Chilly Scenes of Winter

ONE

“Permettez-moi de vous présenter Sam McGuire” Charles says.

Sam is standing in the doorway holding a carton of beer. Since Sam’s dog died, he has been drinking a lot of beer. It is raining, and Sam’s hair streams down his face.

“Hi,” Susan says without looking up.

“Hi,” Sam says. He takes off his wet coat and spreads it out on the rug. He goes through the living room to the kitchen and puts two six-packs in the refrigerator. Charles follows him into the kitchen.

“The one who doesn’t speak is a friend of Susan’s from college,” Charles whispers.

Sam rolls his eyes to Charles and holds his hands cupped in front of his chest, moving them up and down.

“Hi,” Sam says to Elise, walking back into the living room.

“Hi,” Elise says. She does not move over on the sofa.

“Move over,” Sam says, sitting down next to her. “How’s school?” he says to Susan.

“I’m sick of it”

“Beats walking the streets,” Sam says.

Elise giggles. “Are you a streetwalker?” she says.

“Me? What are you talking about?”

“Weren’t you just talking about streetwalking?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Sam says.

“I wonder how our failing economy has affected that?” Elise says.

“You wouldn’t know, huh?” Sam says, punching her shoulder lightly.

Elise looks bored. “Didn’t you bring beer with you?” she says.

“Yeah, but I don’t like you. You wouldn’t move over for me, so I won’t give you any beer.”

Elise giggles. No matter what Sam does, he always has great success with women.

“What if I get it myself?” Elise says.

“Ah!” Sam says. “An aggressive woman. Are you an aggressive woman?”

“When Susan and I take to the streets we’re very aggressive,” Elise says.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Sam says. “College kids are nuts now. You probably do hit the streets.”

“Are you drank?” Susan says.

“No. Just trying to be cheerful. My dog died.”

“We’re eating in five minutes,” Charles calls.

Elise goes out to the kitchen for a beer.

“What happened to your dog?” Susan says.

“Had a heart attack. Eight years old. Everybody’s dog lives longer than that.”

“Is your heart bad?” Elise says, coming back into the room. She puts the beer can on the floor, sits down, puts her head against Sam’s chest.

“How much do you charge for doing a little something more?” Sam asks.

“I bet you think that because I’m a nursing student I don’t charge anything at all,” Elise says.

“Keep it clean,” Charles calls from the kitchen.

“Sam’s drunk,” Susan says.

“Come and eat,” Charles says. He has made chili, and puts the pan on the table.

“What would Amy Vanderbilt say?” Sam says.

“Not much of anything now,” Charles says, dishing up the chili.

“What are you two talking about?” Susan asks.

“Amy Vanderbilt,” Sam says.

“Who’s that?” Elise says.

“Are you kidding?” Sam says.

“No. Who is she?”

“A dead woman,” Charles says.

“She jumped out a window,” Sam says. “Excuse me — fell.”

“You’ve heard of her, haven’t you?” Charles says to his sister.

“No,” Susan says.

“Shit,” Sam says. “These two.”

But everyone is in a good mood during dinner. They are in a good mood until the phone rings, just as they finish. Charles is putting on water to boil for coffee.

“Hello?” he says, phone wedged between chin and shoulder, trying to undo the coffee lid.

“I’m so glad you’re there.”

“What’s the matter, Mom?”

“If you weren’t there I was going to kill myself, I’ve been in the bathtub, trying to get the pain to go away. The pain won’t go away.”

“What are you talking about? Where’s Pete?”

“Is the appendix on the left or the right side, Charles? I think that must be what it is.”

“Susan,” Charles says. He gives her the phone, walks away, still trying to undo the lid.

“Of course I believe you,” Susan says.

Charles doubles up, clenching the coffee jar, his face twisted in mock agony. Susan makes a motion with her free hand as if she’s swatting him away.

“You didn’t take any medicine, did you?” Susan says. “Where’s Pete?”

“He’s probably under a rock,” Charles says.

“Don’t take anything. We’ll be right there,” Susan says, putting the phone down. “Come on,” she says to Charles.

“Where the hell is Pete?” Charles says.

“He’s not there. Aren’t you coming?”

“Shit,” Charles says. He hands the unopened coffee jar to Sam.

“Charles, she’s in pain. Please come on,”

“She’s not in pain. He’s out with some barfly and she’s acting up.”

Charles stalks through the kitchen to the closet, gets his jacket. Susan puts hers on without buttoning it and walks out the front door.

“Shit,” Charles says to Sam, “Even your dog had the good sense just to lie down and die.” He opens the door that Susan slammed behind her and goes out into the rain. He knows the Chevy won’t start. It never starts when it’s wet. He fishes around for his car keys, finds them — can’t lose any time there — and reaches around Susan to unlock her door.

“Susan, you’ve got to stop letting her upset you. She’s either drunk or in a bad mood because he’s out with some woman. She’s done this a hundred times.”

“Are you going to lecture me or drive over there?” Susan asks.

“Shit,” Charles says. He slams her door and walks around to his side. The car starts the first time he turns the key.

“What are you worried about?” he says. “You know she’s faking. Isn’t she always faking?”

He is driving fast. The “cold” light is still on. The car skids around a corner. Susan is biting her nails.

“You know it’s all in her mind,” he says.

No answer. He puts on the radio, slows down a little. Maybe if the situation lacks drama she’ll be calmer. He hates it when his sister gets nervous. He hates it when his mother makes crazy phone calls. On the radio, George Harrison is singing “My Sweet Lord.” Charles rummages in the ashtray for a cigarette, finds one, rummages in his coat pocket for a match. There is no match. He throws the cigarette back in the ashtray.

“Don’t be nervous,” Susan says.

In five minutes they pull into the driveway. All the lights are out in the house. Deliberately, to make it hard for them to find her.

“Upstairs!” their mother calls. They run up the stairs and find her naked on the bed, her robe bunched in front of her. There is a heating pad, not turned on, dangling from the bed. A small light is on, for some reason on the floor instead of the night table. There are things all over the floor: The Reader’s Digest, Pete’s socks, cigarette packs, matches. Charles picks up a book of matches and two cigarette packs. Both empty. He drops the matches back on the floor.

“Where’s Pete?” Charles says.

“The pain’s over here,” Clara says, running her hand across her side. “I didn’t take a laxative. I knew I shouldn’t take a laxative.”

“Where’s Pete?” Charles says.

“Chicago.”

“What’s he doing in Chicago?”

“Leave her alone,” Susan says. “I think we should get the doctor.”

Their mother has stringy dyed-red hair. Charles puts the light on and sees red smeared all over her pillow. Lipstick. She wears purply-red lipstick, even to bed. She had silicone implants before her marriage to Pete. She is sixty-one now, and has better breasts than Susan. Charles stares at her breasts. She is always naked. The television is turned on — a picture, but no sound.

“You’re going to be all right,” he says automatically.

“You hate me!” she says. “You don’t want me to be all right.”

“I despair of your ever acting normal again, but I do want you to be all right.”

“My side,” she says.

“You’re going to be all right,” he says, walking out of the bedroom to the hall phone.

“The bathtub,” Clara says to Susan.

“What about the bathtub?” Susan says.

“It’s full of water. I tried to soak the pain away.”

“Let it be full of water. It’s all right.”

“Empty it,” she says.

“What does it matter if the tub has water in it, Mom?”

She looks like she might start crying. Susan lets go of her hand to go empty the tub. Charles is on the phone. He is arranging for an ambulance.

In the bathroom there is another heating pad, plugged in and turned to “high.” Susan pulls the plug out. There are movie magazines all over. Susan walks through them to pull the stopper. A cigarette is floating in the water. Susan reaches down carefully, not wanting the wet cigarette to touch her arm. There is a magazine at the bottom of the tub. Susan jerks her hand out.

“They’re coming,” Charles sighs.

“Help me!” Clara screams.

Charles puts the light on in the hallway, goes into her bedroom and holds her cold hand. She grabs his hand tightly, her false fingernails digging into him. He pulls her robe over her.

“I was going to kill myself,” she says.

“I know,” Charles says.

“Of course you weren’t,” Susan says.

“What are they going to do to me?” Clara says.

“Examine you at the hospital. I would have taken you in my car, but I know you like the ambulance better.”

“Which side is the appendix on?” she says.

“The right, I think,” Charles says.

“I think the left,” Susan says. “Maybe the dictionary.…”

“Don’t go!” she says.

“All right,” Susan says.

They sit on either side of her, Charles holding her hand, Susan resting her hand on her mother’s hair.

“What day is it?” she says.

“Thursday,” Susan says.

“What day?”

“Thursday,” Susan repeats.

“He said he was coming home Thursday,” Clara says.

“Believe me, I wish he could be here,” Charles says.

“I know it’s my appendix,” Clara says. She moves in the bed. The robe falls off her.

Susan rides in the ambulance. Charles follows in the car, deliberately driving much too fast in order to keep up with the ambulance, even though he knows the way to the hospital. Once he nearly turns the car over. When he gets to the hospital he is shaking — at least it looks like appropriate emotion. He sits with Susan, waiting. She bites her nails. He puts money in the cigarette machine. Nothing happens. He pushes the coin release. Nothing happens. After a while the doctor comes out and tells them that there is nothing physically wrong with their mother. She has been given a sedative. Her doctor is on the way.

Charles and Susan leave the hospital, go out to the car, begin the drive home. Soon the doctor will call and hint strongly that their mother should go back to the mental hospital.

The rain has stopped. Charles turns on the radio. Elvis Presley is singing “Loving You.” Elvis Presley is forty. Charles turns off the radio. Susan wipes tears out of her eyes.

When they get back to Charles’s house, all the lights are turned off. Charles goes out to the kitchen, still in his coat, and opens the refrigerator for a beer. Susan comes into the dining room and sits down across from him.

“I wish I had some cigarettes,” Charles says. “You don’t smoke, do you?”

“No.”

“Or drink?”

“Wine, sometimes.”

“You don’t even like beer?”

“No,” she says.

He finishes the can, says good night, and goes into his bedroom. He puts on the overhead light and sees Elise and Sam naked in his bed. He turns the light off, closes the door quietly, and stands in the hallway staring at Susan, still at the table.

“I should have known,” Charles says, going into the living room. He puts two pillows side by side at one end of the sofa and lies down, still in his coat.

“You should have,” she says.

“If you don’t smoke or drink, do you do that?” Charles says.

“Yes,” she says.

“Figures,” he says.

“I’m turning off the lights in here,” he says, getting up and turning them off.

“Okay,” she says. She is still sitting at the table when he falls asleep.