Ann Beattie - The New Yorker Stories

Francis had never heard the term, but he understood. In any case, the egret was a real piece of art.

“Yeah, like things are just nice and casual,” Don said. “An egret happens to be standing around, you know? Could be something else. A crow. Got to mix it up a little bit, so the ducks don’t get suspicious. ‘Hey, look down there, quite a flock of ’em, even an egret wandered in. Let’s go down and see if we can join the party.’ ” Don put his beer and Francis’s on the table. “Bang!” he said loudly.

“That’s the idea,” Jim said.

“How many of these did you make for the man in Texas?” Francis said. He was amazed at the detail. He stared at the black eye, and it seemed to stare back, the way it reflected light.

“Just over a dozen. If he’s a hunter, which I doubt from the way he talked and looked, maybe he’s been having bad luck. That’ll change when he gets this confidence decoy. Might have overdone it just a bit, carving an egret, but what the hey. You know, if you’ve got ’em in fields, most of them will be eating, but then there’s always one at least that acts as a sentry head. You think about all that while you’re working. About how the whole flock’s gotta look.”

“Well, the detail is just incredible. You say you learned this from your grandfather?”

“Learned a couple of things on my own, I guess. Went to some shows, got some ideas.”

“I do the naming,” Don said. “I’ve got a kit. I’m enrolling in a course in special writing at night school, come fall.”

“Calligraphy,” Jim said. “We’re a team.”

“I wonder if you would be offended if someone who didn’t hunt wanted a mallard just as a beautiful piece of handwork to put on his desk?” Francis asked.

Jim shrugged. “All the same to me,” he said.

“May I ask what they cost?”

“Two twenty-five,” Jim said. “Cost of eyes just went through the roof.”

“They’re worth every penny,” Francis said. “They—I’m sure they do the job, but just as something to look at and contemplate . . .” He trailed off. “Would you have time to make one for me?”

“This is what I do,” Jim said. “Sure.”

“Well, may I give you a down payment? That, and of course I wanted to tip you, because the way you drive, you’re sure to get to my house in Connecticut before I do!” Without waiting for a response, he reached into his back pocket. His finger slid through. His wallet was not there. He quickly patted his jacket pocket. Only the cell phone was inside. Then he jerked the chair back and felt shock reddening his face. He almost ran out to see if the wallet was on the ground, but tried to remember that nothing would be gained by being in a rush, by being sloppy. He walked back to the car, sensing both of them conferring silently behind him, searching too. The wallet had been full of cash, because he’d known that he would need to tip them. How would he drive without a license? He would have to notify the bank, American Express, too many places to remember.

“Bad break,” Jim said, holding a can of beer toward Francis. “Worth going back to the house to look? It would be, wouldn’t it?”

“This is hardly your problem,” he said.

“Terrible feeling,” Jim said. “I got my wallet picked at a Sox game in Boston, summer before last. Caused me no end of trouble. You think it might be back at your aunt’s place?”

“It couldn’t be. I mean, it could, but I would have noticed. It was empty up there.”

“Let’s leave the truck here and go in your car,” Jim said. “Maybe it’ll turn up.”

“It’s no use,” Francis said. “I can envision where I was standing, and I know it wasn’t there.”

“You don’t know,” Don persisted. “C’mon, back we go. We’ll impress you with our fast drivin’. ”

It was getting dark. Francis felt terrible, as if he’d lost a friend. He had lost his wallet only once before—left it behind in a hotel room, actually, and it had been returned to him empty. He tried to tell himself that twice in sixty-six years wasn’t so bad, but both times had happened in the past year. He closed his eyes to envision the second-floor room in which he’d been standing. It was something he’d trained himself to do as a lawyer, to reimagine something. Something concrete, not something abstract, like an idea.

“You prayin’ or something?” Jim said and held out his hand for Francis’s keys. Francis shrugged and handed them to him. At least he hadn’t lost his keys.

Jim drove as if they were being chased, taking a shortcut he’d had to avoid with the truck. When they pulled in to the drive and got out, Jim began to pace the lawn, in the last of the waning light, leaving Francis and Don to go inside. Francis began looking through the first floor, feeling utterly defeated. Then he heard someone bolting up the stairs. “We got gold!” Don shouted almost immediately. “Hunt’s off.”

It was unbelievable; what concluded that way, so easily, so well? He couldn’t believe what he heard, and stood with his head turned toward Don’s voice, perplexed, allowing only the slightest tingle of relief to pass through his clenched stomach.

“What’s this? Is this a wallet?” Don said, stepping off the last step into the hallway.

In that second, Francis, who had never been paranoid, realized that the wallet had been missing because Don had taken it. Hidden it somewhere. He had meant to go back later to get it. But then why had he insisted that they all come back there? Why had he produced the wallet so suspiciously soon? Why would Don do such a thing?

“Holy shit!” Jim said, giving Don a quick slap on the back when he and Francis emerged from the house. “He found it! Just like that, he found it! See?”

It was the moment when Francis, too, should have thrown his arms around Don. But he knew Don had taken the wallet. O.K.: maybe it had fallen out of his pocket, but then Don had noticed it on the floor and either pocketed it or put it somewhere where he could get it later. As sure as Francis had an instinct for anything, he knew that the man preening in front of him had both taken, and returned, the wallet. Because he wants to be the big man in his friend’s eyes, Francis thought. His more talented friend, whom he wanted to impress. Don was like those firemen who set fires so they can be heroes when they extinguish them.

“Where exactly did you find it?” Francis asked when they were back in the car, not turning to look at Don.

“On the shelf in the hallway,” Don answered. “Sitting right there.”

Francis searched his mind, but could not remember having gone near that shelf.

Zooming again through the dark back roads, Jim seemed energized. In the back seat, Don fell silent. The silence was deafening, but Francis thought it would be rude to put on the radio when he wasn’t the driver. He would almost certainly not select the sort of music Don and Jim would like. Fidgeting, he took the wallet from his breast pocket and tilted it toward him: it was accordioned-out with money. “I think I should give you the two hundred and twenty-five dollars now, rather than just a deposit. Will that be all right?” he said.

“Hey, I don’t turn down an offer like that,” Jim said.

“But then, separate from that, I want to thank you for working so quickly and getting everything out of there so well—I mean both of you, of course,” he rushed to add. An image of the broken tree limbs sprang into his mind. He blinked. “I’m much older than you two,” he said, “so will you permit me an awkwardness?”

“What’s that?” Jim said.

“I’ve never really known exactly how to tip, when furniture is moved. Never in my life. Is there some—”

“Like you’d tip a whore,” Don said.