by Ann Beattie
He sits in a gray chair by the fireplace and reads; she brings coffee to the table by his chair, and he turns off the light and goes upstairs to bed when she is tired. By unspoken agreement, he has learned to like Roquefort dressing. He pokes the logs in the fireplace because the hot red coals frighten her.
“After I take orals in the spring we’ll go to Greece to celebrate.”
She wants to go to Spain. Couldn’t the beach have been in Spain? No more questions—she should let him sleep. She shakes the thought out of her head.
“No?” he says. “We will. We’ll go to Greece when I finish the orals.”
The leaves of the plant look like worn velvet. The tops are purple, a shiny, fuzzy purple, and the underside is dark green. Suddenly the plant has begun to grow, sending up a narrow shoot not strong enough to support itself, so that it falls forward precariously, has to be staked. They agree it’s strange that a plant should have such a spurt of growth in midwinter. David admires the plant, puts it in a window that gets the morning light and moves it into a side room late in the afternoon. Now when he waters the plant a little plant food is mixed in with the water. David is enthusiastic; he’s started to feed the others to see if they’ll grow. She comes home and finds him stretched by the fireplace, looking through a book about plants. Their plant isn’t pictured, he tells her, but it may be mentioned in the text. She goes into the other room to look at the plant. The shoot appears to be taller. They bought the plant in a food store last winter—not very pretty then. It was in a small cracked pot, wrapped in plastic. They replanted it. In fact, David must have replanted it again.
She puts away the groceries and goes back to the living room. David is still on the rug reading the book. He’s engrossed. The coffee would probably get cold if she brought it. She has to work that night. She goes upstairs to take a nap and sets the alarm. She rests, but can’t fall asleep, listening to the quiet music downstairs. She pushes in the alarm button and goes back to the living room. David is in his chair, reading the book, drinking coffee.
“I spent the most terrible winter in my life in Berlin. I don’t know why, but birds don’t leave Berlin in the winter. They’re big, strong birds. They nest in the public buildings. I think the winter just comes too suddenly in Berlin, no plans can be made. The birds turn gray, like snowbirds. I think snowbirds are gray.”
The old man is looking out the window. He is her patient His daughter and son-in-law are away for a week, and his sister stays with him in the day. She has been hired to stay with him at night. He is not very ill, but old and unsteady.
She drinks tea with him, tired because she didn’t nap.
“I don’t sleep well,” he tells her. “I want to talk all the time. My daughter doesn’t sleep either. In the day we fight, or I worry her, but at night I think she’s glad to have someone to talk to.”
The snowplow is passing the house, slowly, the lights blinking against the newly plowed snowpiles. The lights illuminate a snowman on the next lawn—crudely made, or perhaps it’s just not lit up from the right angle. She remembers her first snowman; her mother broke off the broom handle to give her and helped push the handle through the snowman. Her mother was impetuous, always letting her stay home from school to enjoy the snow, and her father had been surprised when he returned from work to see the broom head on the kitchen table. “Well, we couldn’t get out. How could we go out in the snow to get anything?” her mother had asked her father. The snowplow has passed. Except for the wind, it is very quiet outside. In the room, the man is talking to her. He wants to show her his postcards. She’s surprised; she hadn’t realized she was being spoken to.
“Oh, not that kind of postcard. I’m an old man. Just pretty postcards.”
He has opened a night-table drawer. Inside there is a box of tissues, a comb and brush, an alarm clock. He sits on the side of the bed, his feet not quite touching the floor, reaching into the drawer without looking. He finds what he wants: an envelope. He removes it and carefully pulls out the flap. He lets her look through the postcards. There is a bird’s nest full of cherubs, a picture of a lady elegantly dressed in a high, ruffled collar, curtseying beneath a flowering tree, and one that she looks at longer than the rest: a man in boots and a green jacket, carrying a rifle, is pictured walking down a path through the woods in the moonlight. Stars shine in the sky and illuminate a path in front of him. Tiny silver sparkles still adhere to the postcard. She holds it under the lamp on the night table: the lining of his jacket is silver, the edges of the rocks, a small area of the path. There is a caption: “Joseph Jefferson as Rip Van Winkle.” Beneath the caption is a message, ornately written: “Not yet but soon. Pa.”
“Did your father write the postcard?”
“That’s just one I found in a store long ago. I could make up a romantic story to tell you. I love to talk.”
She waits, expecting the man’s story. He leans back in bed, putting the envelope back in the drawer. His bedroom slippers fall to the floor, and he puts his legs under the covers.
“People get old and they can’t improve things,” he says, “so they lie all the time.”
He waves his hand, dismissing something.
“I trust young people,” he says. “I’d even tell you where my money is: in the dresser drawer, in the back of a poetry book.”
The snowplow has returned, driving up the other side of the street. The lights cast patterns on the wall. He watches the shadows darken the wallpaper.
“I have real stories,” he says, pointing to a photograph album on a table by the chair. “Look through and I can tell you some real stories if you want to know.”
He is ready to sleep. She arranges the quilt at the bottom of the bed and starts to leave.
“The light doesn’t bother me,” he says, waving her toward the chair. “Look through my album. I’m old and cranky. I’m afraid for my pictures to leave the room.”
It’s early afternoon and no one is in the house. There are dishes on the dining-room table, records and record-album covers. There’s a plate, a spoon, two bowls, three coffee cups. How many people have been here? There’s no one to ask. There’s some food on the counter top—things she doesn’t remember buying. An apple pie. She goes into the living room and sits in a chair, looking out the window. More snow is predicted, but now the day is clear and bright, the fields shining in the sun. She goes into the kitchen again to look for the note he hasn’t left. On her way to the bedroom to sleep, she looks out the window and sees David coming up the road, only a sweater and scarf on, holding a stick at his side that the dog is jumping for. On the floor by the chair the plant book is open, and several others, books he’s studying for his exams. The front door is open. The dog runs into the living room, jumps on her.
“You should be asleep. You can’t work at night if you’re not going to sleep in the day.”
“I thought I’d wait for you to come back.”
“You shouldn’t have waited. I could have been anywhere.”
“Where would you go?”
He’s chilled. His knuckles are bright pink, untying the scarf at his throat. He’s putting another log on the fire, pushing the screen back into place.
“How’s the old man?”
“He’s no trouble. Last night I fixed his photograph album for him. Some of the pictures had come loose and I glued them in.”
“You look like you need sleep.”
“Looks like you’ve been working,” she says, pointing to the books by the chair.
“I’ve had trouble concentrating. The snow was so beautiful last night. I took the dog out for long walks in the woods.”
David is stroking the dog, who lies curled by the fire, panting in his sleep.
“Get some rest,” he says, looking at his watch. “I met the people who moved in down the hill and told them I’d help put a sink in. He’s very nice. Katherine and Larry Duane.”
David kisses her on his way out. The dog wakes and wants to go with him, but at the front door h
e’s told to stay. The dog whines when the door closes, then waits a minute longer before going back to the living room to sleep by the fireplace.
“It’s awful. When you get old you expect things to be the same. Sometimes I think the cold air could clear my head. My neighbor is ten years younger than me and he jogs every day, even through snow.”
“I’m leaving now,” his sister says. She puts on a blue coat and a blue velvet cap that ties under the chin. Her hair is white and copper. She has small, dainty hands. She repeats that she’s leaving and pats him on the shoulder, more to make sure he’s listening than out of affection. “There are oranges in the bag on your bureau. Linus Pauling says that a sufficient intake of vitamin C will prevent colds.”
“How would I get a cold? Every day is the same. I don’t go out.”
Her coat is buttoned, her hat tied securely. “That’s like asking where dust comes from,” she says, and disappears down the stairs.
“She’s very good to come every day. I forget to thank her. I take it for granted. Fifteen years makes so much difference. She’s able to do so much more, but her hands hurt her. She does embroidery so they don’t go stiff.”
He is looking through a book of Currier and Ives prints. “I suppose I’ll have to eat her oranges. There’ll be more from Florida when they get back.”
She looks at a picture he holds up for her to see, offers to read him science-fiction stories.
“I don’t think so. My sister read them this morning. I’ve had enough make-believe. No spaceships are coming to Earth today, only snow.”
She looks at her watch to see if it’s time for his medicine. Her watch isn’t there. Did she forget to wear it? He asks for tea, and while the water is boiling in the kitchen she dials David, to see if the watch is on the night table. She hangs up and dials again, but there’s still no answer. She looks out the window and sees that it has already begun to snow. Perhaps she lost the watch on the way in. The clasp was loose—she should have asked David to fix it. She turns off the burner and goes outside, looking quickly up and down the front walk before the snow begins to accumulate. She doesn’t see it. The car? She looks, but it isn’t there. She looks on the front steps and in the entranceway. No. It must be at home. She reheats the water, making tea, and carries the cup and saucer upstairs.
She puts it down quietly on the bureau. He’s fallen asleep. She sits in a chair and watches the snow fall, and in a while she closes her eyes and begins imagining things: mountains, and blue, blue water, all the snow melted into water. This time the name of the country comes to her: Greece. She’s been sent to Greece to find something on the beach, but she just stands there staring at the mountains in the distance, the water washing over her feet. Her feet are cold; she takes them out of the water, backing up onto the sandy beach. She’s lifted her feet from the floor, waking up. She goes to the bureau and gets the tea, even though it’s cold. The snow is falling heavily now. Everything is blanketed in whiteness; it clings to the trees, her car is covered with snow. She must have slept through the night. She hears his sister downstairs, closing the door behind her.
“I take her for granted,” the old man says. “Like snow. Every day I expect more snow.”
The plant is gone. She looks in all the rooms and can’t find it. Her watch is on the bathroom sink, where she put it when she showered. She showers again and washes her hair, blows it dry. The bathroom is steamy; she can’t see her face in the glass.
“David?”
She thought she heard something, but it was only a branch brushing against the bathroom window. She walks naked up to the bedroom and puts on jeans and one of David’s sweaters. She notices that some of the books he’s been studying have been replaced in the bookcase. Now she’s sure she hears him. The dog runs into the house. The front door bangs shut.
“Hi,” she calls.
“Hi.” David is climbing the steps. “I’m not used to you working for a whole week. I never see you.” His cheeks are so cold they sting when he kisses her. “I was down at the Duanes’. They had puppies born this morning.”
“What kind?”
“Collies.”
“Take me to see them,” she says.
“They were going out when I left.”
“We could go later in the afternoon.”
“They’ll think I live there,” he laughs.
“It’s good for you to be out. You’ve been working so hard.”
“I haven’t done any work for a couple of days.”
“Yes you have. I saw pages of notes on the dining-room table.”
“Larry left his notes behind. He brought them down to read me an article he’s working on. He teaches at the university. Botany.”
“Botany?” she says. “Is that what happened to the plant?”
“They liked it so much I gave it to them. It was such a freak thing, to grow that way in the winter.”
She calls early in the morning: 4 A.M. The telephone rings, and there is no answer. The old man can tell that she’s worried when he awakens.
“I tried to get my husband last night but there was no answer.”
“Men are heavy sleepers.”
“No,” she says. “He’d wake up.”
“All men are heavy sleepers. I can sleep when people are talking—I don’t even hear the children talking on their way to school any more. I can sleep with the light on.”
“I think school was canceled,” she says, looking out the window.
It has snowed all night. It’s still snowing.
“Call my sister and tell her not to come,” he says. “If anything happens I can call.”
She picks up the phone in the upstairs hallway and gives his sister the message, but the old lady is coming anyway. She has boots and an umbrella, and she’s coming. He shakes his head.
“It’s terrible to be old. You have no power.”
He gets out of bed and opens a bureau drawer.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m putting on my things to go for a walk in the snow.”
“You should stay inside. It’s too cold today.”
“I don’t feel the cold any more. I can go out.”
“Have breakfast first,” she says.
“No. I want to go out before she comes.”
She leaves the room while he dresses. He takes a long time. Maybe his sister will come early, before they go out. No. He opens the door and walks out without his cane, wearing a sweater and a silk scarf tucked into the neck.
“My jacket is in the hall closet,” he says. “I need the air.”
She helps him down the stairs. He doesn’t weigh much. She asks if he’ll take his cane, but he wants her arm instead. She gets his jacket and holds it for him to put on. She takes her own jacket out of the closet and zips it.
It’s bright outside. They both stop, momentarily blinded by the glare. The snow is wet and deep.
“Just down the walk,” she says.
“Yes. All right.”
Children, off from school, are playing in the yards. Someone has already built a snowman. He likes it, wants a closer look. They go down the walk to the sidewalk. The children next door call hello. A little boy comes over to tell the old man about the snowman he’s built. On another lawn some children are building a fort. Two little girls in snowsuits are carrying snow to the fort in buckets. She sees a big boy push a small boy into a snowbank. It’s just fun. It’s not just fun—he’s kicking snow on him, kicking the little boy.
“Wait!” she says.
The big boy kicks snow in her face and runs. She pulls the younger boy out of the snow, brushing it out of his hair.
“What happened?” she asks him. He’s crying, brushing himself and pointing to the boy who ran away at the same time. Now another boy is screaming. She turns and sees that the old man has slipped in the snow. She runs back. He’s red in the face, but he’s all right. He bent over to make a snowball and one of the children accidentally ran into him. She reaches down to help him u
p. He’s light, but it’s hard to get a good grip. The pavement is slippery, she’s afraid she might slip. She sends one of the children home to get his mother. But a man walking down the sidewalk has already bent to help the old man up.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to pick you up,” David says. “Your car never would have made it up the hill. I had chains put on.”
They help the old man into the house. In the hallway he brushes snow off his shoulders, embarrassed and angry. He thinks the child knocked him over on purpose. She hangs up his coat and David helps him upstairs. He goes up the stairs more quickly than he came down, talking about the boy who knocked into him. But he’s forgotten about it by the time his sister arrives. He’s telling David about Berlin in the winter, about the birds. He complains about his memory—Berlin must have been beautiful in the spring. When his sister arrives she’s brought fruit for her, too, saying that she’s a nurse, she must know about Dr. Pauling. It’s her last day. The daughter and the husband will be coming home from Florida. But the sister comes every day, even when they’re home—she has an umbrella and high boots. Wait. The old man has something for her: a postcard. He’s giving her the postcard. The stars twinkle brightly in her hand.
The children are still playing when she goes outside with David. The big boy she spoke to earlier hides behind a car and tries to hit them with a snowball, but he misses. David’s mad at her, mad that she took the old man out. He won’t speak.
