Ann Beattie - Burning House

“I got the Coors account,” Andy says. “I’m having a wall of my office painted yellow and silver.”

The dog and I go to the dump. The dump permit is displayed on the back window: a drawing of a pile of rubbish, with a number underneath. The dog breathes against the back window and the sticker gets bright with moisture. The dog likes the rear-view mirror and the back window equally well, and since his riding with his nose to the rear-view mirror is a clear danger, I have put three shoe boxes between the front seats as a barrier. One of the boxes has shoes inside that never fit right.

Bob Dylan is singing on the tape deck: “May God bless and keep you always, May your wishes all come true …”

“Back her up!” the dump man hollers. Smoke rises behind him, from something smoldering out of a pyramid into flatness. The man who runs the dump fans the smoke away, gesturing with the other hand to show me the position he wants my car to be in. The dog barks madly, baring his teeth.

“Come on, she’ll get up that little incline,” the dump man hollers.

The wheels whir. The dog is going crazy. When the car stops, I open my door, call “Thank you!” and tiptoe through the mush. I take the plastic bag filled with garbage and another pair of shoes that didn’t work out and throw it feebly, aiming for the top of the heap. It misses by a mile, but the dump man has lost interest. Only the dog cares. He is wildly agitated.

“Please,” I say to the dog when I get in the car.

“May you always be courageous,” Dylan sings.

It is a bright fall day; the way the sun shines makes the edges of things radiate. When we get home, I put the dog on his lead and open the door, go into the mud room, walk into the house. When I’m away for a weekend or longer, things always look the way I expect they will when I come back. When I’m gone on a short errand, the ashtray seems to have moved forward a few inches, the plants look a little sickly, the second hand on the clock seems to be going very fast … I don’t remember the clock having a second hand.

The third phone call of the day. “Will you trust me?” a voice says. “I need to know how to get to your house from the Whitebird Diner. My directions say go left at the fork for two miles, but I did, and I didn’t pass an elementary school. I think I should have gone right at the fork. A lot of people mix up left and right; it’s a form of dyslexia.” Heavy breathing. “Whew,” the voice says. Then: “Trust me. I can’t tell you what’s going on because it’s a surprise.”

When I don’t say anything, the voice says: “Trust me. I wouldn’t be some nut out in the middle of nowhere, asking whether I go right or left at the fork.”

I go to the medicine cabinet and take out a brandy snifter of pills. My husband’s bottle of Excedrin looks pristine. My brandy snifter is cut glass, and belonged to my grandfather. It’s easy to tell my pills apart because they’re all different colors: yellow Valium, blue Valium, green Donnatal. I never have to take those unless I go a whole week without eating Kellogg’s All-Bran.

A bear is ringing the front doorbell. There are no shades on the front windows, and the bear can see that I see it. I shake my head no, as if someone has come to sell me a raffle ticket. Could this be a bear wanting to sell me something? It does not seem to have anything with it. I shake my head no again, trying to look pleasant. I back up. The bear has left its car with the hazard light flashing, and two tires barely off Black Rock Turnpike. The bear points its paws, claws up, praying. It stands there.

I put a chain on the door and open it. The bear spreads its arms wide. It is a brown bear, with fur that looks like whatever material it is they make bathroom rugs out of. The bear sings, consulting a notebook it has pulled out from somewhere in its side:

Happy birthday to you

I know it’s not the day

This song’s being sung early

In case you run away

Twenty-nine was good

But thirty’s better yet

Face the day with a big smile

There’s nothing to regret

I wish that I could be there

But it’s a question of money

A bear’s appropriate instead

To say you’re still my honey

The bear steps back, grandly, quite pleased with itself. It has pink rubber lips.

“From your sister,” the bear says. I see the lips behind the lips. “I could really use some water,” the bear says. “I came from New York. There isn’t any singing message service out here. As it is, I guess this was cheaper than your sister flying in from the coast, but I didn’t come cheap.”

I step aside. “Perrier or tap water?” I say.

“Just regular water,” the bear says.

In the kitchen, the bear removes its head and puts it on the kitchen table. The head collapses slowly, like a popover cooling. The bear has a long drink of water.

“You don’t look thirty,” the bear says.

The bear seems to be in its early twenties.

“Thank you,” the bear says. “I hope that didn’t spoil the illusion.”

“Not at all,” I say. “It’s fine. Do you know how to get back?”

“I took the train,” the bear says. “I overshot you on purpose — got my aunt’s car from New Haven. I’m going back there to have dinner with her, then it doesn’t take any more smarts than getting on the train to get back to the city. Thank you.”

“Could I have the piece of paper?” I say.

The bear reaches in its side, through a flap. It takes out a notebook marked “American Lit. from 1850.” It rips a page out and hands it to me.

I tack it on the bulletin board. The oil bill is there, as yet unpaid. My gynecologist’s card, telling me that I have a 10 A.M. appointment the next day.

“Well, you don’t look thirty,” the bear says.

“Not only that, but be glad you were never a rabbit. I think I’m pregnant.”

“Is that good news?” the bear says.

“I guess so. I wasn’t trying not to get pregnant.”

I hold open the front door, and the bear walks out to the porch.

“Who are you?” I say.

“Ned Brown,” the bear says. “Fitting, huh? Brown? I used to work for an escort service, but I guess you know what that turned into.” The bear adjusts its head. “I’m part-time at Princeton,” it says. “Well,” it says.

“Thank you very much,” I say, and close the door.

I call the gynecologist’s office, to find out if Valium has an adverse effect on the fetus.

“Mister Doctor’s the one to talk to about prescription medicine,” the nurse says. “Your number?”

Those photographs in Life, taken inside the womb. It has ears at one week, or something. If they put in a needle to do amniocentesis, it moves to the side. The horror story about the abortionist putting his finger inside, and feeling the finger grabbed. I think that it is four weeks old. It probably has an opinion on Bob Dylan, pro or con.

I have some vermouth over ice. Stand out in the back yard, wearing one of my husband’s big woolly jackets. His clothes are so much more comfortable than mine. The dog has dragged down the clothesline and is biting up and down the cord. He noses, bites, ignores me. His involvement is quite erotic.

There is a pale moon in the sky. Early in the day for that. I see what they mean about the moon having a face — the eyes, at least.

From the other side of the trees, I hear the roar of the neighbors’ TV. They are both deaf and have, a Betamax with their favorite Hollywood Squares programs recorded. My husband pulled a prank and put a cassette of Alien in one of the boxes. He said that he found the cassette on the street. He excused himself from dinner to do it. He threw away a cassette of Hollywood Squares when we got home. It seemed wasteful, but I couldn’t think what else to do with it, either.