway, at least she would have said something strange — that a dead dog lying in the sun was beautiful. But she is Betty. She says Sam’s dog died of heartworms, which can be cured once, usually. Unlike inoperable melanomas. He gets a drink of water at the water fountain, hoping to wash down the glutinous mashed potatoes. They are still right there, even after a long drink.

Why didn’t you even try to be a painter? he asks himself as he sits down to begin another report. Why don’t you paint at night? You could paint primitives — then it wouldn’t matter if they were sort of sloppy.

The sun is in the middle of the window. In the morning it is on the left, at noon in the middle, and to the far right before it gets dark and he goes home. He amuses himself by thinking that the sun rises and sets in his window, that it is confined to this rectangle, that the window is like one of those games they have in bars, with the little squares that beep from left to right. If he doesn’t find out Betty’s last name or her phone number, he will be spending another Friday night in a bar with Sam. He would ask Sam to come along, but the women always fall in love with Sam. Except Laura. She just thought Sam was nice. Sam didn’t fall in love with Laura either. Oh, hell — it was perfect. His best friend didn’t love his girlfriend. The three of them could have knocked around forever.

At the end of the day (4:25 today) he leaves the building. Bob White is in the elevator. He wants to say “Bob White! Bob White!” to him, chirp it at him, and he bites his tongue. Susan is right; he is infantile. “Glad to be going,” Bob White says. “Yeah,” Charles agrees. “Going to juvenile court with my kid tonight,” Bob White says. Charles looks at him for the explanation. “Threw a bottle through a window,” Bob White says. Bob White gets out first, quickly walks through the lobby to the revolving door and disappears. Charles stops at the blind man’s stand and picks up an Almond Joy. “What have you got?” the blind man asks. Sometimes, Charles is convinced, he just stops at the stand because the blind man’s question has such a nice ironic ring. Going out of the building, he wonders if Marsha Steinberg would defend him if he killed Laura’s husband. He has forgotten to ask Betty her last name. Well, all these things we forget are deliberately forgotten. Thanks, Freud. You probably would have forgotten too. The more exotic appealed to you. The more exotic appeal to me. He crunches into his Almond Joy.

At home, he sorts through the day’s mail: a letter from the Humane Society saying that kittens are being thrown in the trash, a note left in the mailbox from Susan, thanking him for “a good time,” a Burpee’s seed catalog. The bed that Sam slept in is a mess in one bedroom. He did not make the bed he slept in the night before. He goes into the bathroom, which is relatively uncluttered, and soaks a washrag in warm water, rubs it over his face. It is quiet in the house. He turns on the television and lies in bed to watch it. Sam’s snowmobile socks are hanging off each side of the bed rail. Like the coquette who forgets her handkerchief, Sam will be back for the snowmobile socks.

The evening news features a plane crash, the parents of a child who was roughed up in a Boston school, and a word about former President Nixon going golfing. There is a picture of the former President He looks like a lean old mafioso.

HOME

: San Clemente, California

AGE

: 62

PROFESSION

: Retired

HOBBIES

: Going out to Bob Abplanalp’s island, playing golf with ambassadors, shooting the breeze with Eddie Cox.

MOST MEMORABLE BOOK

:

Six Crises

.

LAST ACCOMPLISHMENT

: Surviving surgery.

QUOTE

: “Y’know, I love my country.”

PROFILE

: Aging, embarrassed, a crook. This man will not live long.

SCOTCH

: Yes, and pills, too, but don’t tell anyone.

He turns off the television and goes out to the kitchen to fix dinner. The phone rings.

“May I speak to Elise Reynolds?”

“Elise. Elise left a few days ago.”

“She did? To whom am I speaking?”

“Charles.”

“And is Susan there?”

“Susan left, too.”

“Where did they go? This is Mrs. Reynolds.”

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Reynolds. Elise left before Susan did. I thought she said she was going home.”

“This is the home, and I’m in the home, but Elise isn’t in the home. Just where do you think she is?”

“I can’t say, Mrs. Reynolds. Maybe she’s back at school.”

“Maybe you murdered her.”

Charles almost drops the phone. He sits down, eyes wide. Let’s see; she left the day before yesterday.…

“Mrs. Reynolds, get hold of yourself. I’m sure she’s back at school.”

“Did she tell you I was an alcoholic?”

Susan told him she was an alcoholic. “No,” he says honestly.

“I am an alcoholic, but it’s a popular misconception that alcoholics never sober up. They do sober up, and when they sober up they search their nest. ”

“Is your husband at home, Mrs. Reynolds?”

“Didn’t she tell you he was dead?”

Oh, Christ, he thinks. She’s flipped out and there’s nobody there.

“Well, he isn’t,” Mrs. Reynolds says. “She exaggerates everything. She’s had him in the grave for five years. He’s considerably older than I am.”

“Okay, okay. I just wondered if somebody was there with you … if you’re worried.”

“I haven’t had anything all day but a Peppermint Schnapps, and I am worried.”

“Elise seemed to have had a fine time here. You know kids. They’re unpredictable. I’m sure she’ll return to your house or to school.”

“Excuse me. I didn’t realize I was speaking to an adult. I think we do understand each other. We know that when I looked in the nest, she had flown.”

“Try not to worry, Mrs. Reynolds. It will work out okay.”

“Where is Susan?” Mrs. Reynolds asks.

“She left this morning with her boyfriend for college.”

He is going to call Susan and yell at her about this. Why did she bring that screwed-up girl to his house? What if Mrs. Reynolds tries to do something — call the police or something?”

“You get back in touch if you get worried, Mrs. Reynolds.”

Please don’t get back in touch. Please leave me alone. I didn’t like your daughter. I’m glad she’s gone. You sound like another crazy woman, and I don’t like you either. I will keep the phone off the hook. Laura. I can’t keep the phone off the hook.

“You can tell that I’m concerned, can’t you, Charles? I am concerned. Do I sound drunk to you, or concerned?”