Ann Beattie - Chilly Scenes of Winter

“I’m going to take care of the bill, and you help J.D. into his jacket, Sam.”

“I didn’t mean anything personal about what I said before. I was just remarking,” J.D. says.

“I know,” Charles says. “Excuse me, while I pay the bill.”

J.D. staggers to his feet. Tammy Wynette is singing “Stand By Your Man” again. J.D. collapses in the booth when Charles leaves.

Charles goes to the front counter and pays the redheaded woman. He buys a chocolate mint and stands looking out the front door, eating it Then he goes back to the table, where J.D. has his coat on.

“Swear that you didn’t take it personal,” J.D. says.

“He doesn’t take it personal. He knows you were just making a remark,” Sam says.

“I like you guys.”

The snow is falling heavily when they go out, and everything is blanketed in white. If it only weren’t cold, Charles would love to go to sleep in it, in the deep white on the sidewalk. He takes J.D.’s arm, expecting another outburst, gets none, and leads him slowly to the car.

“Where do you live, J.D.?”

“I’ll give directions. Not so far.”

J.D. gives directions. He will not name streets, or give the address of his building, but he keeps swearing that it isn’t far. They are riding in back of a sanding truck. The road turns brown and ugly in front of them.

“Hell, I could live in New Mexico. Then what would you guys do?”

“Dump you,” Sam says.

“Don’t say that. You guys seem so nice.”

“How would we get you to New Mexico?” Sam asks.

“I don’t know,” J.D. says. He looks crestfallen.

“Am I going right? You’re watching where we are, aren’t you?”

“Turn left,” J.D. says. “That’s it. That building.”

There is a row of buildings.

“Which one?” Charles says.

“The ugliest.”

Sam pulls up in front of a brown glass building.

“Two down,” J.D. says. “I’m glad you don’t think mine is the ugliest.”

Sam coasts down another two buildings. It is uglier. He couldn’t see it well from where they were.

“I want you to come in for cranberry juice,” J.D. says.

“We’ve got to get home. It’s bad driving, J.D.”

“Aw, shit I want you guys to come visit You’re such nice guys.”

“We’ll give you a call tomorrow, if you’ll let us have your number,” Sam says.

“Just come up for a minute.”

Charles feels very sorry for J.D. “Sure,” he says. “We’ll come up.”

“That’s great,” J.D. says. He rolls down his window.

“Thanks,” Sam says, looking out J.D.’s window to back into a parking space. But that’s not why the window was down. J.D. leans out and vomits.

“Don’t hold it against me,” J.D. says.

“We don’t hold it against you,” Sam says.

“You guys are really goddamned nice. Anybody else, I wouldn’t have made the effort not to puke in their car.”

“I’m glad you spared me,” Sam says.

“Sure. I like you guys.”

The lobby is carpeted in bright blue, and there are fake plants in the corners by the elevator. Muzak plays in the elevator. They ride to the second floor.

“This way, please,” J.D. says. Charles is holding him up by the arm. J.D. reaches in his coat pocket and takes out a key ring.

“One of these,” J.D. says.

Sam starts trying them. Finally the door opens.

“Please come in,” J.D. says, as they lead him in.

There is nothing in the living room but a mattress and a black telephone. In the kitchen, four rubber plants are growing in holes in the stove where the burners used to be. There is a black wall phone.

“Look around, look around,” J.D. says. To placate him, they go into the bedroom. There is nothing in the bedroom except a brown and white rabbit standing on a pile of magazines. There is no shower curtain in the bathroom.

“You just move in or something?” Charles asks.

“Lived here one year, four months,” J.D. says, sitting on the mattress.

Charles nods.

“Well, now that you’re here safely, I think we’d better get home before the storm gets any worse. Can you let us have your phone number?”

J.D. gestures toward the black telephone. Sam copies down the number.

“We’ll be in touch.” Sam says. “You okay now?”

“You guys are so goddamn nice. I’m not drunk now. I realize that you wouldn’t want any of that cranberry juice, and I’m not going to push it. When you guys can, come on over and I’ll fix you a chili dinner.”

“Right,” Charles says. “Good night, now.”

“You’re not going to go out again, are you?” Sam says.

“I’ve ruined your evening,” J.D. says.

“No, you haven’t. We liked talking to you. You had a little to drink, that’s all.”

“I didn’t puke in your car,” J.D. says, lying down.

“No,” Sam says.

“Well, good night,” J.D. says.

They walk out of the apartment. J.D. waves.

Back in Sam’s car, Sam lets out a long sigh.

“Everybody’s so pathetic,” Sam says, “What is it? Is it just the end of the sixties?”

“J.D. says it’s the end of the world.”

“It’s not,” Sam says. “But everything’s such a mess.”

“I told Susan I felt sorry for everybody, and she said there was something wrong with me.”

“She’s in love with that doctor. How can you expect her to be cynical?”

Charles shrugs. They ride home slowly, watching the snow mount up. Charles is glad Sam is driving, because Sam drives much better than he does in the snow. It has been such a cold, long winter. He used to like winter when he was a kid. He had a Fleetwood Flyer sled, and they’d close off the steep hill at one end of his parents’ block, and there would be nighttime sledding parties, with a bonfire and hot dogs. Even his mother rode the sled down the hill once. He was so proud of her. Now she just sits around and goes crazy, but then she’d try things-go sledding, make new cakes — she even got a set of records and tried to learn Spanish. She failed. On the sled, she scared herself and said she couldn’t get her breath and went home without eating a hot dog with them. The cakes were just mixes. Okay — so she never did anything right. At least she was pretty. Or prettier. She always had crooked teeth in the bottom of her mouth, and her hair never puffed out the way other women’s hair did. Her hair always looked defeated. She had a pot belly as long as he could remember. But she used to wear high-heeled shoes. Now she wears white sneakers. She used to wear high-heeled shoes.

Sam tries to get his car in the driveway, but he can’t do any more than get the nose a few feet up. The plow has been by, and it’s impossible to park on the street. The cars that are parked there have been plowed in.

“We’ve got to shovel,” Charles says. “You’ll be hit for sure.”

They get out of the car and go in the house for the shovel.

“There’s just one shovel. I’ll do it,” Charles says.

“Let me. I knew it was going to snow. I’m the one who didn’t get groceries.”

“We’ll take turns,” Charles says. “When you’ve been out for five minutes, come get me.”

Charles pulls a chair up to the kitchen window and watches. It is going to be a bad storm. He can hardly see Sam, even with the streetlights shining. He rubs the palm of one hand against the fingers of another, to warm himself. He goes into the living room and dials the thermostat up two degrees, then goes back out to relieve Sam, but Sam insists that he wants to shovel. Charles goes back to the house, takes his clothes off, and gets into bed. The bed is freezing. He lies there shaking, then falls asleep. He wakes up and hears Sam moving around the house, looks at the clock and sees that it is only midnight. He puts the pillow over his head and goes back to sleep, dreaming an intricate dream of sunflowers springing up in the snow, poisonous sunflowers that he is trying to rake under, that reappear elsewhere, in deeper drifts. Confused, he wakes up again. Sam is sitting on the bed. He pulls himself up, asking, “What are you doing here?” Is Sam really there? Yes. Sam is talking to him.