Ann Beattie - Chilly Scenes of Winter

Charles turns down a path that takes him to the main section of the park. There are graffiti on the benches. There are no drinking fountains. A dolphin that gurgles water in the summer has its mouth open to the cold wind. It looks, now, like a terrified caught fish. He never liked to fish. Susan did. She was too small to really fish, but she liked to watch, to jerk her arm as though it held a fishing pole. His father would take Susan fishing with him, and Charles would stay home with his mother. Some Saturdays she baked a cake (that dessert …) and let him frost it, awkwardly, moving around the cake instead of merely turning the plate until she laughed at him and showed him how easy it was to spin the plate. So he made cakes while Susan fished. Liberated children — Charles liberated out of revulsion at seeing fish twitch, Susan liberated because she loved to jerk her arm. She also did it in dancing. She’d stand on the floor, feet shuffling to a record, right arm flapping like a cowboy with a lasso. They said she would be a conductor. Conduct ress . Liberation. He hopes Pamela Smith does not waste her money on books.

It is too cold to think intelligently in the park (this is, after all, what he has taken the day off to do), and tea might soothe his throat, so he walks in the direction of the hill, below which lies a street with a coffee shop. It is next to a bakery he used to go to with Laura, one that stayed open very late. They would get there just as the fresh Danish were being taken out of the oven at two A.M. The old Italian woman who worked there (guarded by two German shepherds and one Madonna) would make motions — what looked like slapping — with her fingers, lightly touching the tops of the pastries. She would give one pastry to each dog and, if she was in a good mood, one to Laura and Charles before they even gave their order for half a dozen. His throat constricts, not so much from pain as from remembering. Old ladies always thought they were a sweet young couple. You could tell. He passes a bench that a young woman is sitting on, a little boy in her lap, face turned toward her to protect himself from the wind, a little girl pushing a noisy toy in front of her. It is a clear plastic cylinder with marbles inside. Charles stops to say hello. The young woman is very pleasant. They talk about the snow that is expected, and how hard it is to believe that this park is full of people in the summer. She has on a navy-blue ski parka, jeans and boots. Long (medium long) blond hair, a full mouth. Her name is Sandra. She does not give a last name, the way women in whorehouses, or waitresses, automatically state only their first name. He tells her his full name, as he would do with a new business acquaintance (“in business they have to appear very receptive and open …”). There is nothing left to say. He pretends to be amused by the little girl at play, asks her name. It is We-Chi, or something that sounds like that. The woman is obviously an American, the child too. “It means ‘spirit rising from the great lagoon,’ ” the woman says. She smiles. She has very white teeth. He says that the name is very pretty (Laura …), thinking she is crazy. “His name is Mecca,” the woman says, patting the blue bundle curved against her. Charles leans forward a little to see the smaller child’s features. American. And sleeping. Charles nods, backs up a step to leave, and stumbles on We-Chi’s rolling toy. He recovers himself, smiling foolishly, like the comedian deliberately flubbing an exit for laughs. If he had a hat, he could tip it, then trip again and fall on his face. “Good-bye,” he says, and walks away. He has done a lot of walking and is getting tired. Good. If he gets tired, he won’t have to think. Thinking this, he descends the hill. The sky is gray; it looks as though there will be no more sun before darkness. He sings a few words of “Mama You Been On My Mind” to himself as he walks down the hill and jumps over the stone border to the sidewalk. With his sore throat, he sounds very much like Rod Stewart. Tomorrow the sore throat may be worse, and he will have to take another day off from work. What a shame. Laura will call him at the office, a spur-of-the-moment desire to have lunch with him, and will be told that he is home sick. He will open his door and she will be there. She will simply be standing there, suffused in the aroma of chicken soup. Get this one down for posterity, Norman Rockwell. Sam’s dog, who often visited my house, is dead; otherwise she could run yapping to another man’s wife, who has come to bring me chicken soup. Maybe Edward Hopper? Or a cartoon?

He sits at the counter next to an old woman who smells of mint. Her hair rolls away from her face in even waves. A shopping bag is wedged between her feet. There is a dirty white towel over whatever is in the shopping bag. The woman is drinking black coffee, into which she empties three packs of “Sweet ’n Low.” She is humming “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” Charles orders tea with lemon. A priest comes in and greets the old woman enthusiastically. She moves from the counter to a booth with him, knocking Charles as she draws out her shopping bag. Something moves under the towel: a cat. A striped cat.

“Say ‘I love you,’ ” the woman says, dangling the cat in front of the priest.

The priest laughs merrily. He’d do well in a Santa Claus audition, except that his eyes look mad — too many years squeezed in that collar. He orders a second cup of tea. The waitress says that he can use the same tea bag if he wants, but she will have to charge him twenty cents for water all the same. He says that’s fine — and as he is sipping, the woman from the park comes in. She is carrying her son, who is still asleep. Or maybe he is dead. He always has fantasies of disaster. Squirrels crossing the street end up writhing and bloody in his mind, even if they make it safely across; sleeping people in public places are always dead; a knock on the door means machine-gun fire when he opens it to peek out.

“You look very upset,” the woman says.

What did she say her name was? Betty … but last name what? Must remember to ask Betty her last name. This woman’s name is something ordinary. Anne? Jane? Sandra! He says it out loud, victoriously.

“You had the right idea. It’s cold today. It will snow.”

“Is your little boy okay?” he says.

“Yes. He’s had shots. For going abroad. They make him conk out. They don’t bother you at all, do they, We-Chi?”

The little girl shakes her head. Her mother puts her on a stool beside Charles, unzips her jacket.

“Do you want hot chocolate?” she asks.

The little girl does.

“Where are you going?” Charles asks.

The Paris McDonald’s …

“Turkey,” the woman says. “My husband is working there.”

“Do you remember Daddy?” the woman says to the little girl.

The little girl does not.

“She’s just saying that. You get cranky in the afternoon, don’t you, We-Chi?”

“Is your husband Turkish?” Charles asks. The children are so blond …

“Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,” the woman sighs. She orders one hot chocolate with whipped cream, one black coffee. There is a ring with a large sapphire on her left hand. Her hands look old, but the woman looks no older than thirty. The little girl spins around on the stool to look at the cat sitting on the table, licking its paws. The waitress looks as if she wouldn’t say anything if someone brought an elephant in. Glassy-eyed, she shuffles over to the table to get the priest’s order. “Sure the slaw is made with mayo,” Charles hears her say.

“I want vegetable soup,” the little girl says as the waitress lowers the cup in front of her.

“You’re having that for supper,” Sandra says. “Drink this now to make yourself warm.”