by Ann Beattie
St. Francis was stalking a bird. Just as he got within pouncing distance, the bird flew away. St. Francis had a little temper tantrum, sniffing the ground where the bird had been, then digging up dirt until Lucy told him to stop. A jogger in green shorts passed by on the dirt road. It was a breezy day, but graying over as if it might rain. The sky, mottled with dark clouds, looked like an enormous x-ray that had been hung out to dry. St. Francis settled down in his gully beside the rhododendron bush and closed his eyes. When another runner came by, the dog sensed it and his head shot up. He dropped his head again as the runner panted by.
Edward made them tabouli burgers for lunch. He had brought these, frozen, in a cooler that said It’s Miller Time!, from Los Angeles.
Over lunch, he gave Nicole pointers on how to be popular. “First of all, if you’re lucky enough to be an object to people, you can’t go wrong. They just care about what you look like—they don’t want to hear what you have to say, and they don’t not want to hear what you have to say. So with them, you’re just talking to amuse yourself. I find that two things are very useful when you want to put yourself across. The first one is to know about a dozen pieces of misinformation, and then to know what the correct information is. Take this for an example: Most people think that Humphrey Bogart said, ‘Drop the gun, Louis.’ What did he really say?”
Nicole frowned. “Lauren Bacall was married to him, wasn’t she?” she said.
“What did he say?” Lucy said.
“He said, ‘Not so fast, Louis.’ ” Edward looked at Lucy. “Now here’s what you do to make an impression. You work the conversation around to Humphrey Bogart, and when somebody comes out with a famous line—everybody loves to do their Bogart routine, so you’re usually in luck—you mention that he didn’t say that at all, but that it’s always misquoted. Say it casually, so you don’t seem like a snot. Tell them the right line. And this part is crucial: if they ask you where you found something out, never tell them. Make them think that you always knew it. You have to be nice about that, too, or they’ll think you’re a snot. Obviously, you can go wrong with this routine, so you’ve got to be careful.”
“Do you do this stuff?” Nicole asked.
“If I have to. To tell you the truth, it works better for women than for men. But the other thing I’m going to tell you will work for anybody. Everybody talks about the weather, right? And if they don’t, it’s the easiest thing in the world to make them talk about it. So what you do is you really know something about the weather. Say you’re with a bunch of people and a wind blows up. Or there’s no wind at all—you can still use it. You get the subject around to the wind, and then you mention the Worcester tornado of 1953. You lead up to it, actually, by not naming it so officially, so that people think you memorized some arcane information. You say, ‘This reminds me of that tornado in Massachusetts,” and of course somebody’ll ask what you’re talking about. Tell them the one that happened in the early fifties. That’s the trick. You let them draw you out, so that you become progressively more specific. Then whatever you say will have a real impact. Then you move in for the kill: you tell them the thing cut through Rutland, Barre, and Worcester and killed more than sixty people. You don’t want to have too many facts. You don’t want to tell them how many were injured. Also, you don’t want to mention the weather more than once in one night. It can also make people very nervous.”
“I don’t know,” Nicole said. “Last year I had to memorize all these Shakespearean sonnets that didn’t make any sense. The guy had some good ideas, but he was always going off … it was like the teacher expected you to remember what some guy said when he’d tied a couple on. Now you want me to memorize things about tornadoes?”
“Forget education,” Edward said. “The difference between what I’m telling you and education is that this stuff will help you. Memorize it, then get loose, make it seem natural that you know about disasters.”
“Maybe being smart would distract me. I don’t want to be frustrated when I get roles and be like Kate and some of those people who think their characters never know enough, and they should be so intelligent and everything.”
“Hey, you’re playing the game,” Edward said. “You’ve got to know some things to talk about so you can stay on top. You’ve got to figure out a way to stay on top, whether you’re a phony or a real person.”
Well, Lucy thought, maybe this was, after all, just a strange version of summer camp she was running in the backyard, where the big kids gave the little kids pointers about proper behavior in deep water.
6
AT eight o’clock on the Fourth of July, Hildon and Maureen, Lucy and Nicole, Noonan and his newly acquired lover Peter, pulled into the Birches to pick up Edward. They were going to drive into town and have a drink on the patio outside the inn, then walk down the hill to see the fireworks. Peter’s car was a repainted, refurbished Checker cab. It was silver, with a black roof. The jump seats were upholstered with leopardskin; there was a black bear rug on the back floor. It was the sort of car any cop would give his eyeteeth to stop.
Peter specialized in in utero surgery: According to Noonan, he made vasts amounts of money, which he also invested wisely. He had bought into Coleco pre-Cabbage Patch and sold pre-Adam. Currently, he had been buying stock in a company that produced herbal vinegar. He felt that the vinegar market was always expanding.
Maureen was wearing a white T-shirt, patterned with red stars, and navy-blue culottes.
Hildon had opened a bottle of Dom Pérignon, and was pouring it, badly, into plastic cups.
Even with the windows open, marijuana smoke lingered in the air; it was enough to give anyone a contact high.
Noonan was singing “Yankee Doodle.”
Nicole said, “I’m glad that there’s some life in this town.”
Peter was turning around one of the rotaries. It was filled with petunias and marigolds. Life in this town? Obviously, Nicole meant that they were lively, inside the car: they were passing the Ben Franklin, the church, and other cars, with couples in the front and babies in back. Some days Lucy felt as embarrassed not to have a baby in this town as she had felt in high school when everybody else had a little ladybug pin on the collar of her blouse. It was as though the rest of the world paid attention to detail, lived by it, and she was the outsider, not bonded to anyone by any discernible symbol. A bee that had buzzed in one window flew out the other. Everyone ducked. That was why she had thought about ladybugs and Ladybug blouses. Not because she felt like an outsider, but because the bee flying through the car …
“I just filled it two seconds ago,” Hildon laughed. He clapped his hand over her knee. It steadied her, and that felt absolutely wonderful. In the three seconds that he had his hand clapped over her knee, Maureen had looked at Hildon, while Hildon was looking at Lucy’s legs. Then Maureen had caught Lucy’s eye. Lucy had been looking at her.
In the front seat, Peter said, “For instance: basil repels mosquitoes. So when you add basil to vinegar …”
“I’m so glad I changed my life,” Noonan said, massaging Peter’s neck.
“I’m going to be a millionaire,” Hildon said, drinking the last of the champagne straight from the bottle.
“I don’t even believe what people on the East Coast are like,” Nicole said.
Before Nicole came, Jane had told Lucy that in preparation for her trip, Nicole was reading Main Street. While she had been reading the Enquirer, Nicole had been reading Sinclair Lewis.
Already, firecrackers were exploding, Peter parked in a crosswalk, across from the inn.
“Just think,” Edward said. “Next year at this time, little girls will be taking their Nicole Nelson doll to the fireworks. They’ll be combing her hair and losing her little shoes and crying. Their baby sisters and brothers will be teething on her head. They’ll save their allowance to buy a poodle for Nicole to walk on a leash. They’ll all want to grow up, shrink, and be plastic.”
“Oh, gross,” Nicole said.
“Ken is a wimp,” Peter said. “He gives homosexuals a bad name.”
“Who’s Ken?” Maureen said.
“The Ken doll. He has a little chefs hat that he’s supposed to wear out to the barbecue pit. It makes him look like one of those paper-frilled lamb chops.”
“I don’t even believe that you guys keep up with Barbie and Ken,” Nicole said.
“Hildon,” Lucy said, in the brief moment she had to speak to him privately, as he held open the back door for them to get out, “Maureen is looking at me.”
“So am I,” he said.
A college girl in a scooped-neck green dress with ruffles around the neck and hem gave them a table on the side patio. The sky was chalky, and a band of pink was widening on the horizon. A Japanese tourist took a picture of his wife, who was sitting on the stone wall that wound around the patio. He handed the camera to his wife and stood in front of the wall, hands straight at his sides.
Another girl came and asked what they would like to drink. After Edward ordered a Rémy, he pushed his chair back and went over to the tourists, who seemed to be trying to get their waitress’ eye to take their picture. They both seemed very happy when they realized Edward was volunteering to do it. Edward raised the camera to his eye, then lowered it.
“You have a fisheye lens on here,” he said.
“Thank you very much,” the man said. He put his arm around his wife’s shoulder. His fingertips rested on the wing of a large, embroidered butterfly. She was brushing his hand away when Edward clicked the camera. The man smiled and rushed forward.
“Let me take one more,” Edward said. “I caught you just when you were moving your hand.”
“Thank you,” the man said.
“One more,” Edward said, holding up his finger. He pointed to the camera.
“Thank you,” the man said, walking back to where his wife stood. He stood beside her, as rigid as a soldier standing beside a tree. Edward took the picture.
“Thank you very much,” the man said, taking the camera from Edward and walking back to his table.
There were small Wedgwood bud vases on the tables, with a pink tea rose, a daisy, and a bachelor’s button in each. The scalloped edge of the yellow and white striped canopy blew in the breeze. In the street, five boys were yelling and playing wheelies with their bikes. A little white dog ran along the curb, yapping at them.
The Japanese tourists were deep in conversation, staring at their table but looking away when anyone at the table looked at them.
The inn didn’t have Perrier, so Nicole ordered ginger ale. It came with a cherry and a slice of orange on the rim. The waitress put another brandy snifter in front of Edward, and frozen strawberry daiquiris in front of the rest. “Shirley Temple,” she said, as she put Nicole’s drink down.
“What?” Nicole said.
“You know what that is, don’t you?” Edward said.
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Nicole said.
“It’s what they call that—ginger ale. No alcohol.”
“Is he putting me on?” Nicole said.
“No,” Lucy said.
“Bobby Blue’s mother collects Shirley Temple stuff. She has cups with Shirley Temple on them and dolls and all. When Bobby was a baby, he had golden hair, and she used to curl it like Shirley Temple’s. I think Shirley Temple is gross.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Maureen said.
“When she was a kid they used to tie a tourniquet around her breasts so she’d still look like a little girl. That’s so sick.”
“They did that to Judy Garland,” Peter said.
“God,” Nicole said. “No studio would do that now. They just tell lies about people’s age and stuff. That’s really pointless most of the time—like, they’re really not going to find out your age if you went to Hollywood High, right? Sure.”
“To Gary Hart,” Noonan said, raising his glass.
“Who?” Nicole said.
“You’re kidding,” Maureen said.
No one pursued it.
“No wonder those kids that were in the movies back then went crazy. It’s really sick to tie down people’s tits. I’ll bet you that doesn’t happen to anybody now,” Noonan said.
Nicole took a sip of her ginger ale. “I know a girl who had silicone put in her calves so they’d be pretty for this beach movie she was making. Something went wrong and all the stuff fell into her ankles and she had to have an operation.”
“Excuse me,” the Japanese tourist said. His hands were clasped over the front of his camera. He bowed his head so that his chin almost touched his hands. “Excuse me: I am Stephanie Sykes.” He lit up with a smile and nodded his head again.
“Stephanie Sykes,” Hildon said. He looked at Nicole.
Nicole smiled. She had been recognized.
“Doctor Cooper!” the tourist said.
“Me? No. I’m not on the show. I’m an artist. A photographer,” Edward said.
“I’m a photographer,” the man said.
“You’re a photographer too?” Edward said.
“I’m a photographer,” the man said, smiling and pointing at Edward.
“Oh, I am,” Edward said. “Yes.”
“Thank you very much,” the man said.
Lucy caught his wife’s eye, across the patio. The woman smiled at her. The man reached across the table and she shook his hand. “I am good Stephanie Sykes,” he said.
“Thank you,” Nicole said.
The man smiled and bowed and went back to his table. At the table next to theirs a man who looked familiar to Lucy sat with a tall blond woman and a curly-haired little girl. The little girl was pleading with them to buy her a Duran Duran album. “Is he the one who dresses like a girl?” the man said. “That’s Boy George. Everybody knows that,” the little girl said. “What’s the story with Boy George?” the man said. “Does he do break dancing?” It was the man she had seen at the airport, with the baby. The next time she looked, both the woman and man were looking at their table. Lucy smiled. Under the table, Hildon rubbed her knee. Peter removed a piece of lint from Noonan’s shirt. In the distance fireworks were exploding. The waitress came to the table and asked if they wanted another round.
“I think we’d better move on down the line,” Hildon said.
“Just bring me one more Rémy to bolt down with the check,” Edward said, handing her his gold American Express card.
“No, no,” Noonan said, reaching for his wallet. “Expense account,” Edward said.
The little girl from the other table got up and walked away. The woman looked at the man and sighed. “You shouldn’t tease her so much,” she said. “She sat still this afternoon when you explained what the different birds were. She doesn’t have any particular interest in birds, you know. You wouldn’t like it if she pretended she couldn’t keep a crow straight from a swallow.”
“I wasn’t putting her on that time,” he said. “Pretend to be a little interested, even if you aren’t,” the woman said.
“I listen to this stuff night and day. How am I supposed to keep it all straight?” The man finished his drink and took a sip of his wife’s wine.
The waitress came back to the table with the bill. There was a little piece of paper with “Stephanie Sykes” written on it. Edward looked surprised. He handed it to Nicole. Nicole read it and shook her head. She handed it to Lucy, seeming slightly embarrassed. “I am just a dishwasher,” the note said, “but I love Stephanie Sykes. I will treasure your ginger ale glass always.—Harry Woods.”
Maureen read it over Lucy’s shoulder. “It must be the strangest feeling to be recognized. Especially if you don’t even know who’s watching you,” Maureen said.
“Really,” Nicole said. “I mean, you have to think about it because there are a lot of guys like that guy Hinckley.”
&n
bsp; “Don’t even talk about it,” Lucy said.
More fireworks exploded. Maureen laughed nervously. Hildon rubbed Lucy’s knee under the table, so hard that the top part of her body swayed. Maureen saw her moving, and Lucy looked down, pretending that she had been moving intentionally and that something was wrong with the seat of the chair.
“Jodie Foster was so great in Taxi Driver,” Nicole said. “It’s too bad he couldn’t have picked somebody obscure to give her career a boost.”
“That’s thinking business,” Edward said, raising his empty brandy snifter to Nicole.
Nicole said, “It’s getting breezy. I wonder if we’re going to have a tornado.”
“A tornado?” Edward said. “That isn’t likely. Of course, I guess people never expect a tornado. Do you really think they cause as much destruction as people make out?”
“Are you crazy?” Maureen said. “Of course they do.”
“There was that one in New England,” Nicole said. “That one in the early fifties in … Worcester. Sixty people died, and there’s no telling how many were hurt.”
“Did your family have friends in Worcester?” Maureen said.
“No,” Nicole said. “That was just one of the most damaging tornadoes, so it was the one that came to mind.”
As they walked away from the table, Maureen said to Noonan, “Imagine that. She’d never heard of one of the presidential candidates and she knew about some tornado that hit New England before she was born. You’ve got to wonder what kind of an education kids are getting nowadays.”
Noonan put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed. He was smiling ear to ear.
“What?” Maureen said. “I’m being stuffy?”
