Ann Beattie - Burning House

“Are you smoking grass in the office?” I say.

“Not this time,” he gasps. “I’m goddam dying of something.” A pause. “What did you do yesterday?”

“I was in town. You’d laugh at what I did.”

“You went to the fireworks.”

“Yeah, that’s right. I wouldn’t hesitate to tell you that part.”

“What’d you do?” he says.

“I met Andy and Tom at the Plaza and drank champagne. They didn’t. I did. Then we went to the fireworks.”

“Sally at the Plaza ?” He laughs. “What were they doing in town?”

“Tom was there on business. Andy came to see the fireworks.”

“It rained, didn’t it?”

“Only a little. It was O.K. They were pretty.”

“The fireworks,” Bobby says. “I didn’t make the fireworks.”

“You’re going to miss lunch, Bobby,” I say.

“God,” he says. “I am. Bye.”

I pull a record out from under the big library table, where they’re kept on the wide maghogany board that connects the legs. By coincidence, the record I pull out is the Miles Davis Sextet’s Jazz at the Plaza . At the Palm Court on the Fourth of July, a violinist played “Play Gypsies, Dance Gypsies” and “Oklahoma!” I try to remember what else and can’t.

“What do you say, Hugo?” I say to the dog. “Another piece of cheese, or would you rather go on with your siesta?”

He knows the word “cheese.” He knows it as well as his name. I love the way his eyes light up and he perks his ears for certain words. Bobby tells me that you can speak gibberish to people, ninety per cent of the people, as long as you throw in a little catchword now and then, and it’s the same when I talk to Hugo: “Cheese.” “Tag.” “Out.”

No reaction. Hugo is lying where he always does, on his right side, near the stereo. His nose is only a fraction of an inch away from the plant in a basket beneath the window. The branches of the plant sweep the floor. He seems very still.

“Cheese?” I whisper. “Hugo?” It is as loud as I can speak.

No reaction. I start to take a step closer, but stop myself. I put down the record and stare at him. Nothing changes. I walk out into the back yard. The sun is shining directly down from overhead, striking the dark-blue doors of the garage, washing out the color to the palest tint of blue. The peach tree by the garage, with one dead branch. The wind chimes tinkling in the peach tree. A bird hopping by the iris underneath the tree. Mosquitoes or gnats, a puff of them in the air, clustered in front of me. I sink down into the grass. I pick a blade, split it slowly with my fingernail. I count the times I breathe in and out. When I open my eyes, the sun is shining hard on the blue doors.

After a while — maybe ten minutes, maybe twenty — a truck pulls into the driveway. The man who usually delivers packages to the house hops out of the United Parcel truck. He is a nice man, about twenty-five, with long hair tucked behind his ears, and kind eyes.

Hugo did not bark when the truck pulled into the drive.

“Hi,” he says. “What a beautiful day. Here you go.”

He holds out a clipboard and a pen.

“Forty-two,” he says, pointing to the tiny numbered block in which I am to sign my name. A mailing envelope is under his arm.

“Another book,” he says. He hands me the package.

I reach up for it. There is a blue label with my name and address typed on it.

He locks his hands behind his back and raises his arms, bowing. “Did you notice that?” he says, straightening out of the yoga stretch, pointing to the envelope. “What’s the joke?” he says.

The return address says “John F. Kennedy.”

“Oh,” I say. “A friend in publishing.” I look up at him. I realize that that hasn’t explained it. “We were talking on the phone last week. He was — People are still talking about where they were when he was shot, and I’ve known my friend for almost ten years and we’d never talked about it before.”

The UPS man is wiping sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. He stuffs the handkerchief into his pocket.

“He wasn’t making fun,” I say. “He admired Kennedy.”

The UPS man crouches, runs his fingers across the grass. He looks in the direction of the garage. He looks at me. “Are you all right?” he says.

“Well—” I say.

He is still watching me.

“Well,” I say, trying to catch my breath. “Let’s see what this is.”

I pull up the flap, being careful not to get cut by the staples. A large paperback called If Mountains Die . Color photographs. The sky above the Pueblo River gorge in the book is very blue. I show the UPS man.

“Were you all right when I pulled in?” he says. “You were sitting sort of funny.”

I still am. I realize that my arms are crossed over my chest and I am leaning forward. I uncross my arms and lean back on my elbows. “Fine,” I say. “Thank you.”

Another car pulls into the driveway, comes around the truck, and stops on the lawn. Ray’s car. Ray gets out, smiles, leans back in through the open window to turn off the tape that’s still playing. Ray is my best friend. Also my husband’s best friend.

“What are you doing here?” I say to Ray.

“Hi,” the UPS man says to Ray. “I’ve got to get going. Well.” He looks at me. “See you,” he says.

“See you,” I say. “Thanks.”

“What am I doing here?” Ray says. He taps his watch. “Lunchtime. I’m on a business lunch. Big deal. Important negotiations. Want to drive down to the Redding Market and buy a couple of sandwiches, or have you already eaten?”

“You drove all the way out here for lunch?”

“Big business lunch. Difficult client. Takes time to bring some clients around. Coaxing. Takes hours.” Ray shrugs.

“Don’t they care?”

Ray sticks out his tongue and makes a noise, sits beside me and puts his arm around my shoulder and shakes me lightly toward him and away from him a couple of times. “Look at that sunshine,” he says. “Finally. I thought the rain would never stop.” He hugs my shoulder and takes his arm away. “It depresses me, too,” he says. “I don’t like what I sound like when I keep saying that nobody cares.” Ray sighs. He reaches for a cigarette. “Nobody cares,” he says. “Two-hour lunch. Four. Five.”

We sit silently. He picks up the book, leafs through. “Pretty,” he says. “You eat already?”

I look behind me at the screen door. Hugo is not here. No sound, either, when the car came up the driveway and the truck left.

“Yes,” I say. “But there’s some cheese in the house. All the usual things. Or you could go to the market.”

“Maybe I will,” he says. “Want anything?”

“Ray,” I say, reaching my hand up. “Don’t go to the market.”

“What?” he says. He sits on his heels and takes my hand. He looks into my face.

“Why don’t you — There’s cheese in the house,” I say.

He looks puzzled. Then he sees the stack of mail on the grass underneath our hands. “Oh,” he says. “Letter from John.” He picks it up, sees that it hasn’t been opened. “O.K.,” he says. “Then I’m perplexed again. Just that he wrote you? That he’s already in Berkeley? Well, he had a bad winter. We all had a bad winter. It’s going to be all right. He hasn’t called? You don’t know if he hooked up with that band?”

I shake my head no.

“I tried to call you yesterday,” he says. “You weren’t home.”

“I went into New York.”

“And?”

“I went out for drinks with some friends. We went to the fireworks.”

“So did I,” Ray says. “Where were you?”

“Seventy-sixth Street.”

“I was at Ninety-eighth. I knew it was crazy to think I might run into you at the fireworks.” A cardinal flies into the peach tree.