by Anne Tyler
“And then they announced how the Future Homemakers were going to have a supper at the Parnells’ Restaurant out by the college and we could ask dates, and I asked you, although I was shaking so hard I had to lean against the wall while I was talking to you. When you said yes I got all happy, but then when it came time to go I was terrified and wished I’d never asked you. I was afraid I’d vomit at the dinner table. And I didn’t know what to order. I could order spaghetti and get a big, long, endless strand of it and have to keep sucking it up from the plate just indefinitely. Or pizza, and misjudge how soon it had cooled, the way I always did, and take a hot bite and have to spit it out. Or chicken, and have it slide from under my knife and fork right across the table into somebody else’s plate, like it had done once before.”
“What did you order?” Ben Joe asked sleepily.
“A roast-beef sandwich. Only the meat was tough, and when I took a bite the whole slab of beef came out of the sandwich and hung from my teeth.”
She was quiet a minute. Ben Joe stirred again, sitting up straighter so that his face was level with Shelley’s.
“I love you, Ben Joe,” she said.
This time when he kissed her her mouth was softer, with that first stickiness of her lipstick gone, and he didn’t care whether there was a crick in his neck or not now. He wanted to say he loved her back, but he couldn’t because her mouth was in the way, and then when she drew back to nestle down next to his shoulder, he felt too warm and comfortable to say anything at all. He just sat still, letting her nuzzle a little place for her face between his neck and his shoulder. It was only when he knew that they were about to fall asleep that he spoke again, and then in the softest whisper, as if her family was still alive and gently watchful in other parts of the house.
“Shelley.”
“What?”
“I better go home.”
“It’s early still.”
“I know, but anyway.”
“Well, all right.”
They both stood up, Shelley patting her hair down as she rose. The minute Ben Joe was up he was awake again and felt almost sorry that he had mentioned going home. But he took the coat when she handed it to him and kissed the top of her head and said, “When can I come back?”
“Tuesday. You going to?”
“Yes.”
She pulled the door open and a blast of cold air came in, taking both their breaths away.
“You hurry, now,” she said. “You’re going to freeze, Ben Joe!”
“Good night,” he said.
“Night.”
Then the door closed behind him, and all he could hear was the shrieking of the wind.
10
Outside it was sheer blackness, rolling in around him with the wind. He walked down Shelley’s steps slowly, pausing when he reached the street to button up the collar of his coat. But walking was too quiet; he wanted to run. And if no one had been within earshot he would have started singing, too, or laughing at nothing, because he felt happy and easy. But it was the hour just before bedtime, when everyone had something to do outdoors—walk the dog, or set out the milk bottles, or simply take a breath of fresh air in the yard before they shut themselves up in their houses for the night. So he ran silently; he doubled up his fists and tore down the sidewalk with the leaves rattling behind him and people occasionally pausing on their porches to turn and watch him run.
Someone came down a front walk and set a cat down outside the gate. It was a small cat of some nameless color, with its sling-eyes glowing, and when its owner turned to go inside, the cat hunched sullenly on the sidewalk as if it resented being put out for the night. It stared unblinkingly at Ben Joe. Ben Joe stooped down to pat it.
“There, there, cat,” he said. His hand reached out for the cat almost blindly, aiming only for a blurred patch of darkness against the lighter background of the sidewalk. When he felt the cat’s head under his hand he stroked it gently. “I’ll take care of you,” he said.
The cat was used to people; it began purring instantly and pressing its little head against Ben Joe’s hand. Ben Joe picked it up and began walking again, hugging the cat next to his chest to keep it warm. He was afraid to run, for fear the cat would become frightened, but he was tired, anyway, and contented himself with walking fast.
Some of the houses were already dark; most of them still had soft yellow lights in the windows. He could see people moving around upstairs, pulling down shades or simply walking about their rooms in bathrobes. In one house a woman stood brushing her hair, and Ben Joe stopped to watch the dreamlike rhythm of it. Then the little cat stirred restlessly, and Ben Joe went on. The sky above the lights of the houses was a deep blue-black, but when he stepped out into the street and kept his eyes away from the lights it was pale and glowing, and stretched almost white behind the black skeletons of trees. He was almost running again, and the cat began mewing softly and squirming in his arms.
“Now, don’t you worry, cat,” Ben Joe said. “No call to worry.”
He laughed, for no reason he could name. Laughing made his teeth cold. He closed his mouth and his teeth felt cold and dry against the inside of his lips.
“That you, Ben Joe?” someone called.
He turned; a dark figure was standing on the sidewalk.
“It’s me,” he said. “Who’s that?”
“Jenny.”
“Oh. What you doing out?”
“Nothing.” She stepped off the sidewalk and walked over to him. “I went to bed early and just got myself all wound up in the bed sheets,” she said. “Thought I’d have a walk and hot milk and then try going to bed all over again. What’s that you got?”
“A cat. There’s something I meant to talk to you about.”
“Where’d you get him?” She bent forward to see the cat, and then touched it. All he could see of her was a pale face and the dark hollows where her eyes were. “Doesn’t like being carried,” she said.
“I’m keeping it warm. I wanted to ask you—”
“It doesn’t want to be kept warm.”
“It does too. Jenny, there’s a sort of money matter I’d like to—”
“You better put it down, Ben Joe.”
“He likes me, I tell you.”
“Got his own little overcoat sewn right on him, doesn’t he? What’s he want to be kept warm for? No, when they squirm like that, Ben Joe …”
He gave in, knowing she was right, and bent to let the cat hop and run away.
“It’s much happier now,” she said.
“Jenny!”
“Well, I’m listening.”
He smiled suddenly, without knowing why. “Oh, never mind,” he said. “Oh, what the hell, what the hell …”
“Well, good night, Ben Joe.”
“Night.”
He was off again, tearing along the cracked pavement and leaving Jenny far behind. He swung three times around the tree on his corner, the way he had always done for good luck when he was small. Then he clattered through the wire gate and up the walk to the porch. The bark from the tree had left his palm gritty: he rubbed his hand against the side of his coat as he climbed the steps. At the front door, dark now with only the softest yellow light glimmering through the round stained-glass window, he bumped smack into a girl and boy.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” he said, and found himself smiling again. “I didn’t see you. Funny house this is—they just never think of leaving the light on for you. They forget all about you, the minute you—”
He opened the screen door with a flourish, almost bumping into the couple, and with his hand on the knob of the inside door he turned back again.
“Excuse me,” he said.
John Horner and Joanne were looking at him, their faces serious and lit very dimly by the pale-yellow light. Joanne’s hand was clasped in John’s, against John’s chest, but it was forgotten now as they both stared at him.
<
br /> “Quite all right,” said John Horner.
The heat inside the house burned Ben Joe’s cold face. As soon as he had slammed the door behind him he ripped off his overcoat and threw it on a chair in the hallway and began undoing his collar as he climbed the stairs.
“That you, Ben Joe?” his mother called.
“Yup.”
“Come on into the living room and say hello, why don’t you?”
“I can’t,” Ben Joe said.
He stopped on the stairs, hearing his mother’s footsteps in the hallway, and turned to look down at her.
“Why can’t you?” she said.
“I just can’t. I just can’t. I can’t be bothered with that right now.”
“You can’t be—”
He climbed the rest of the stairs at a steady, slow pace. His tie trailed by one hand. It wasn’t until he was in the upstairs hallway that he let the actual picture of the couple on the porch come back to him, and then all he did was stop and stare tiredly at the wallpaper. After a minute he turned and started doggedly down the hall toward his room.
11
“Ben Joe,” Gram said, “a promise is a promise. If you didn’t want to see Jamie Dower you shouldn’t have told me he was here.”
Ben Joe pushed a rubbery piece of scrambled egg around his plate.
“You hear me, Ben Joe?”
“Yes’m.”
“Well, you going to take me there or aren’t you?”
“All I’m doing is being honest about it,” he said. “I just honestly don’t feel like going to the home, Gram. Never have liked going. That time I went to see Mrs. Gray with you I couldn’t get it out of my mind again.”
His grandmother poured him a second cup of coffee and then slammed the pot back on the stove. “Liking’s got nothing to do with it,” she said. “What’s the matter with it, anyway? No, I don’t enjoy thinking of my friends in an old folks’ home, but this I will say: homes are a lot more cheerful nowadays. They don’t depress the tar out of you.”
“I don’t care if they depress me. I just get confused in homes. I walk out of there all confused and I never can tell what time it is.”
“What difference is the time of day? What difference does it make?”
“Well, the time of day doesn’t make any difference, Gram. That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“You.” She flounced into the chair opposite him and began pulling out her three bobby pins. “Now, it’s got to be this morning that we go, Ben Joe, because I got to take Tessie to her drawing lesson this afternoon. Your mother’s too busy. Busy.” She jabbed one of the bobby pins back in.
“What you need me along for? To go to the home, I mean. What good’ll I do? You tell me a good reason, I’ll be glad to come.”
“I just want someone with me. Besides.”
“What.”
“Besides, I want you to remember how I tagged around after Jamie Dower when I was little. Then you’ll see how it might seem a little forward for me to be going there alone today.”
“I don’t see why,” Ben Joe said. “You’re seventy-eight years old now, Gram.”
“That’s not too old to do things ladylike.”
“All right, I’ll go.” He knew it was no use arguing; he shrugged resignedly and speared another piece of egg.
“You promise?”
“I promise. Give me a minute to finish my breakfast.”
“Well, do you think I look all right?”
He looked at her carefully for the first time that morning. She was wearing a huge black turtle-neck sweater, knitted in haste, and a wrap-around denim skirt, and on her feet were the usual black gym shoes. But there were a few small changes that he hadn’t noticed: her face looked feverish with its dabs of rouge and the careful line of orange lipstick that ordinarily she never wore; and next to the worn little wedding band on her finger was a huge diamond engagement ring that was used only for church-going.
“You look fine,” he said.
“I bet he won’t recognize me.”
“I bet he won’t.”
“Last time he saw me I was a little roly-poly fat girl with lollypop juice down my front. I bet he won’t know what name to call me by, even.”
“No, I bet he won’t.”
“Come on, Ben Joe.”
He gulped down the last of his coffee and stood up. “Where are the keys?” he asked.
“On the wall, where they belong. Put your dishes in the sink, now. Jenny was raising the roosters about how you don’t do your share of picking up around here.”
“Oh, pick up, pick up.” He stacked the dishes helter-skelter in the sink and then knelt to tie his shoe. “Joanne never picks up. I had to scrape pablum off the damn toaster this morning.”
“That was Jane that fed Carol. Joanne’s still in bed.”
“No wonder,” he said.
“No wonder what?”
“No wonder she’s still in bed. Get your coat, Gram.”
“I’ve got it right here.” She picked up one of his father’s old lab coats from the back of a chair and began putting it on. It came down almost to the top of her gym shoes, but she looked at it proudly and stuck her hands in the pockets.
“You going to be warm enough in that?” he asked.
“Course I am.”
“Well, it’s your lookout.”
He followed her across the living room, which was still cluttered with all the things the family had been doing the night before. His heel crushed something; it was the flatiron from the Monopoly set. He scraped it off his shoe and kept going.
Outside it was bright and still. The wind was gone but it was still cold, and in shady places there was something that was either very heavy frost or light patches of snow. He turned on the windshield wipers in the car to get rid of the thin covering of frost.
“Now, I want you to be very polite to Jamie,” his grandmother said.
“Am I ever not polite?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes. Or at least, absent-minded. So you watch it, Ben Joe. Jamie Dower is older even than I am. I used to think maybe someday he’d save my life.”
“How would he do that?”
“Oh you know. Pull me out of the water or something. I’m just saying that to show how much older he is. Old enough to be kind of looked up to and admired, so’s the only way he’d really notice me would be for me to die or something.”
“All right,” Ben Joe said. “I’ll be polite.”
She settled back, satisfied. But when they had pulled out into the street and were drawing closer to the home, the anxious expression came back to her face and she crossed her legs and began picking at the white rubber circle at the ankle of her gym shoes, a sure sign she was worrying.
“Maybe I should’ve brought him something,” she said.
“I thought you were going to.”
“No. No, ordinarily I would, would have brought something to pretty up his room or tempt his appetite. But Jamie never liked that kind of thing. When I was little I would walk to his house every day and bring him my dessert from lunchtime, but he never wanted it.”
“Well, that was nearly seventy years ago. You want to stop at a florist’s?”
“No thank you, Ben Joe.”
She settled back again, still frowning. When they drew up in front of the home, which looked like just a larger sort of yellow brick family house, she remained in her seat and looked at it through the window pane without changing her expression or giving any sign that she was about to go in.
“Would you rather not go?” Ben Joe asked gently. “I could bring you back another time, if you want.”
“No, no. I was just thinking, oughtn’t to ever put brownish curtains in a yellow house. It’s ugly.” She swung her door open and got out, grunting a little as her feet hit the ground. “Don’t know what they could have been thinking of,” she said.
“We’ll get inside where we don’t have to look at it.”
But she kept standing there, looking up at the home.
“You’re going to stay right by me, aren’t you, Benjy?” she asked.
“Course I am.”
“They say,” she said, beginning to walk slowly across the yard, “they say when people get old they take to reading the obituary column to see if their names’re in it. Well, I’m not to that yet, but one thing I have noticed: I do hate going to the home for the aged, for fear I can’t get out again. They might mistake me, you know. When I said I wasn’t a patient, they might think I was just planning to escape.”
Ben Joe took her by the elbow and began walking with her. “I’ll watch out for you,” he said. “Besides, they must have a sort of roll book here. And your name’s not on it. They couldn’t keep you here.”
“Oh, don’t be so reasonable, Ben Joe.” She made an exasperated face and pinched the arm that she was hanging onto. “You’re just like your mother. So reasonable. Just like her.”
“I am not.”
“Well, no, but you surely are an annoyance.”
“If you’re not more polite I’m going to leave you here,” Ben Joe said. “And sneak up and put your name on the roll book just to make sure you stay.” He gave her a small pat on the back.
The front door of the home was huge and heavy. Ben Joe pulled it open and they stepped inside, into suffocating heat and the smell of furniture polish. The flowered brown rug they stood on was deep and made everything seem too quiet; it stretched for what seemed like miles across a huge sort of social room. There were easy chairs arranged next to the walls, and in them sat a few old people talking or playing checkers or staring into space. In the center of the room hung a great tarnished chandelier that Ben Joe could almost have reached on tiptoe. He stared past it at the old people, but his grandmother looked fixedly at the chandelier, never letting her eyes move from it.
“Can I help you?” a nurse said. She had come up soundlessly on her thick-soled shoes, and now she faced them with her arms folded across the cardboard white of her uniform and her face strangely young and cheerful.
