The Accomplished Guest: Stories

by Ann Beattie

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  Do you finally get it, that guys who graduated from college can still be pigs, that “human” is just a vague, general term? I don’t know the educational background of the other people who wrung the necks of my brothers and somehow overlooked mine when they threw us out the car window like so many cigarette butts. It was a time of intense pain, but I had no real concept of “past” or “future” and also no idea how such pain could be endured, let alone a notion that it might end. Then Kegan walked out of his house, flopping along in his big sandals, talking on his cell to some woman he was flirting with, and stopped dead, stunned, reaching down for all that was left of the litter: me. I was at the vet’s, wrapped in a towel, in half an hour. They did some things to me, but it was all an agony of pain, just more. If I’d known only one word, it might have been “more.” They set my broken back legs, sutured my eye, put in an IV drip. I was put on a heated cushion on the first tier of cages—since I couldn’t move, the door was left open—so people came by and reached in and smoothed the area between my eyes with their thumbs and spoke to me quietly. Belle cried and cried. I spent over a week there, but since this was all some bizarre fairy tale, Kegan worked out a payment plan with the vet and visited every day, though once he explained to me that he absolutely couldn’t come on Wednesday, only to show up as usual, which came as a relief. I tried to make the kind of eye contact that would let him know how much I appreciated everything. He bought me my first DQ Blizzard on the ride home, where I was held in Belle’s lap on a pillow, though he drank all of it but the one small nibble I was able to take when he removed the lid. I don’t remember that, but I overheard the story so many times, about how my face lit up and how Kegan was immediately convinced I was going to live, that it became my reality. I remember when the casts came off, my lying on the pillow above his head. It made him laugh. He’d reach up a big hand and sort of slap/pat me, but whatever that touch meant, it was pure affection. That was the way we went to sleep until it got a little too twisted up for both of us as I grew, and then we started sleeping spoon-style. He had a lot of anger, but not toward me. Not much toward Belle, either, though sometimes she caught it. It was always about her mother, which was not a good thing to reproach her with. She was cautious about getting attached to anybody, but he mistook that, understandably enough, for her being bookish and private. Still, he gave her a new Mac for Christmas and never teased her in front of her friends, and always encouraged her, especially once you figured out how to interpret some of his vague comments, or once you got the Zeta Psi mythology down and understood the allusions. Belle got the fact that he cared, even if she didn’t always know exactly what he was talking about. You pick up emotions, you register the essence of things, even if you don’t always understand exactly what’s being said. You also absorb the smells of certain places, and sometimes, when you least expect it, you get a whiff of where you used to live, and it takes you back. A little mystical, I realize. But things you can’t see, like breeze, music, sensory memories there are no words for—though I’m trying my best, here—my belief is that not only do you exist on the planet, but the planet exists inside you, its stars behind your eyes, its retained sunshine warming you from the inside out, as many times as it does from the outside in. I understand why Belle didn’t want any reminders when he died: She would have thought of him every time she saw me. He had a much easier time relating to me than to her. Of course, I was just a dog, with no way to express anything except maybe with a sparkle in my eye or with my jaw hanging open. Even though she gave me away to a not bad person—though I notice I was handed off again at the first opportunity—I’ll never get over losing the person I loved most. By the time Belle said, “His name’s Loyal, not Royal, it was just one of his jokes,” and sent me to New York with Royal and Dick, I’d already become a part of her. Now it’s not just Belle applying to colleges but me, curled up small inside her brain the way I once was when I slept over her father’s head. I’m thinking along with her, having experienced a lot of the same things she did, though she can put them down on paper, I can’t. Because the talking-dog joke is just that: a joke. You think anybody is going to believe a dog writes essays? Good luck to her with the college thing: If education might make the world a better place, a place of more kindness and awareness, I’m all for it. As much good as I’ve experienced, along with having had more than the usual share of good luck, the damage that’s done to you when you’re young—abandonment being one of the worst things—can never be entirely undone, so I’m not of the opinion that the world is a very nice place. If you agree with me, it makes more sense if you take from it what you can: the breeze, the stars, all that.

  LADY NEPTUNE

  Mrs. Edward R. was pushed into the building in a wheelchair with a half-sized seat, several straps pulled not exactly tightly, but tightly enough, over her lap. She loved, loved those skirts from several years ago, weighted at the bottom and voluminous, with ruched sides billowing below the stitches into parachutes—so comfortable, so (as is said) forgiving.

  But of course, with a real parachute you’d be up in the air, dangling above the Atlantic. Blowing right past the condos overlooking the water, such as 1800 Atlantic, where her son, Darryl, lived with the nicer of his twin sons following an abominable stroke when he was fifty-six: a nonsmoker; a jogger; okay—a few too many recreational drugs in his youth. Darryl spent many days on the balcony, staring at the water. She didn’t do that—she wasn’t in that sort of shape, thank God—but she did sometimes cross her eyes and look at nothing as a way of introspecting.

  She was being carried into the building’s private elevator, key-activated so that everyone else coming to the party would have to climb the stairs, regardless of age, infirmity, fame. That, or they’d already know better than to come. Only for her, only for Alva, did the host admit to having the key. “Alvie,” he’d said to her years ago, “it’s our little secret.” Among their other little secrets was that they sent the cook away and had a flute of champagne with lunch, and that they’d found an accountant who had ingenious ways for his clients to cheat on their taxes. Her husband, R. (that was their nasty nickname for him; he’d read too many Russian novels), had never particularly liked Duncan Oswald, though he, too, had usually gone to Duncan’s annual Christmas party. It was a small community, and one didn’t want to give offense by not attending. Still, one year R. had sent Alva along without him—back when she simply walked places—and sent flowers the next day with a note of apology about his ostensible last-minute nausea, but the florist had gotten the orders mixed up, so Duncan—who always did like R., or at least appreciated that he was often, wittingly or not, the occasion for fun—received a bouquet of tulips and a dirty note about how their dowsing heads wanted to be you-know-where. It was Key West, so of course the florist had just written down whatever message the caller gave. Though he had nothing to do with the mix-up, obviously, R. resented Duncan for the amount of kidding he’d had to endure: Duncan had spread this story around.

  Ned, the less nice of her grandsons, was accompanying her. At this very moment, he was squeezing into the little elevator, placing a hand on her shoulder. The elevator’s slowness made him nervous. “Here we go,” he said tensely. He had nothing else to say as they ascended. She plucked up a bit of fabric so that it fell even lower on her leg—she hoped low enough to obscure the bruise. She couldn’t get into panty hose anymore, and she detested those stockings that ended just at the knee. That scam was always somehow humiliatingly revealed, and then you felt worse, and the person seeing felt worse.

  Less-Nice Ned (she and Duncan had agreed on this, over a little Taittinger) was on best behavior tonight, for whatever reason. Duncan’s cook (who had previously been a burglar in Miami; he got early parole because it was a first offense, and the prison was filled to bursting) almost collided with her grandson as the elevator door opened, in his haste to be helpful. Less-Nice Ned rolled her forward as the cook swept away imaginary obstacles, including a full-body blo
ck of a potted hibiscus at least eight feet away from the wheelchair.

  Christmas lights twinkled around the pot. They twinkled from the ceiling beams, hanging like little glittering stalactites. Soon Gay Santa would appear, to change into his faux-edgy costume and perform the annual ritual of handing out small wrapped presents. You could really end up on the short end of the stick sometimes. The previous year, one guest had received a package of airplane peanuts.

  Her present, though, was a promissory note: “My devotion forever, and my cook for your birthday, who will prepare dinner for up to ten friends.” Very generous! And yes—she had ten friends. Especially if you counted her son and his two boys, though her son would not attend, even if he said he would, and if Less-Nice Ned got a better offer, he’d probably cancel at the last minute. Her accountant and his wife would be there. Her psychiatrist. Jeannelle, who walked her dog every night (somebody not worth inviting walked the dog in the morning and midafternoon). Marie and Harry would be there. Maybe the Perrys. The cook himself. Shouldn’t she include the cook and, of course, the gift-giver? Was that ten, or more than ten?

  She settled on the sofa this way: The narrow wheelchair was turned sideways, with the cook fanning dust out of the air, as if its settling might somehow interfere with the transfer. (There was no dust; the cook also cleaned.) Next she slid one-two-three (moving prematurely on two) with her grandson’s hand lightly curled under her armpit, guiding her along what even she could see was a short sideways bump onto the Naugahyde sectional sofa. Under the cushion, she knew, were books. Duncan put them there because otherwise the cushion sank down too much, and rising would be difficult. Three decorative pillows in varying shades of green were available to be placed behind her back, if she might want to sit a little farther forward. She wasn’t sure about that; it made a person look too eager, too truly on the edge of the chair.

  Ah! It was very comfortable, but books or not, she was not pleased about the amount of armpit pressure that would have to be applied at the end of the evening. Still, she looked up and gave a small smile and nodded. “Everything comfortable?” the cook said. He always spoke with bravado. He had found God while in jail, but had given Him up the second he was paroled. Also, he knew they drank champagne—she’d seen him peeking once, before he left—but what did he care? What might the cook truly care about? He was not a person she would have known in her youth. Old people couldn’t meet anyone new—other people looked right through you. And her friends—she didn’t want to know any more about them.

  “If you could have anything in the world, what might that be?” she said to the cook.

  He looked momentarily confused, as if someone might be standing behind his back. “A lot of money,” he said.

  She considered this. It seemed an honest answer. Also, just because she was old and in not very good shape, why should she be allowed a follow-up question? So she didn’t ask it. It would be taking advantage of his position. Making a monkey of him. You could talk about a zebra’s stripes only because it didn’t speak. Now, it was turning out that if you said something about a monkey, the monkey would probably understand entirely and even consider an ironic reply. Or was that gorillas? What was Koko?

  “My husband was a great believer in mutual funds. In diversifying. But I do understand that you have to have money in order to ‘grow your money.’ Even grass doesn’t grow on its own. Or at least you have to water it and not let anyone walk on it and then worry about it for the rest of your life, those times it does take.”

  “Ma’am,” he said.

  “Well, that’s enough of that conversation,” Less-Nice Ned said.

  Duncan had given her her present the day before the party, delivered by messenger. Of course, the cook had been the messenger, coming with the little wrapped box in his bike basket, crossing paths with Olinda the Boring Dog Walker, flirting with her, in her deep-cut tank shirt and shorts with the peace sign on the back pockets. Still, she’d never considered the possibility that the cook might have replied, “Olinda.”

  “You stop hovering like bees around the hive and get yourselves something to drink,” Duncan said to all the people suddenly grouped in front of them. Then he plopped down beside her. Duncan was eighty. He went to the gym two days a week and power-walked on the sidewalk by the beach another couple of nights. He had a droopy eye, but nothing was going to fix that. It wasn’t even entirely age-related. When the bees scattered, he patted her knee lightly, through peaks and gulleys of fabric. “And if you could have anything you wanted, what would it be?”

  “Are you mad that I asked him?” she said.

  “No, dear. He’s not quite at the cutoff age where it would only be condescending. He’s turned his life around since his incarceration, we see that. If he doesn’t kill me in my sleep. I’ve promised him money when I die, and he doesn’t want to go back to prison, and he doesn’t seem violent, anyway. You know, they caught him because he peed a little during the robbery. How they cross-match pee, I don’t know. Or maybe it was a hair that finally did him in.”

  She started laughing. Her eyes darted to the cook, who was standing talking to her grandson and another man who’d entered the party but not come over to say hello. No, wait: It was Olinda. Olinda, in one of those trilbies everybody wore, pulled down low, and black leather motorcycle pants and black boots, her eyebrows drawn on darkly, her hair jaggedly cut off. As short a haircut as a man would have! And a black leather jacket to complete the outfit. Olinda raised a Heineken bottle in greeting.

  Then, because it was the same every year, an even larger crowd of people rushed in like a huge wave that would grow more and more threatening, more frightening, the higher it rose. You’d expect unwavering, nearly naked men and women, with their feet spread for perfect balance, to be riding it on surfboards until the enormous wave crested (which would have to be at the ceiling beams) and propelled everyone in her direction all at once, like so many grains of sand, toward where she sat like Neptune without a scepter (without even a drink, publicly) on a throne propped up with the Yellow Pages and hardback dictionaries you couldn’t give away anymore. She was their destination, no different than arriving at the Pyramids, hardly distinguishable (except for her age) from the Fountain of Youth.

  She crossed her legs. Her calves were gnarled varicose veins of seaweed. She’d started out the proud sandcastle fortress; she’d become the unlovely sun-bleached towel; she’d been so, so long ago the little shoe left behind; her finger was now the remaining claw of the crab that had already been pecked apart by seagulls.

  “Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas!”

  An echo or just a lot of identical thoughts? Impossible to tell, underwater, when you’d lost your sense of hearing and the sound inside your head was a roar.

  Was it true that if you went under for the third time, that was it? Were only bird feathers—there! What about bird feathers, didn’t they repel water and float?

  But too many garments . . . too much material . . . like shoes, they’d drag you down.

  The word “money” popped up like a bit of the ocean’s detritus riding in on a wave, but her lips formed the words “Merry Christmas.”

  THE CATERER

  Moira the cake maker had a broken toe, and Caitlin Lee was recovering from an appendectomy, so Janet recruited her daughter, Blair, and Blair’s boyfriend, Steven, to help her load the Subaru wagon with trays of food, serving implements, and enormous bunches of peonies from her garden, along with a pile of nice tablecloths and some sparkly stars to scatter here and there, and oh, how many times had people’s corkscrews broken during a party? As well as the one in her Swiss Army knife, she put in a Cuisinart corkscrew that her clients always fell in love with once they’d used it and—really last-minute—dipped in to the bucket on the front porch and took out a handful of shells, carefully rinsed by Blair and Steven, because those might be nice, too.

  It had been a rainy summer in Maine, but finally it was almost July and sunny. Everything was very green; Janet had t
o duck to get under the wisteria growing on the arbor at the end of the walkway, amazed at the amount of lavender petals scattered prettily over the path. No doubt some would be in her hair. “Get a move on,” she called back toward the house. The only response was from the cat, who darted up the stairs and went through the cat door into the house.

  Blair opened the door, holding the cat in her arms. Blair had just graduated as a journalism major from Northwestern, and she was entirely too skinny and pale. She needed some meals instead of snacks, and to be out in the sun soaking up vitamin D. It hadn’t helped that she’d gotten sick in Mexico, even though she’d drunk only bottled water and brushed her teeth with it, too.