Ann Beattie - Another You

THERE SHE WAS, swaddled like an oversized infant in her white parka with its pointed hood pulled tight by a drawstring, turning at intervals to face oncoming traffic, extending her hand and pointing her thumb. Marshall went by so fast, and was so preoccupied — how many times do they play Marianne Faithfull singing “As Tears Go By” on the radio these days? — that he flinched as he sprayed her with dirty snow and kept going, hardly registering her presence. As the receding baby’s bunting blip came into focus in his rearview mirror, Cheryl Lanier transformed into a real person. Marshall moved his foot slowly onto the brake, his eyes flicking up to the rearview at the same instant to make sure the car behind him wasn’t going to ram his car. He touched the pedal, eased up, tapped again until the flashing lights caught the other driver’s attention. The driver of the other car, frustrated that he could no longer tailgate, swerved to pass on the right, racing the motor and sending a heavy spray of slush onto the windshield as Marshall squinted to see, pulling off onto the shoulder.

Though there had been no near accident, so much had happened in a few seconds that as Cheryl Lanier ran up to the car, he had not yet recovered enough composure to greet her in the mocking mode he generally used with the young. “Cheryl,” he said simply, as she threw open the passenger door. “Omigod,” she said. “It’s you.” Her long black scarf trailed to her knee on one side; the other end formed a small epaulet of fringe that dangled from her left shoulder. As she thumped down into the passenger seat, the scarf slid to the floor. They almost bumped heads as they leaned forward to snatch it up. But too late: it was soaked from the puddle her boots made as she stepped into the car.

He fingered his own long maroon wool scarf from England, which had been his sister-in-law Beth’s birthday gift to him. As if it were a laurel, he removed his scarf and draped it around her neck. He winced, looking at her red cheeks that had chapped to the texture of an emery board, while her eyes brimmed with tears from the wind. “Smiling faces I can see,” Marianne Faithfull sang. But not for me , he sang in unison, silently, to himself. Was that the way it should be? Should he let his restless impulse coast to a stop as his car had? Should he keep the needle unwavering at 40 m.p.h., be as upstanding as the needle until he dropped her where she was going, then continue off into the darkening afternoon, the wheels tracing the familiar back roads to his house as if they had a life of their own?

She was fingering the scarf, saying she couldn’t possibly accept it; his voice overlaid Marianne Faithfull’s soft, uninfected singing: she must take it; it was already hers. Hearing the flatness of his own tone meld into Marianne Faithfull’s haunted voice — she, a former heroin addict, a lover in her golden-haired youth of the now fifty-year-old Mick Jagger — brought him down. When Cheryl Lanier said, “Who’s that?” it snapped him out of his reverie. My God: he was on his way home from an English department meeting, driving his car along a slick winter road in a place he never intended to live, this damp, pretty young girl seated at his side, and she had just asked who Marianne Faithfull was. It was like not knowing Nixon had a dog named Checkers. Though she was probably born the year Nixon resigned. Nixon, Mick Jagger, the resignation, the Stones’ almost annual comeback tours, the “elder statesman,” Jumpin’ Jack Flash boogeying back to the mike. What a world it was. What a world, in which people got recycled — or conveniently recycled themselves — long before it became politically correct to recycle newspapers and glass bottles.

Cheryl Lanier was still in a dither about accepting his scarf. He heard the words Woolite and too expensive before his thoughts drowned out the rest of her protests. What do you think, Cheryl? Elvis Presley, shaking the hand of Tricky Dick Nixon, and not a Republican cloth coat in sight: just two guys in suits, big smiles, shaking hands for the camera in front of a row of limp flags, Nixon having deputized the Pelvis as an official agent in the war against drugs. This, shortly before Elvis died in the bathroom, after having ingested so many drugs a cough from him could have derailed the Montrealer. Either Tweedledum or Tweedledee had doubts about the administration being made the butt of a grotesque joke and advised against granting Elvis this power, or at least against the photo op — but the moment happened anyway, like so many moments, it happened anyway, and afterward Tricky no doubt sauntered upstairs, sat by the fire, which he ordered lit even in the middle of summer, tossed down a few scotches, then went around and told the gentlemen painted in the portraits on the walls what he thought of them. Think about it: Can you imagine Margaret Thatcher weaving down the corridors of Number 10 Downing, giving Gladstone and Disraeli the what for? Mitterrand posing rhetorical questions late at night to an oil painting of le Roi Soleil? But in our country we have a bunch of clowns; the circus continues, the band strikes up the music, the balloons rise toward the ceiling from the convention floor. Later, Ford will walk into walls and Reagan will fall off his horse: clowns. Kissinger, court jester, is ordered down to his knees in prayer and plops down at Nixon’s side, while up in heaven J.F.K. jumps from one cloud to the next, as if they’re so many rooftops under which his sleeping lovers lie .

She said she would be glad to have a cup of coffee with him. She looked at him, her hood thrown back, his scarf around her neck. She had been telling him about her roommate’s drinking. Wasn’t it her roommate she was talking about? His thoughts had drifted; the best he could do was to paraphrase what he thought she’d said.

“You think now that when she’s been on crying jags, your roommate has been drunk?” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “But the thing is, she went to see somebody about what happened, and the counsellor told her to forget it. She wouldn’t really listen to her, she just told her to forget it. Livan wasn’t drinking before that — or not that Timothy and I knew about. And the thing is, what happened was pretty awful. I can’t tell you what, but trust me. I feel like calling that woman, the counsellor, and asking her if she has any idea what harm she’s caused, though I don’t suppose she’s going to take the call, number one, and if she did, why would she admit she was incompetent?”

The white bag she had produced from her coat pocket was from the pharmacy: Valium, prescribed for another girl Cheryl knew but destined for Livan. This was why she was out at dusk, hitching in the direction of home, having spent most of her month’s food allowance filling the prescription. He had said that instead of coffee, they should have dinner. It was so early, he could eat something with Cheryl at the tavern he sometimes stopped at — a place frequented by farmers and other locals, rednecks, unemployed kids, very few people from Benson College ever went there — and still go home and pick at dinner with Sonja. As he drove, the sky darkened to steely gray. The moon already shone, a half parenthesis. For a certain period in his life, his brother, Gordon, had taken Valium, and this much he remembered: you weren’t supposed to take Valium and drink. If her roommate was drinking, it was not a good idea to give her the pills — and, if she was as distraught as Cheryl said, it wouldn’t be a good idea to provide her with the pill bottle. He cautioned Cheryl as he drove. Eyes wide, she looked at him. He was causing her to doubt her solution. Her expensive, magic solution.