by Ann Beattie
Ann Beattie’s
Secrets
and
Surprises
“Beattie’s crisp, direct style is free of artifice; her observations penetrating.”
—Newsweek
“Beattie evokes her characters with clarity and accuracy and creates a poignancy around them that leaves a sad afterimage in the reader’s mind. It is the kind of powerful, haunting, quality that we feel in The Sun Also Rises and The Great Gatsby.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Beattie’s stories are an encouraging sign that short fiction … is once again enjoying its rightful popularity.”
—Atlantic Monthly
“Secrets and Surprises is further proof that Beattie is one of the intriguing and provocative writers of our time. [Her] observations are always concise and illuminating, and her involvement unifies these stories and gives them life.”
—Library Journal
Also by Ann Beattie
Chilly Scenes of Winter
Distortions
Falling in Place
The Burning House
Love Always
Where You’ll Find Me
Picturing Will
First Vintage Contemporaries Edition, May 1991
Copyright © 1976, 1977, 1978 by Ann Beattie
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage
Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover by Random House, Inc., New York, in 1978.
Portions of this book have previously appeared in the following: Canto, Fiction Magazine, Mississippi Review, The New England Review, The New York Times Magazine, and Viva.
The following stories originally appeared in The New Yorker:
“Colorado,” “The Lawn Party,” “Secrets and Surprises,”
“Weekends,” “Tuesday Night,” “Shifting,” “Distant Music,” and “A Vintage Thunderbird.”
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material:
CPP/Belwin, Inc. : Lyric from “Solitude.” Copyright 1934 by Mills
Music, Inc. Copyright renewed 1962 by Mills Music, Inc. and
Scarsdale Music Corp. International Copyright Secured. Made in U.S.A. All rights reserved.
Trio Music, Inc. : Lyrics from “I’m a Woman” by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller. Copyright © 1961 by Yellow Dog Music, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Warner Bros. Inc. : Lyrics from “As Time Goes By” by Herman Hupfeld. Copyright © 1931 by Warner Bros. Inc. Copyright renewed. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Beattie, Ann.
Secrets and surprises : short stories / by Ann Beattie.—1st
Vintage contemporaries ed.
p. cm. — (Vintage contemporaries)
eISBN: 978-0-307-76573-4
I. Title.
[PS3552.E177S4 1991]
813′. 54—dc20 90-55706
v3.1
TO ROGER ANGELL
Contents
OTHER BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
A VINTAGE THUNDERBIRD
DISTANT MUSIC
A REASONABLE MAN
SHIFTING
LA PETITE DANSEUSE DE QUATORZE ANS
OCTASCOPE
WEEKEND
COLORADO
STARLEY
DEER SEASON
THE LAWN PARTY
FRIENDS
A CLEVER-KIDS STORY
TUESDAY NIGHT
SECRETS AND SURPRISES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A
Vintage
Thunderbird
N
ick and Karen had driven from Virginia to New York in a little under six hours. They had made good time, keeping ahead of the rain all the way, and it was only now, while they were in the restaurant, that the rain began. It had been a nice summer weekend in the country with their friends Stephanie and Sammy, but all the time he was there Nick had worried that Karen had consented to go with him only out of pity; she had been dating another man, and when Nick suggested the weekend she had been reluctant. When she said she would go, he decided that she had given in for old time’s sake.
The car they drove was hers—a white Thunderbird convertible. Every time he drove the car, he admired it more. She owned many things that he admired: a squirrel coat with a black taffeta lining, a pair of carved soapstone bookends that held some books of poetry on her night table, her collection of Louis Armstrong 78s. He loved to go to her apartment and look at her things. He was excited by them, the way he had been spellbound, as a child, exploring the playrooms of schoolmates.
He had met Karen several years before, soon after he came to New York. Her brother had lived in the same building he lived in then, and the three of them met on the volleyball courts adjacent to the building. Her brother moved across town within a few months, but by then Nick knew Karen’s telephone number. At her suggestion, they had started running in Central Park on Sundays. It was something he looked forward to all week. When they left the park, his elation was always mixed with a little embarrassment over his panting and his being sweaty on the street, but she had no self-consciousness. She didn’t care if her shirt stuck to her body, or if she looked unattractive with her wet, matted hair. Or perhaps she knew that she never looked really unattractive; men always looked at her. One time, on Forty-second Street, during a light rain, Nick stopped to read a movie marquee, and when he turned back to Karen she was laughing and protesting that she couldn’t take the umbrella that a man was offering her. It was only when Nick came to her side that the man stopped insisting—a nicely dressed man who was only offering her his big black umbrella, and not trying to pick her up. Things like this were hard for Nick to accept, but Karen was not flirtatious, and he could see that it was not her fault that men looked at her and made gestures.
It became a routine that on Sundays they jogged or went to a basketball court. One time, when she got frustrated because she hadn’t been able to do a simple hook shot—hadn’t made a basket that way all morning—he lifted her to his shoulders and charged the backboard so fast that she almost missed the basket from there too. After playing basketball, they would go to her apartment and she would make dinner. He would collapse, but she was full of energy and she would poke fun at him while she studied a cookbook, staring at it until she knew enough of a recipe to begin preparing the food. His two cookbooks were dog-eared and sauce-stained, but Karen’s were perfectly clean. She looked at recipes, but never followed them exactly. He admired this—her creativity, her energy. It took him a long while to accept that she thought he was special, and later, when she began to date other men, it took him a long while to realize that she did not mean to shut him out of her life. The first time she went away with a man for the weekend—about a year after he first met her—she stopped by his apartment on her way to Pennsylvania and gave him the keys to her Thunderbird. She left so quickly—the man was downstairs in his car, waiting—that as he watched her go he could feel the warmth of the keys from her hand.
Just recently Nick had met the man she was dating now: a gaunt psychology professor, with a black-and-white tweed cap and a thick mustache that made him look like a sad-mouthed clown. Nick had gone to her apartment not knowing for certain that the man would be there—actually, it was Friday night, the beginning of the weekend, and he had gone on the hunch that he finally would meet him—and had drunk a vodka Collins that the man mixed for him. He remembered that the
man had complained tediously that Paul McCartney had stolen words from Thomas Dekker for a song on the “Abbey Road” album, and that the man said he got hives from eating shellfish.
In the restaurant now, Nick looked across the table at Karen and said, “That man you’re dating is a real bore. What is he—a scholar?”
He fumbled for a cigarette and then remembered that he no longer smoked. He had given it up a year before, when he went to visit an old girlfriend in New Haven. Things had gone badly, they had quarreled, and he had left her to go to a bar. Coming out, he was approached by a tall black round-faced teen-ager and told to hand over his wallet, and he had mutely reached inside his coat and pulled it out and given it to the boy. A couple of people came out of the bar, took in the situation and walked away quickly, pretending not to notice. The boy had a small penknife in his hand. “And your cigarettes,” the boy said. Nick had reached inside his jacket pocket and handed over the cigarettes. The boy pocketed them. Then the boy smiled and cocked his head and held up the wallet, like a hypnotist dangling a pocket watch. Nick stared dumbly at his own wallet. Then, before he knew what was happening, the boy turned into a blur of motion: he grabbed his arm and yanked hard, like a judo wrestler, and threw him across the sidewalk. Nick fell against a car that was parked at the curb. He was so frightened that his legs buckled and he went down. The boy watched him fall. Then he nodded and walked down the sidewalk past the bar. When the boy was out of sight, Nick got up and went into the bar to tell his story. He let the bartender give him a beer and call the police. He declined the bartender’s offer of a cigarette, and had never smoked since.
His thoughts were drifting, and Karen still had not answered his question. He knew that he had already angered her once that day, and that it had been a mistake to speak of the man again. Just an hour or so earlier, when they got back to the city, he had been abrupt with her friend Kirby. She kept her car in Kirby’s garage, and in exchange for the privilege she moved into his brownstone whenever he went out of town and took care of his six de-clawed chocolate-point cats. Actually, Kirby’s psychiatrist, a Dr. Kellogg, lived in the same house, but the doctor had made it clear he did not live there to take care of cats.
From his seat Nick could see the sign of the restaurant hanging outside the front window. “Star Thrower Café,” it said, in lavender neon. He got depressed thinking that if she became more serious about the professor—he had lasted longer than any of the others—he would only be able to see her by pretending to run into her at places like the Star Thrower. He had also begun to think that he had driven the Thunderbird for the last time. She had almost refused to let him drive it again after the time, two weeks earlier, when he tapped a car in front of them on Sixth Avenue, making a dent above their left headlight. Long ago she had stopped letting him use her squirrel coat as a kind of blanket. He used to like to lie naked on the tiny balcony outside her apartment in the autumn, with the Sunday Times arranged under him for padding and the coat spread on top of him. Now he counted back and came up with the figure: he had known Karen for seven years.
“What are you thinking?” he said to her.
“That I’m glad I’m not thirty-eight years old, with a man putting pressure on me to have a baby.” She was talking about Stephanie and Sammy.
Her hand was on the table. He cupped his hand over it just as the waiter came with the plates.
“What are you thinking?” she said, withdrawing her hand.
“At least Stephanie has the sense not to do it,” he said. He picked up his fork and put it down. “Do you really love that man?”
“If I loved him, I suppose I’d be at my apartment, where he’s been waiting for over an hour. If he waited.”
When they finished she ordered espresso. He ordered it also. He had half expected her to say at some point that the trip with him was the end, and he still thought she might say that. Part of the problem was that she had money and he didn’t. She had had money since she was twenty-one, when she got control of a fifty-thousand-dollar trust fund her grandfather had left her. He remembered the day she had bought the Thunderbird. It was the day after her birthday, five years ago. That night, laughing, they had driven the car through the Lincoln Tunnel and then down the back roads in Jersey, with a stream of orange crepe paper blowing from the radio antenna, until the wind ripped it off.
“Am I still going to see you?” Nick said.
“I suppose,” Karen said. “Although things have changed between us.”
“I’ve known you for seven years. You’re my oldest friend.”
She did not react to what he said, but much later, around midnight, she called him at his apartment. “Was what you said at the Star Thrower calculated to make me feel bad?” she said. “When you said that I was your oldest friend?”
“No,” he said. “You are my oldest friend.”
“You must know somebody longer than you’ve known me.”
“You’re the only person I’ve seen regularly for seven years.”
She sighed.
“Professor go home?” he said.
“No. He’s here.”
“You’re saying all this in front of him?”
“I don’t see why there has to be any secret about this.”
“You could put an announcement in the paper,” Nick said. “Run a little picture of me with it.”
“Why are you so sarcastic?”
“It’s embarrassing. It’s embarrassing that you’d say this in front of that man.”
He was sitting in the dark, in a chair by the phone. He had wanted to call her ever since he got back from the restaurant. The long day of driving had finally caught up with him, and his shoulders ached. He felt the black man’s hands on his shoulders, felt his own body folding up, felt himself flying backward. He had lost sixty-five dollars that night. The day she bought the Thunderbird, he had driven it through the tunnel into New Jersey. He had driven, then she had driven, and then he had driven again. Once he had pulled into the parking lot of a shopping center and told her to wait, and had come back with the orange crepe paper. Years later he had looked for the road they had been on that night, but he could never find it.
The next time Nick heard from her was almost three weeks after the trip to Virginia. Since he didn’t have the courage to call her, and since he expected not to hear from her at all, he was surprised to pick up the phone and hear her voice. Petra had been in his apartment—a woman at his office whom he had always wanted to date and who had just broken off an unhappy engagement. As he held the phone clamped between his ear and shoulder, he looked admiringly at Petra’s profile.
“What’s up?” he said to Karen, trying to sound very casual for Petra.
“Get ready,” Karen said. “Stephanie called and said that she was going to have a baby.”
“What do you mean? I thought she told you in Virginia that she thought Sammy was crazy to want a kid.”
“It happened by accident. She missed her period just after we left.”
Petra shifted on the couch and began leafing through Newsweek.
“Can I call you back?” he said.
“Throw whatever woman is there out of your apartment and talk to me now,” Karen said. “I’m about to go out.”
He looked at Petra, who was sipping her drink. “I can’t do that,” he said.
“Then call me when you can. But call back tonight.”
When he hung up, he took Petra’s glass but found that he had run out of Scotch. He suggested that they go to a bar on West Tenth Street.
When they got to the bar, he excused himself almost immediately. Karen had sounded depressed, and he could not enjoy his evening with Petra until he made sure everything was all right. Once he heard her voice, he knew he wanted to be with her and not Petra. He told her that he was going to come to her apartment when he had finished having a drink, and she said that he should come over immediately or not at all, because she was about to go to the professor’s. She was so abrupt that he wondered if
she could be jealous.
He went back to the bar and sat on the stool next to Petra and picked up his Scotch and water and took a big drink. It was so cold that it made his teeth ache. Petra had on blue slacks and a white blouse. He rubbed his hand up and down her back, just below the shoulders. She was not wearing a brassiere.
“I have to leave,” he said.
“You have to leave? Are you coming back?”
He started to speak, but she put up her hand. “Never mind,” she said. “I don’t want you to come back.” She sipped her Margarita. “Whoever the woman is you just called, I hope the two of you have a splendid evening.”
Petra gave him a hard look, and he knew that she really wanted him to go. He stared at her—at the little crust of salt on her bottom lip—and then she turned away from him.
He hesitated for just a second before he left the bar. He went outside and walked about ten steps, and then he was jumped. They got him from behind, and in his shock and confusion he thought that he had been hit by a car. He lost sense of where he was, and although it was a dull blow, he thought that somehow a car had hit him. Looking up from the sidewalk, he saw them—two men, younger than he was, picking at him like vultures, pushing him, rummaging through his jacket and his pockets. The crazy thing was he was on West Tenth Street; there should have been other people on the street, but there were not. His clothes were tearing. His right hand was wet with blood. They had cut his arm, the shirt was bloodstained, he saw his own blood spreading out into a little puddle. He stared at it and was afraid to move his hand out of it. Then the men were gone and he was left half sitting, propped up against a building where they had dragged him. He was able to push himself up, but the man he began telling the story to, a passerby, kept coming into focus and fading out again. The man had on a sombrero, and he was pulling him up but pulling too hard. His legs didn’t have the power to support him—something had happened to his legs—so that when the man loosened his grip he went down on his knees. He kept blinking to stay conscious. He blacked out before he could stand again.
