by Ann Beattie
“Maybe I can use the Twinkie defense,” he said. “The meds my shrink was giving me made me feel sort of foggy and invincible at the same time, like everything was a big joke, and since I was down the rabbit hole anyway…”
Instead of finishing his sentence, he stood and kissed her.
When everyone was gone—when they’d all gone, including Markson’s tipsy cousin…after Carter came back to see if his wallet had fallen on the bedroom floor (it had)—Mandy turned off the music, drank the dregs of champagne that remained in one bottle, and thumbed a frosting rosebud back into shape before putting the cake in the refrigerator.
McLafferty was leaning against the kitchen door. “My father used to go ballistic if we forgot to cover food,” he said. “He claimed it wasn’t about stuff drying out—he just couldn’t tolerate what he called ‘haste.’ ”
“Am I being criticized?” she said.
“Jesus, no. Don’t mistake me for him. He’s just been on my mind, is all.”
To test this assertion, she opened the refrigerator door and smeared her finger through more icing, licked it, then closed the door. She said, “In our house, it was my mother’s job to make sure we never ran out of anything. He’d look at an empty toilet paper roll like it was the skeleton of something he’d loved. Carry it out and show it to her.”
“How old were you when your mother died?” he said.
“Fifteen,” she said automatically. It was not quite true; she had been fourteen and a half. That summer, when she turned fifteen, she had been sent to summer camp against her wishes, and only Tina’s friendship had gotten her through. Back home, her grandfather had moved in and would be living with them, to help out. She would soon find out that he was not as vigilant as her mother about replacing supplies.
“I guess that was pretty awful,” he said. “It would have to be. You’re an only child, right?”
“You think that made it worse?” she said.
“Well, yeah. I mean, I don’t know about you, but I was always happy my older brother was there to suck up all the attention. I mean, I wouldn’t have wanted my father watching me any closer than he was.”
“What does your brother do?” she said.
“He does the whole nine yards. CEO of a nonprofit in Seattle. Wife. Baby.”
“What’s the baby’s name?”
“Its name? It’s funny you ask, because they haven’t named him. His wife wants an Asian name. He wants him to be called William, for my father.”
All the time they’d talked, she had been thinking that what happened next would probably determine whether or not her life would change. But what was McLafferty doing, endlessly discussing their families?
“You don’t intend to say anything about the kiss?” she said.
“I felt the urge to kiss you.”
“Oh. Like you were a politician and I was somebody’s baby?” He snorted.
“Or you were Mr. Magoo and I was a fishbowl?”
He looked at her.
She took a deep breath, tried again. “I guess if I was the shrink on The Sopranos I’d ask, ‘How did that make you feel?’ ” she said.
He said, “If I was Tony Soprano, I would have kissed you last season.”
Once out of the bathroom, he went to the coatrack and took down her coat, pulled on his own crumpled coat, and said, “Walk?”
She pulled his scarf from the pocket, draped it around her neck without asking, and preceded him to the door. In the corridor, she thought about whirling around and forcing him to kiss her again, but she questioned why she’d do that. They took the elevator, which smelled like Tide and popcorn. They went through the lobby, and he held the door for her. They walked to the end of the block. She saw, he probably also saw, two rats diving into a trash can.
“If I’m lucky, I’ll have another job by the time my old man gets back from Germany,” he said.
They walked in silence. A cab slowed, but sped up when neither of them broke stride.
“Another effect of the wonder drug is that I can’t get it up,” he said. “I would guess you might already have heard that from Genine.”
McLafferty and Genine? She hadn’t had a clue. She said, “I wouldn’t overreact. It’s not The Sun Also Rises, you know. All you have to do is get the doctor to switch your meds.”
He looked at her. “Listen,” he said. “It’ll probably sound like I’m making this up now, but I’d thought about calling you a couple of times to see if you wanted to do something, but I don’t seem to have done that.”
She had never been as happy to see anything as she was to see the lobby of the Algonquin, on Forty-fourth, when he suggested a drink and they stepped in out of the wind.
“Hurry up,” a bald man in a tuxedo said urgently, as they entered. “Come on, you’ll miss it!”
They were not whomever he thought they were, but McLafferty put his arm around her and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “What are they going to do, throw us out when they realize their mistake?” he said, steering her forward. The White Rabbit, who happened to be a human being wearing a tux, went rushing off, hand raised in the air, calling back, “You’re late.”
At the entrance to a room off the lobby, the man had come screeching to a halt. Mandy looked at him full in the face, giving him every opportunity to realize his mistake, but she could tell that he hardly saw her. They could say, later, that they’d just been following orders, she supposed. She could give the excuse that her father always said was the lamest excuse in the world. They moved forward quickly; she and McLafferty seated themselves at the table the man gestured to. Here was a party-giver who instilled his guests with anxiety; here was someone too determined, too…desperate. It was the worst thing you could be, she’d always thought, because desperation made you transparent.
There were a few people sitting at other tables, where little candles flickered, but the room was almost empty. She’d noticed, with pleasure, that as hurried as they were, McLafferty had remembered to pull out her chair.
A pianist in a particularly elegant tuxedo smiled briefly in their direction. He sat just outside the spotlight illuminating the singer, who was seated and ready to begin: a woman in a shimmery blue-green gown, one leg crossed over the other. She wore shoes a million times more beautiful than the ones Mandy had splurged on. The slim, gold-tipped heels must have been four inches high and accentuated her delicate ankles. Because her head was bowed, it was difficult to see the woman’s face, but when she did look up, Mandy was startled to see such an open, benevolent visage. Her voice was a clear soprano, and when eventually she reached the high notes, her eyes narrowed and her lips quivered like a choir-boy’s. A pale green gossamer scarf was thrown loosely over one shoulder and moved in a breeze blowing from some invisible source. Only when the woman touched a hair clip did Mandy notice the slight tremor of her hand. Occasionally, one pointed toe moved against the beat. “Two for the Road,” the piano player said quietly to the singer, though she didn’t seem to be taking requests. She only pointed one elegant finger and wagged it playfully, as sure as a high-wire performer taking the first step on invisible wire.
The man who’d gestured to them so desperately sat alone, a pile of coats on the chair next to him. There were two empty champagne glasses on the little tabletop, where the candle had either blown out or been snuffed. The table was cluttered with an empty plate and an ashtray and a vase holding an orchid, as well as a lady’s fur hat and the man’s gray lamb’s-wool hat with earflaps. When Mandy felt McLafferty’s fingers on her shoulder, she’d been so preoccupied taking inventory that she jumped, but he only meant to help. They had come in so quickly that neither of them had removed their coats. After she struggled out of hers, he kept his own coat on, clasping his hands on the tabletop and giving the singer his full attention. When she concluded, there was a polite ripple of applause. The woman nodded without looking at anyone, then had a moment of silence to compose herself before beginning another song. Mandy felt a little as if she were spying, b
ecause the setting and the low lights were so intimate.
McLafferty had turned so she could see him in profile. She saw a little pulse beating below his jaw and kept her eyes on it as the singer began the next song. At some point, Mandy leaned just slightly forward and realized that he was looking not at the singer, but at the bald man. “Cassandra Stevens,” the man said, timing his words so they came only half a second after the singer’s long-held last note vanished, his voice filled with adoration.
Then everything changed. It was as abrupt as a knock on a door. Mandy was jostled as a young man in a herringbone jacket sideswiped her chair, rushing toward the singer in her puddle of light. His energy was alarming; he swooped down on the singer, motionless on her stool, then lifted her, the fabric of her dress rustling, and handed her to the man who’d first rushed them into the room—the man in the tuxedo, who sprang up with outstretched arms. Instead of staring, though, people in the room averted their eyes, or pretended to look elsewhere. Then they were gone, the sequins of the singer’s dress like the green flash said to appear on rare occasions in the tropics, as the sun sinks below the horizon line.
McLafferty was grabbing Mandy’s thigh so hard she winced. He was staring at the after-image, his bandaged hand pressed against his mouth. She had to fight the urge to say: Let’s go, let’s sleep in my bed, I don’t expect anything, not even a kiss. Instead, she heard herself say, “Don’t you think this would be a good time to leave, before he discovers his mistake?”
He looked puzzled, the way he’d looked when he knocked over the vase, as if he, himself, could not imagine what he was doing, or how something had happened so quickly. “It wasn’t a mistake,” he said. “He wanted an audience for the performance.”
“Would it be rude to leave?” she persisted.
It made her nervous, he looked at her with such incomprehension.
“I’ll get a cab,” she said quickly. “You stay.”
He stood immediately. “What do you think I am?” he said.
The piano player, who’d taken no notice of them, suddenly crushed out his cigarette and turned in their direction. A thin stream of smoke wafted from the ashtray. “Next set, she’s going to sing ‘Two for the Road,’ ” he said.
McLafferty sank back into his seat. He looked at Mandy, but no words came. She heard an echo of something, though. In the silence, she remembered her father’s voice at Christmastime, asking, “Why would you want to live in a place like this? Why don’t you come back to Virginia? There are cities in Virginia. Richmond is a city.” That was what he’d said the day he installed the dimmer switch, as her grandfather lay dying.
In the apartment, she left the mess as it was, though she carried the roses, which someone had gathered up and put in water in the blender, into the bedroom. She set them on the night table. It was disappointing that they had no smell at all. She undressed, pulled on her nightshirt, and checked her answering machine. There was one message, and as she hit “play” she wondered if it might be McLafferty, saying that he was on his way, or, even if he was not, that he loved her.
“I can’t get to sleep unless I confess,” Kathy said. “But first of all, let me say that that was the best party ever, and I really, really thank you. I ran into Clerey in the stairwell. My fiancé, or whatever he is, always has to take the stairs. We stood there face-to-face, and he blurted it out. Like I would ever have guessed he was there for a party for me! I would never have guessed. But anyway, it doesn’t matter: it was the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. It couldn’t have been any better, even if it had been a surprise. Really, Mandy. I’ll never forget it.”
She pressed “delete” and got into bed and looked out the window at the lamppost, flickering because of a short in the wire.
What were you supposed to do if you couldn’t sleep? Count sheep, of course. It went without saying that they must be silent sheep, though tonight’s seemed to be someone’s pets that came with pretty collars dangling bells. They jingled in a minor key, making the same sort of sound she might have heard if she’d stayed at the hotel, listening to the piano. She turned on her side and slid one arm under the pillow in her favorite position for sleep. The sheets, newly laundered, smelled like new-mown hay. The simple smell of them transported her to Virginia, where she could see herself standing in a vast green field where no sheep stood, though her grandfather, with his eyes cast down, must certainly have been tending something.
Apology for a
Journey Not Taken:
How to Write a Story
WHAT can I possibly say? I should have been there, and I was not.
I can explain what happened, but perhaps the story should evolve.
In my imagination, I was there. Not that that did anyone the slightest bit of good, but still, in my imagination, I was there.
I was preoccupied with being there. Obsessed is an overused word, so let’s say preoccupied. It has a nice, old-fashioned sound: some old lady, sewing, listening to a radio drama, so riveted to the story being told, she drops her needle.
The Shadow knows.
(Even as a throwaway allusion, it’s surely obscure, having vanished from most people’s consciousness.)
Though you can never underestimate the appeal of something old, newly packaged. Perhaps a painting on the CD cover by Cy Twombly would make some people curious about the Shadow.
Back to the beginning. I intended to come, up until the last minute, but then I became a coward. I worried that I might, sleepless, the night before. To avoid making my worry materialize, I had a cup of chamomile tea, which I drank from a cup, instead of a heavy mug that would preoccupy me with its size and weight, rather than with what was inside, and attempted to get a good night’s sleep. You know how things can be when you drink out of a mug, though: getting lost in thought, seeing, again, the mug from the airport in Denver, with snowcapped mountains rising toward the lip, only the handle obscuring the view.
I am aware that I’ve taken some very nice vacations, and that that money could be used in other ways—such as sending it home.
No point at all in digressing about what “home” means, these days. It says a lot that I usually carry a heavy leather suitcase with no wheels, and that I place this suitcase horizontally on two small birchwood stools bought in Vermont many years ago, thus raising it off the ground to function as a coffee table.
I just don’t know whether it’s worth it—ordering heirloom tomato seeds.
Other worries include: Is there really a difference between regular and premium gas?
I understand such questions to be diversionary tactics. And I’m mad at myself, and I’m just not going to take it anymore. No, I am going to be straightforward about this and explain my absence, as best I can.
I was drugged on the train. I got caught in the rain. I drank contaminated tea. I really had to pee. I overslept. I drank too much. I got chicken pox.
I was mugged. Verbally abused. Censured by the Tribunal.
GREETINGS FROM SUNNY FLORIDA.
WISH YOU WERE HERE.
OU SONT LES NEIGES D’ANTAN?
I began to watch a taped episode of 24.
Kiefer Sutherland reminding me of Donald Sutherland, I watched a tape of Klute.
I looked at old tabloids, explaining the breakup of Kiefer Sutherland and Julia Roberts.
I investigated, on Google, the possibility of going to Anguilla.
I called an old chum. I got very glum. I ate a plum.
Realizing that Howard Dean had blown it, I went to bed.
Hearing “Walk On By” on the radio, I became nostalgic.
Finally atoning for forgetting the birthday of my sister two years in a row, I bought her a chenille throw, a cute stuffed monkey that chattered when a button in its navel was pushed, a carton of oranges, a bottle of champagne, and enrolled her in the Flower of the Month club.
Realizing I could not mail the bottle of champagne, I drank it.
Subsequently, I ate one orange and enjoyed several imagin
ary conversations with the monkey.
I called UPS, while there was still something to call about.
Is one supposed to say “waxed nostalgic”? And if so, why?
To explain more thoroughly: I awoke with a migraine, took an Excedrin especially formulated for maximum pain relief, got frustrated and drank a little champagne, turned on the tube and saw Kiefer, screaming. What is wrong with our society? I wondered. Why am I watching this violent show, with this man screaming orders at a volume one might use when asking for an oil change? What was Howard Dean thinking of, being exuberant—that he was already on Saturday Night Live?
The death of Belushi. My astonishing mistake, earlier in the week, of referring to Jim Carrey, overdosing in a bungalow at the Chateau Marmont.
Which is legendary for having a swimming pool that is hard to find.
Where someone recently exited, and drove into a wall, dying.
I should have come. I could have come. I could have come along and listened to the lullaby of Broadway. The hip-hooray, etc.
Setting out presents difficulties. As an adult, not having to wear boots in the rain. Then your feet get wet.
I wonder how many people do not take a journey because their feet might get wet.
Because they get cold feet, so to speak.
Some travel with their own linen.
Many take their pets, or stay home if this can’t be arranged.
But let me explain more thoroughly: Meaning to set out early, I wrapped my sister’s late birthday presents in a box and called to have the box picked up. On the box, I saw a black bug. I reflexively hit it with the toe of my shoe, blurring the address. I went into the house to get a Magic Marker. The Magic Marker leaked, obscuring both addresses. Cursing, I threw it into the bushes. Inside, I attempted to wash Magic Marker leakage from my hands. No go, until I scrubbed gently with Comet. Then I found a piece of cardboard, found a regular pen that did not leak, wrote the address on the cardboard, and affixed it to the box with tape. I then decided to use more tape, in case rain might fall on the address, yet again obscuring it. This done, I put the box back on the front step. For no reason at all, it fell off. It was slightly dented. I put it where the sidewalk meets the step and left it there. It began to rain, and no amount of tape would be dependable as a water repellent, so I took the box back inside and sat with it. It was like sitting with a wounded friend. Of course, I did not talk to the box, but still, I felt a sort of unspoken exchange going on, in which I expressed sympathy for the box’s plight. I waited for UPS, as one would wait for a friend to go through security at the airport, or as one would wait with an elderly person at the bus stop. I felt that having done it some harm, I should atone by protecting it. Therefore, I turned on the TV. Therefore, I had thoughts of Donald Sutherland, which reminded me of my youth. My youth reminded me that I was no longer youthful. I was glad I had drunk the champagne, which I equated with youthful enthusiasm.
