Ann Beattie - Chilly Scenes of Winter

Bill stands up. “I can’t find it. Thanks for letting me look. If you see it around, let me know.”

“A silver pen?”

“A narrow Cross number. My wife gave it to my son to give me for my birthday. You know.”

Charles looks at the paperwork he has to do. He closes his door and takes out his cassette and earphones and puts on “John Wesley Harding.” He works while he listens. When the tape has finished he clicks it off and stands up and stretches. His head is hot. He walks down the hallway to the library and stands looking at it. He goes in and asks for something he doesn’t need — a financial report from 1970. The new librarian (he thinks, sadly, that she’s not so new any more) writes the information down on a slip of paper and goes into the stacks to get it. He thinks about following her, whispering to her that he loves her, pinning her against the shelves. He shakes his head, smiling. Imagine Bill’s reaction: “Why, I just left his office and he was fine. He’d been sick, you know.…” Imagine the librarian’s reaction. Imagine even thinking of doing such a thing. When he gets the report he thanks the librarian and goes back to his office and gets four aspirin, goes to the drinking fountain and takes them, one at a time, tipping his head back to swallow each time. He reminds himself of a bobbing-bird toy he had when he was young. The birds would dip interminably over a glass of water. One night he felt sorry for them because they weren’t getting any rest and poured the glass of water on the floor and attached the birds to the empty glass. He denied doing it. Not much was made of it. His mother showed his father the wet spot in the rug, his father shrugged and filled the glass again.

He leaves the office at quarter after eleven, kidding himself that he’s going to meet Laura at school. He even drives to the school and circles the block, but of course Rebecca goes to school a full day now, and Laura won’t be there for her until three. He could go back then. Except that he doesn’t want to be pushy. Of course she would be polite. And beautiful. But she would think it was in bad taste. Maybe she’ll call. Maybe he will drive over around three.

Three o’clock comes and goes, and he is still working. At three-thirty Betty comes in for the typing and asks how he’s feeling. He is embarrassed, thinking, with his fever, that she knows he deliberately forgot to ask her number. Renounced. The villain.

“Okay,” he says.

“Do you need aspirin or anything?”

“No thanks,” he says.

If only she would leave him alone and not make him feel guiltier.

“Okay,” she says, taking the reports out of the basket. “I’ll get these back to you in the morning. Is that soon enough?”

“Certainly,” he says.

She leaves. He looks up only briefly, when she is almost out the door. The black boots are back. She has on a red miniskirt and a white sweater. She slumps. He should call her, put a little romance in her life, tell her he loves her, marry her. He still doesn’t know her last name.

Leaving work early (four twenty-five), he sees Sid from his floor in the elevator.

“Sid, do you know Betty’s last name? Betty in the typing pool?”

“I can’t say that I do.”

A curious look from Sid. Sid knows. Everything. Both sides of it. That Betty wants him to call, that he is going to call. Well, not without her name or number he isn’t. He could call Laura and ask. That would be loutish; it would be something one of Sam’s old girlfriends would do to him. And Sam wouldn’t mind. Would Laura?

He remembers, finally, to go grocery shopping. There is nothing in the entire store he wants to eat. He buys two frozen pizzas, some soup, some salami and cheese, a roast beef, and a can of lima beans. He goes to the dairy counter and gets another kind of cheese and a half gallon of milk. A hippie is standing at the far end, a half gallon of milk opened and being poured into his mouth. What if he’s caught? The hippie raises his milk carton in salute. Charles waves back. He leaves immediately, in case a store official thinks he knows the hippie.

Charles always has a moment of apprehension at the checkout counter, even though he has money. He checks his wallet several times while he’s still in the store. Other shoppers probably feel sorry for him, having to economize, poor fellow, but that’s all right. That’s better than putting all his things on the checkout counter and not having the money. He leaves the store and drives home. Sam’s car is out front. Sam is in the shower. He is doing his “singing in the tub” song, but he is quieter than usual. Usually he can hear Sam kicking (Sam has confessed to this), but the legs will not break tonight. Figuring that Sam hasn’t eaten, he unwraps the roast and puts it in a pan in the oven. He opens the can of lima beans and dumps them in a pan. He takes a piece of salami out of the white paper it is wrapped in and rolls it into a little tube, bites into it. It’s very strong. Too strong. He finishes it anyway, goes into the living room and turns the thermostat up, sits down with his coat still on. There is a postcard from Pamela Smith: “The Clocks: Walter Tandy Murch, American 1907–1967.” The message: “Thank you again for being so nice to me. I’ve found a ride to LA Will try to call. P.S.” It takes him a while to realize that there was never an additional message she left off; they are her initials. In fact, it takes that so long to register that he also goes into the bedroom and looks for the thermometer. He can’t find it. He goes back to the living room and looks at the rest of the mail. Kittens are apparently no longer being thrown out in trash cans: there is nothing from the Humane Society. There is a notice that he should make a dentist appointment. There is also a note from Pete: “Mommy (crossed out) Clara suggested I send a note to remind you of your dinner invitation this Sat. We will be eating around seven, unless anything goes wrong with the chicken. I’m going to stuff it. I hope there are no hard feelings. Called the other night, but the line was busy. Clara has been working a nice needlepoint footrest of a poddle that she thinks would be nice to put in front of my chair. Be sure to ask to see it. So far, the baths are at a minimum. I really enjoyed that drink you and Susan had with me. Maybe we can do it again sometime. I’ll see you Sat. Clara suggested that I write. I’ll show her the envelope now.”

“Hi,” Charles says to Sam.

“To dispense with formalities, I’m out of a job.”

“What? When did you find out?”

“Five o’clock. I was going to work until eight tonight, when they came around and told me that wouldn’t be necessary.”

“Oh, no. You said you were selling a lot of jackets.”

“I don’t know. They were very vague. They don’t even do you the favor of saying one specific thing that can stick in your mind for you to brood over.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Collect unemployment as long as I can.”

“Couldn’t they have switched you to another one of their stores?”

“I didn’t ask. They actually sent two of them around, probably in case I decided to take one of them on. They were both big.”

“Those bastards.”

“I looked around me at the rows of jackets, and I just couldn’t do anything but nod. I guess I’m glad to be out of there. At least for a while I can collect unemployment.”

“How much will that give you?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“That’s awful, Sam.”

“Now that I’m out of work I won’t have to pay back the college loan. Maybe I’ll actually have it easier.”

“It’s a rotten way to have it easier.”

“I don’t know. What did I do with the money anyway? I just realized going home that I don’t go out on dates any more. I don’t do anything any more.”