by Ann Beattie
ACCLAIM FOR ANN BEATTIE’S
Another You
“A novel of distinction.… Beattie’s complexities make us more alert to the layered complexities of our own lives.”
—Los Angeles Times
“A master novelist of our brave new world.”
—Chicago Tribune Book World
“Beattie writes out of wisdom and maturity that are timeless.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Beattie can capture a particular kind of moonlit melancholy of the soul with a near singular sheen … a writer of seamless technique and great authenticity.… The ending of her story here is wonderful, full of sorrow, revelation, and sweet impossibility.”
—Boston Globe
“Another You is rich in detail, sympathy, and chiaroscuro.”
—The New York Times
“Enlivened by all of Beattie’s trademarks at their very best: an ear for contemporary speech as unerring as Elmore Leonard’s; an unblinking eye for the gloriously absurd details of American life in the fast lane; and, best of all, a gift for hilarious yet sympathetic satire.”
—Washington Post Book World
“Beattie’s vision of contemporary middle-class society is as penetrating as radar … truthful and compelling.”
—Miami Herald
ANN BEATTIE
Another You
Ann Beattie has published four previous novels and five collections of stories, among them Chilly Scenes of Winter, Falling in Place, The Burning House, Love Always, and Picturing Will. She lives in Maine with her husband, the painter Lincoln Perry.
BOOKS BY ANN BEATTIE
Another You
The Burning House
Chilly Scenes of Winter
Distortions
Falling in Place
Love Always
Picturing Will
Secrets and Surprises
What Was Mine
Where You’ll Find Me
FIRST VINTAGE CONTEMPORARIES EDITION, SEPTEMBER 1996
Copyright © 1995 by Irony & Pity, Inc.
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 the United States in hardcover by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., New York, in 1995.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the Knopf edition
as follows:
Beattie, Ann.
Another you / Ann Beattie.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-76578-9
I. Title.
PS3552.E177A56 1995
813′.54—dc20 95-2667
Random House Web address: http://www.randomhouse.com/
v3.1
FOR ANDREW BORNSTEIN
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Second-Growth Pine Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
The Flamboyant Tree Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Cocoanut Grove
Second-Growth Pine
1
THERE SHE WAS, swaddled like an oversized infant in her white parka with its pointed hood pulled tight by a drawstring, turning at intervals to face oncoming traffic, extending her hand and pointing her thumb. Marshall went by so fast, and was so preoccupied—how many times do they play Marianne Faithfull singing “As Tears Go By” on the radio these days?—that he flinched as he sprayed her with dirty snow and kept going, hardly registering her presence. As the receding baby’s bunting blip came into focus in his rearview mirror, Cheryl Lanier transformed into a real person. Marshall moved his foot slowly onto the brake, his eyes flicking up to the rearview at the same instant to make sure the car behind him wasn’t going to ram his car. He touched the pedal, eased up, tapped again until the flashing lights caught the other driver’s attention. The driver of the other car, frustrated that he could no longer tailgate, swerved to pass on the right, racing the motor and sending a heavy spray of slush onto the windshield as Marshall squinted to see, pulling off onto the shoulder.
Though there had been no near accident, so much had happened in a few seconds that as Cheryl Lanier ran up to the car, he had not yet recovered enough composure to greet her in the mocking mode he generally used with the young. “Cheryl,” he said simply, as she threw open the passenger door. “Omigod,” she said. “It’s you.” Her long black scarf trailed to her knee on one side; the other end formed a small epaulet of fringe that dangled from her left shoulder. As she thumped down into the passenger seat, the scarf slid to the floor. They almost bumped heads as they leaned forward to snatch it up. But too late: it was soaked from the puddle her boots made as she stepped into the car.
He fingered his own long maroon wool scarf from England, which had been his sister-in-law Beth’s birthday gift to him. As if it were a laurel, he removed his scarf and draped it around her neck. He winced, looking at her red cheeks that had chapped to the texture of an emery board, while her eyes brimmed with tears from the wind. “Smiling faces I can see,” Marianne Faithfull sang. But not for me, he sang in unison, silently, to himself. Was that the way it should be? Should he let his restless impulse coast to a stop as his car had? Should he keep the needle unwavering at 40 m.p.h., be as upstanding as the needle until he dropped her where she was going, then continue off into the darkening afternoon, the wheels tracing the familiar back roads to his house as if they had a life of their own?
She was fingering the scarf, saying she couldn’t possibly accept it; his voice overlaid Marianne Faithfull’s soft, uninfected singing: she must take it; it was already hers. Hearing the flatness of his own tone meld into Marianne Faithfull’s haunted voice—she, a former heroin addict, a lover in her golden-haired youth of the now fifty-year-old Mick Jagger—brought him down. When Cheryl Lanier said, “Who’s that?” it snapped him out of his reverie. My God: he was on his way home from an English department meeting, driving his car along a slick winter road in a place he never intended to live, this damp, pretty young girl seated at his side, and she had just asked who Marianne Faithfull was. It was like not knowing Nixon had a dog named Checkers. Though she was probably born the year Nixon resigned. Nixon, Mick Jagger, the resignation, the Stones’ almost annual comeback tours, the “elder statesman,” Jumpin’ Jack Flash boogeying back to the mike. What a world it was. What a world, in which people got recycled—or conveniently recycled themselves—long before it became politically correct to recycle newspapers and glass bottles.
Cheryl Lanier was still in a dither about accepting his scarf. He heard the words Woolite and too expensive before his thoughts drowned out the rest of her protests. What do you think, Cheryl? Elvis Presley, shaking the hand of Tricky Dick Nixon, and not a Republican cloth coat in sight: just two guys in suits, big smiles, shaking hands for the camera in front of a row of limp flags, Nixon having deputized the Pelvis as an official agent in the war against drugs. This, shortly before Elvis died in the bathroom, after having ingested so many drugs a cough from him could have derailed the Montrealer. Either Tweedledum or Tweedledee had doubts about the adm
inistration being made the butt of a grotesque joke and advised against granting Elvis this power, or at least against the photo op—but the moment happened anyway, like so many moments, it happened anyway, and afterward Tricky no doubt sauntered upstairs, sat by the fire, which he ordered lit even in the middle of summer, tossed down a few scotches, then went around and told the gentlemen painted in the portraits on the walls what he thought of them. Think about it: Can you imagine Margaret Thatcher weaving down the corridors of Number 10 Downing, giving Gladstone and Disraeli the what for? Mitterrand posing rhetorical questions late at night to an oil painting of le Roi Soleil? But in our country we have a bunch of clowns; the circus continues, the band strikes up the music, the balloons rise toward the ceiling from the convention floor. Later, Ford will walk into walls and Reagan will fall off his horse: clowns. Kissinger, court jester, is ordered down to his knees in prayer and plops down at Nixon’s side, while up in heaven J.F.K. jumps from one cloud to the next, as if they’re so many rooftops under which his sleeping lovers lie.
She said she would be glad to have a cup of coffee with him. She looked at him, her hood thrown back, his scarf around her neck. She had been telling him about her roommate’s drinking. Wasn’t it her roommate she was talking about? His thoughts had drifted; the best he could do was to paraphrase what he thought she’d said.
“You think now that when she’s been on crying jags, your roommate has been drunk?” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “But the thing is, she went to see somebody about what happened, and the counsellor told her to forget it. She wouldn’t really listen to her, she just told her to forget it. Livan wasn’t drinking before that—or not that Timothy and I knew about. And the thing is, what happened was pretty awful. I can’t tell you what, but trust me. I feel like calling that woman, the counsellor, and asking her if she has any idea what harm she’s caused, though I don’t suppose she’s going to take the call, number one, and if she did, why would she admit she was incompetent?”
The white bag she had produced from her coat pocket was from the pharmacy: Valium, prescribed for another girl Cheryl knew but destined for Livan. This was why she was out at dusk, hitching in the direction of home, having spent most of her month’s food allowance filling the prescription. He had said that instead of coffee, they should have dinner. It was so early, he could eat something with Cheryl at the tavern he sometimes stopped at—a place frequented by farmers and other locals, rednecks, unemployed kids, very few people from Benson College ever went there—and still go home and pick at dinner with Sonja. As he drove, the sky darkened to steely gray. The moon already shone, a half parenthesis. For a certain period in his life, his brother, Gordon, had taken Valium, and this much he remembered: you weren’t supposed to take Valium and drink. If her roommate was drinking, it was not a good idea to give her the pills—and, if she was as distraught as Cheryl said, it wouldn’t be a good idea to provide her with the pill bottle. He cautioned Cheryl as he drove. Eyes wide, she looked at him. He was causing her to doubt her solution. Her expensive, magic solution.
“I never thought she was so upset she’d kill herself,” Cheryl said. She spoke grudgingly, hiking up her shoulders like a cat.
He decided to push a little. “Why don’t you tell me what the problem is?” he said. “I’ll never meet her. Maybe I could give you some advice.”
More of the big eyes. A deep sigh as her shoulders relaxed. Her hands nervously rearranged her hair. She said, quietly, “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“What do you think? I’m the Big Bad Wolf and I’m going to blow down her door?”
“It’s my door, too,” she said.
What a strange answer—as if the discussion had been about the possible destruction of personal property. But she had become quite petulant. He saw it in the minuscule, sulky protrusion of her bottom lip. Perhaps, in her fantasies, he had already walked through the apartment door. In his own, just now, as his mind raced, he certainly had. Once he found she did not live in one of the dorms, one of those ugly towers put up in the late ’70s that looked like gigantic smokestacks which bordered the campus, he had wished her to live without roommates, in a cozy apartment he could walk into, shutting the door on the cold winter afternoon. From what he gathered, though, there were two roommates. On the radio, the theme music of All Things Considered began. Marshall had friends who had, as a joke, used that same music instead of the wedding march. In a flash, the program about to follow was summarized first by a female voice, then a male, the two seesawing between sound bites on the famine in Africa to the results of a study analyzing sudden, strange changes in bones removed from an Indian burial ground. He did something he never did: he turned off All Things Considered.
“Somebody hurt her,” Cheryl said.
“Hurt her in what way?”
“What do you think I’m talking about? Her emotions?”
“Hurt her physically?”
A nod. Her head quickly turned away as she looked out the side window.
Just when she had finally coaxed him into curiosity about her roommate, forcing him into the present moment, Cheryl intended to drop the subject. It made him a little angry. He thought about Sonja, the night before, turning out the bedside lamp while he was finishing the last paragraph of an article he had been reading, Sonja saying, “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought the light was still on on your side.” Her quizzical look: Could he really have taken offense at such a simple, sleepy mistake? The room suddenly lit up again. He had gotten out of bed and gone into the bathroom, where more things had displeased him: a copy of International Wildlife magazine tossed on the bathroom floor, curl-edged from humidity; the towel thrown over one side of the bathtub instead of draped over the towel rack so it would dry. Lately, Sonja kept house the way Paul Delario ran the curriculum meetings: the inconsequential quickly overwhelmed anything of importance. The theorists were allowed to engage in endless rhetorical debates. But what did it really matter? The students were accepting of anything, while the faculty wanted to do as little as possible to keep their jobs. Everybody lived for sports and any new restaurant reported to be good, where they could deconstruct their broasted chicken. Frowning in consternation, he looked at Cheryl and was startled to see her young face superimposed on his wife’s—this face that looked back at him with Sonja’s narrowed eyes.
He took Cheryl’s hand. As he had taken Sonja’s hand when he returned to the bedroom, sliding into bed beside her, the night-light burning in an outlet just above the baseboards: a three-inch-high visage of Donald Duck, his big, protuberant lips glowing yellow, plastic hat jauntily tilted atop his head.
You need a vacation, Sonja had said, going limp-wristed as he slid into bed beside her, took her hand, and tried to nuzzle his way to a reconciliation. Now, through Sonja’s limp hand, rose the slight pressure of Cheryl Lanier’s smaller, gloved hand, returning nothing of his strengthening grip, but not withdrawing, either.
Well past the college now, he turned onto a smaller, winding road, knowing there was a tavern near the end, before the road looped back past the dairy farm onto the highway.
“I appreciate your concern,” Cheryl was saying to him.
“Ms. Lanier,” he said. In his head, he was mocking youth, in general, as if he had things figured out, as if he had things under control, when really his inadequacies could make him feel slightly faint, when he focused on them. Which was what he was doing at the moment, and no wonder: Did he think Sonja might be out riding in someone’s car, with her hand in another man’s? Any possibility that Sonja would be off having a drink with some handsome client? Possibly there were advances she warded off that she never told him about, but what he really thought was that since she gave out no signals of availability, most men simply got the message. At the tavern, he would call Sonja and tell her he’d be late—maybe even say he was giving a student a ride home. It was turning into a bad night, with rain falling on already slick roads. He wondered whether the tavern would be empty or crowded
and decided it would be crowded; by this point in the winter, everybody was woods crazy. A beagle wandered onto the road, and he braked, thinking it a raccoon, at first, later realizing it was someone’s dog that had a high-hipped swagger. He kept his eyes on the dog, transfixed by the animal though he couldn’t say why. It was a fat beagle, old, probably used to crossing this road, because it was suddenly gone, disappearing through a hole in the fence and vanishing into the darkness.
“I don’t think I should,” Cheryl Lanier said.
“You don’t think you should what?” he said, playing it cool about the meaning of his hand holding hers.
“Tell you,” she said. “I mean, Livan made me promise.”
“Well, you don’t have to,” he said. “But if you want to, the secret’s safe with me.”
“Secrets never stay safe,” she said.
A cliché, but it gave him a moment’s pause. “You mean,” he said, “you’ve never confided anything that has stayed confidential?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “How would I know? The next person who was told wouldn’t be likely to repeat it to me, would they? They might tell somebody else, but they wouldn’t tell me.” She sank lower in the seat. “You know Professor McCallum?” she said.
Jack McCallum. Nice looking, Harvard man, interested in literary theory, managed to get his salary raised every couple of years because he was always hunted by other colleges. A mean softball pitch, a brown bagger, a recent convert to Catholicism. “Bless you,” McCallum had said to him, earlier that week, when Marshall loaned him Gide’s Strait Is the Gate, a book McCallum had had trouble getting. Did he know him? No, he didn’t really know him, but that seemed an unnecessarily oblique answer.
“Livan’s his research assistant,” Cheryl said. “They went to Boston in November, over Thanksgiving break, to do research at the Boston Public Library.”
