Ann Beattie - Another You

“Everybody’s so rude,” Evie said. “It would be funny if everybody wasn’t already so rude.”

“Nobody’s rude to you here, are they, Evie?”

“Marshall,” Evie said. “He could visit more often.” She bit into a cookie. “I wonder what it was about the Pope and Frank Perdue,” she said. “Remember that joke the nurse told me? ‘He doesn’t write, he doesn’t call.’ ”

Sonja did remember the joke — it involved a woman raped by a gorilla, bemoaning the fact that afterward, “He never writes, he never calls”—but she wasn’t much in the mood for jokes. She had talked to Tony just before she left the house that morning, about a house sale that was slipping away, and interspersed with that morning’s sexual fantasies, he had communicated his own anxiety about relaying bad news by telling one inappropriate joke after another. And Evie — what must the world seem like to Evie, now that nothing was taboo and there were so many jokes, told by everyone from the nurses to the cleaning crew? She felt stuffy — stuffier than Evie, by far. She was also sorry that Marshall did not pay more attention to his stepmother, though if anyone could understand his habitual preoccupation, it would be Evie. The week before, when Sonja visited, Evie had quizzed her about Marshall. Did he help her with housework? She had taught him how to make a bed, how to iron, how to bake. Did he do any of those things to help out? “You know Marshall,” Sonja had said. “He’s very distractible.” “Well, are the beds even half-made, then?” Evie had wanted to know. Some part of Sonja took secret delight in Evie’s high estimation of her. If she had answered honestly, she would have said she’d stopped making the bed herself. Not only that, but she’d been cavorting in beds in motel rooms with Tony. On the last visit, she had given Evie the impression that the affair was winding down, though that was untrue. She had misled her, hedging her bets: she’d confessed in order to be forgiven, though in case Evie didn’t seem inclined that way, she’d tried to deemphasize the importance of the affair, hoping that would also result in her feeling less pain if Evie did censure her.

“It was quiet here last night,” Evie said. She spoke suddenly, as if she had just realized something. “No one was complaining, and I didn’t hear one dinner plate dropped on the floor, and the television was broken, which almost gave Mr. Goldman Saint Vitus’ dance, so they played music for us. One of the aides went out to her car and brought in Frank Sinatra music. There’s a record — a tape, I guess I should say — of him singing duets with new singers” (it came out “pinging duets with new pingers”), “and you know, it was still nice to listen to him, but of course he’d lost that beautiful voice. The way he once sang ‘This Love of Mine.’ ” She smiled apologetically at Sonja. “I never had a crush on him the way most people did. I was just thinking that when he was young, he could sing and seem to make the world go quiet. I think people in the nightclubs did settle down. They paid attention even when he was singing an up-tempo song. They couldn’t help but listen, the way you can’t think of anything else if there’s a bee behind your head.” “Bee” came out “tree,” and it was only when Evie made a spiralling motion with her finger that Sonja understood what she was pantomiming. “And if I was like some of the others here, I’d take the occasion to talk about the beautiful gardens I used to have, and to tell you about all the bees that would come for the purple flowers on the oregano plants, but that drives me crazy: they say one word, like ‘bee,’ and they’re off and running about every time they ever saw a bee and how funny and meaningful and important it was, like you’d never seen one yourself. I could get bothered by it, but I don’t.” She shrugged. “I am bothered by it. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to tell you about every other time in my life when I was bothered.” Evie fidgeted with the ring on her finger. “And another thing they do is make complete non sequiturs,” she said, “so maybe I’ll take a hint from them there. I wanted to ask you to unwrap some more of that Yardley soap you brought last time. At my age, I’m not going to wash with little shards of soap anymore. It’s not like we’re still back in the days when all of America was told to ‘Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.’ Of course, they tell you whatever they want to tell you. Look at the so-called gas crisis, not so many years back.”

Sonja could not be in Evie’s room long without feeling trapped, and Evie knew it, so she asked her to do things for her: straighten the clothes on the hangers; unwrap new soap. When Sonja finished, it was always her cue to leave — Evie expected it and acted as grateful as if she’d served her all morning.

Downstairs, though she had forgotten to sign in, Sonja signed out. Meal trays were being wheeled onto the elevators for the patients who ate in their rooms instead of going to the common room. The sausage woman was standing by the elevators, joking with one of the men pushing the carts. She waved to Sonja to acknowledge her leaving, but did not return to the desk. Her task was left unfinished at the computer; fish swam across the screen as the machine awaited her return. The smell of gardenia was strong in the air, an oppressive smell of near-cloying sweetness that stuck in her nose as she stood in front of the automatic door and emerged into the suddenly much colder day, the sun having disappeared behind clouds, the snow as discolored as candle wax rubbed between dirty fingers.

As she started the car and backed out, she had a sudden memory of the children circling. She heard again the chanted poem and wondered whether it would have amused or dismayed Marshall — Marshall with his love of Yeats and Pound and Shakespeare’s sonnets. Though she did not always know his thoughts, she usually knew which issues he was thinking about, and, after so many years, she could formulate arguments for or against, which — to tell the truth — she often invoked not as a matter of principle but to get a discussion going. As winter wore on, Marshall went into his own form of hibernation. He could become as silent as drifted snow.

Martine, dear:

A quick note to ask that you do me a couple of favors. I enclose E. Bedell’s business card and wish you would call and say it would be better for him to visit in late June, when some fellow is coming from Yale to fund-raise, so by joining our forces we might escape paying through the nose. He will already know what this is all about. I believe he will be in Stonington, but someone should answer at any of the numbers .

Also, the owner of Heatherfields has told me there is a slight possibility of getting some trees planted before the summer is over — you would think they’d try harder to please in this bad economy, but they’re as vague as ever. The other favor is that Alice has taken quite a dislike to Mr. Perry’s painting in our bedroom, and though it hurts me to part with it, I think if it could be taken down for the present and put in another room, that would make her happier. I try to walk the line about what is an indulgence of Alice and what is simply common courtesy. I suspect I am overreacting to her overreaction, but if you would put it in my study — just lean it against the wall, I mean — I’d appreciate that .

Alice firmly refuses to phone Dr. St. Vance, whom she formerly thought quite brilliant and helpful, and I am wondering if I would be asking too much to put you up to calling his office and letting him know she will soon be returning to Maine. He is so tactful, he may wish to phone to welcome her, or something like that, and I feel sure that when she hears his voice her resolve will change. If this is an imposition, do nothing and I will try to handle it when I arrive. I suppose this is going behind Alice’s back, but she still seems very sad to me, quite irrespective of circumstance, and I know that previously you shared my belief that … oh, I am lecturing you, and twisting your arm besides. Do what you think best .