by Ann Beattie
“Do they have tornadoes in Vermont?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “The one that comes to my mind is the Worcester tornado of 1953. It took ninety lives.”
“Did your family know people who died then?” Andrew said.
“No,” she said.
He nodded slowly. He looked at the sky. “You’re not one of those intuitive people who are prophetic, are you?” he said, smiling nervously.
She was tired of answering questions, and she didn’t want to ask again what another word meant. The ringing phone would save her. She held out her hand, but instead of shaking hands and letting her get the phone, he clasped her hand and looked at her soulfully. Even as he drove away, he was thinking that the writer’s life was not an easy one, but he gave himself credit for searching for truth, instead of making assumptions. He looked at the sky through the front windshield, and then at the sky behind him, in the rearview mirror. Sometimes important information came at you in the most unexpected ways. He pushed harder on the accelerator, hurrying back to Lillian, and the inn.
By the time Nicole went inside, the phone had stopped ringing.
23
WHEN Andrew got back to the inn, Lillian was out. When she did return from shopping, though, she had quite a story to tell him. She had been browsing through Sweet Sincerity, a shop that carried cotton nightgowns and bed jackets from the 1920s, fans, and other pretty, old-fashioned ephemera. Lillian and one other woman were the only customers. They were both flipping through the racks of clothes when two women came into the store, asked the woman behind the cash register whether she was the owner, then suggested that she stock useful things for the contemporary woman, such as thermal underwear, body-building devices, hiking boots, and Mace.
“Women must provide for women,” one of the women said. “The day of the damsel is gone. We should not nourish ourselves with refined sugar,” she said, pointing to the gold boxes of Godiva chocolates stacked by the cash register, “but with healthy proteins and carbohydrates that will be transformed into healthy body power.”
“Give me a break,” the woman behind the cash register said. She was in her twenties, with a pink streak painted in her short, curly hair and cheeks heavily rouged a deeper pink than her hair.
“The enlightenment of women can allow for a new radiance in our society. Pectoral power, not penis envy,” the woman said, hitting the counter. “I would suggest that in place of those Debbie Harry and Annie Lennox stills, you hang pictures of women such as Margaret Bourke-White and Dr. Helen Caldicott.”
“Oh, shit,” the saleswoman said. “I left the Upper West Side to hear this hysterical shit?”
The woman who stood beside the woman lecturing the store owner stepped forward. “Maybe you could put up a picture of Margaret Mead,” she said.
“Listen,” the owner said, a pink curl falling over her forehead, “I busted my ass to get the kind of store that I want, and suggestions about how I decorate it are really out of line.”
“It is never too late to change your thinking,” the first woman said. “Inner power will provide outer beauty. Consider Helen Hooven Santmyer.” She turned toward the woman who stood beside her and raised her eyebrows.
“Sophia Loren,” the woman said.
“Sophia Loren,” the older woman said. “How would she be an example?”
“She’s a businesswoman. She sells Sophia perfume.”
“That’s ridiculous,” the older woman said. “She’s a pawn of the media. She’s a terrible example.”
“I don’t believe this,” the owner said. “In New York they just come in and tie you up and take the money and then shoot you or not. Here, I’ve got to die of boredom.”
A woman who had been flipping through the rows of nightgowns and who had averted her eyes through the confrontation started to move toward the front of the store. “My name is Davina Cole,” the older woman said, reaching out to stop her. “I notice that you are pregnant. I hope that if the child you are carrying is female, that it will be all-powerful. You may communicate more power to the child by wearing Extra Large camouflage shirts as nightgowns, rather than purchasing any of this silly frippery.”
“I’m calling the cops,” the owner said. Her nails were so long that she dialed the phone with the back of a pencil.
Police Officer Brown’s wife, as she walked out of the store, knew just what she was escaping. The shop owner would live to regret calling for help; she could hardy wait to hear his version of what happened when he got home.
There were only a few seconds in which Lillian was the only other customer in the shop. When the owner began talking to the police about the women who were causing a disturbance in her store, Lillian moved toward the front of the store to leave. Myra DeVane walked in just then, hoping to find something suitable to wear to her rendezvous with Edward at the Plaza. Almost at once she realized that there was a problem—but it was also a problem that interested her: the woman who was stacking pamphlets on the counter had to be Davina Cole.
“Masculine tumescence has caused mind-boggling tragedy,” Davina Cole said to the owner.
Lillian began to wonder about her notions of easygoing, small-town life.
Myra DeVane took out her wallet and flashed her Press card. “Tell me what you’re here to protest,” she said.
“The subversion of women through sentimental desensitizing,” Davina Cole said. “Misogyny will be overcome when women wear the mantle of power.”
“My long-suffering ass,” the owner said. “Everybody else closes this time of year, and I stay open. Then two dykes walk in and want to make a Christmas tree ornament into a cannon-ball. Where the hell are those cops?”
“And who are you?” Myra said, writing.
“Maureen Hildon,” the other woman said.
Myra looked up. “I just interviewed your husband,” she said.
“Her husband is involved in masculine-dominated, oppressive capitalism,” Davina said.
“Is that right?” Myra said to Maureen, fishing in her purse for her recorder.
“Well,” Maureen said, “the number of women on his staff is not representative.”
“Have you spoken to your husband about that?” Myra said, putting her recorder on the counter, next to the pamphlets and candy boxes.
“They no longer communicate,” Davina Cole said. “With new-found power, Maureen is devoting herself to maximizing her strength so that the enemy can be subverted.”
“That’s right,” Maureen said. “But don’t think of me as Sophia Loren.”
“Sophia Loren?” Myra said.
“A token,” Maureen said. “A creation of the male-dominated media.”
At that point, Officer Pasani opened the door and, with his partner, walked into the store. Myra suddenly stiffened into the reporter who is all eyes and ears. Caught under the heel of Officer Brown’s regulation black shoe was a wadded-up, regulation size McDonald’s french-fry bag. “Okay,” Brown said, hitching up his pants. “What’s the problem on this lovely day, ladies?”
Officer Pasani removed his hat and held it over his heart, as if the National Anthem had just been struck up.
24
Dear Lucy,
I’m writing you on the morning of my wedding day. Even though you’re not here, I feel that you are. That first wedding was such a mistake. I still get scared thinking about it. You know, I never would have gotten through it without you. I never thought I’d have a wedding without my family present. Most of all, I never thought I’d get married without you being there, but I didn’t know how I could invite you without having Mother and Nicole. This really embarrasses me to say, but I think part of the reason he’s marrying me is that he thinks I’m such a free spirit. Somehow, having my mother and daughter at the wedding would really change that notion and—truth—I’ve become a coward in my old age. I want him to think I’m impetuous and unencumbered. He’ll find out soon enough that that’s not true.
I was thinking, last night, ab
out all the hours we spent playing pretend when we were little girls. It makes me laugh now that we thought we could have any fantasy we wanted, and the worst price we’d pay would be having Mother yell at us for borrowing her clothes or standing on the bed. Lately there are so many fantasies thrust at us in all those articles telling us there are millions of men out there if you just become perfect that I’m just exhausted. I already pretend to enjoy exercising so I’ll look good, and say that I like health food instead of salt and sugar. Why not just admit that things are terrible but we have no choice?
I’m going to tell you something that I wouldn’t tell anybody else. I’m doing this because I think it will keep me from getting old. I’ve been spending too much time doing what I ought to do instead of what I want, and this is a chance to change that. I’m tired of buying into people’s notions of the way things should be. I don’t want to be laid-back and supportive and the perfect little mother to the perfect little star. There are a lot of scared people out there who seized some power and started making their own fear look like logic, dictating the way things should be. But I’ve seen through it now, and I’m stepping aside. Wish me luck. I love you.
Jane
Dear Nicole,
Dear child, we have never met, but my heart goes out to you in this time of sadness. When I was a girl your age my own beloved mother died, and I know how bad you must feel. There is nothing that can substitute for a mother’s love. It is actually a testament to mothers that they do their caring so gracefully that we do not realize that it does not always come easily or naturally to them, but rather that they are selfless and willing to subtly convey to us that their suffering is never too great. I have always tried to emulate my own dear mother in raising Percy. He has been such a satisfaction to me that I am sorrowful it was impossible for me to have other children. He is a wonderful son, though, and that is great compensation: one task well done is worth many done poorly. I asked Percy—your dear “Piggy”—for your address so I could not only extend my sympathy but also let you know that, even to a stranger like me, your mother communicated her great love for you. We spoke of children before the wedding, and it was with much pride that she showed me the pictures of you that she carries in her wallet. As you know, the baby picture of you with your little curl is in the photo section for everyone to see, but the more recent picture of you in an evening dress (at an awards ceremony, I believe) she keeps in the slot where she places her American Express card. That way, of course, she may open her wallet without revealing to others her connection with you and inviting comment, yet still keep the older you close by, to glance at privately. Your mother and I discussed not only your beauty but your many accomplishments at such a young age.
As you must certainly know, your name is the female version of the Greek Nikolaos, which denotes the “Victorious army.” You are a girl, then, among other Nicoles (for you are never alone), who represents her people. I am sure that you will show strength in dealing with your sad new burden, but the young and resolute shall lead us all, and you, I am sure, will be at the front of the line. This sad occasion has made Percy seem even more precious to me. Please know that he loves you and is there for you. We are always our mother’s children, whether or not our dear mothers are with us in fact, or but in memory. Just as Percy draws strength from me, and I draw strength from my own dearly beloved deceased mother, let me urge you to continue to draw strength from your mother, who is ever with you. My dear, take strength in the fact that someone with your resources can and will triumph over the ebb tide of grief and be carried out to deeper water.
My sincere sympathy.
Mrs. Robert (Edna) Proctor
Dear Everybody,
Forgive the impersonal quality of a Xeroxed letter, but time is short, and if I can’t reach everybody by phone, I just wanted to be sure to say goodbye. I will write to each and every one of you personally, as the faith healers say, but right now I’ve decided to leave for California with Peter1 and come back Aug. 25 for the house closing.
For reasons that I can’t even understand myself, my life had gotten so much better2 in Vermont lately that it is now with some regret that I find I won’t be living among you any longer. This is a big move, and it’s perfectly possible that I’m more scared than I realize. I’m very glad that at last I have another person to love and to share my life with. You’re all welcome in S.F. any time. It’ll be hard for that group of people at my new job to top you. I hope that you will all think of me as the same person, just happily stepping into a more honest, natural identity. (Sounds like a clothes ad, I realize.) As Peter was saying to me this morning, thank God that man who blew away all those people in McDonald’s left his wife in the apt. when he did it. Let the press deal with heterosexual behavior for a while.
Peace be with you, as you pursue a piece of whatever action you want. Golden Gate bridge postcards to follow.
Noonan
Dear Nicole,
I read the story in the paper about your mother. I know that you must feel very sad. I remember telling you that I got away from my mother as fast as I could. I think boys try to do that more than girls and also she wasn’t a very good mother. She hardly ever fixed meals and she expected us to do things that were impossible like fix the car when we didn’t know any more about how to fix a car than she did. I guess you haven’t been real unhappy so it must be a rough time for you. Probably it’s easier to leave than to be the one that’s left. If you were still around, I’d try to cheer you up, but I read that you’ve gone back to California for the funeral. I thought I’d write this to you c/o your aunt at the paper anyway because it could get forwarded. I don’t know if anybody will open it first or not. Thanks for the game of croquet.
Your friend in Vt.
Harry Woods
Dear Lucy,
When I got back from a week’s vacation I found out about your sister’s death. It was a tragic accident. There are so many near misses on these Vermont roads that all winter I have a sense of my mortality. Having this happen in summer seems doubly shocking, for some reason. I cannot imagine how difficult it must be for you. I’m glad that Nicole was with you when she had to get such awful news, but it must have been very difficult for you to be the one who had to take care of things. I have even found it difficult to be temporarily apart from all my friends. I imagine that the news must not even seem quite real.
You don’t really even know me, but I have thought often about the brief conversation we had at the party awhile ago. I was probably more intimidated by your presence than I realized, and I think I overcompensated by trying to appear cool. You handled everything beautifully, including my bubbling over and blurting out information about Les Whitehall. I guess that I have been thinking about how graceful you were, and although it is none of my business, I wondered whether you might not be paying a price for being that way. I have nowhere near as much composure as you. I also turn aside insults and smile through things that are painful, but I pay a price for doing that. It was probably naïve—and convenient—for me not to realize that you must, too. People want to have an easy fix on other people, and since you are Cindi Coeur, it’s easy to assume that someone who satirizes our shortcomings has set herself above us. I guess that the reason I’m writing is to say that if you ever want to step down—that’s wrong; step aside—that I am no more the hard-nosed reporter than you are the high-and-mighty advice columnist looking down on everyone. If you ever feel like talking, I would like to have another chance.
Sincerely,
Myra DeVane
Dear Lucy,
I want to extend my apologies for any trouble and worry I have caused you. Naturally, if I had imagined that there might be so many repercussions from the plan Nicole and I had to solve my problems with my lady friend, I would have saved myself, as well as others, the misery we have all had to endure because of the picture-taking incident. Now that it is clear beyond any doubt that nothing was amiss between Nicole and me, I hope that your feelings toward me
will once again be kind. As you know, I left my easel and sketch pad at your house. Of course shipping the easel would be too much trouble, but I would appreciate it very much if my sketchbook could be sent to me. The sketches of Nicole are important, and the project must go on quite apart from our personal problems. If you would send the sketchbook to me, I will send you a check by return mail to reimburse you for your trouble. I hope that you are having a pleasant summer.
Best wishes,
Edward
Dear Lucy,
I’ve been trying all summer to get up the nerve to ask you out, but I’ve never been able to do it. I thought that maybe you thought I wasn’t your type, because I work at the nursery. I do know that you were flirting with me the day you and your friend were there, though. I hope I don’t insult you by saying this. What’s wrong with flirting, after all. I was very interested and I guess it’s a sign of how much ego I have that I thought you’d come by again, or maybe even call. I did meet your friend who wanted to buy trees for his front lawn because he wanted to make his house, which was up for sale, look nice. I told him to say hello. Maybe he did.
I suppose I should write Cindi Coeur instead of Lucy Spenser, but that might be a little too cute. I thought you could answer my question just as well.
I guess I’m writing you because I think you’ll give me an honest answer. Did you also feel good energy between us, and if so, is the reason you stayed away because you’re involved with someone else or because I was an employee at a nursery? I’m going to confide in you: I need to know, because my luck has been lousy lately. My father is quite rich, and I always felt that if I didn’t do something real with my summers (I realize that working in a nursery isn’t meaningful, but other summers I’ve done things like work at a camp for handicapped kids), I’d become just another one of those kids who lounge around their parents’ summer house, doing some perfunctory little things the gardener or whoever doesn’t do, and sipping gin and tonics with the folks at night. I don’t mean to present myself as some prince in frog’s clothing, but it would help me to know whether you think I never will meet someone who’s right for me outside of the world I was brought up in.
