Chilly Scenes of Winter

EIGHT

He stops on the way to work to get gas. It is a self-service station. On the gas pump is a piece of cardboard: “See cashier for transaction settlement.” Why not “Pay cashier”? He is in a bad mood. He was not going to go to work at all, except that he began to feel much sicker and thought that if he got out of the house he might not think about it. In the house, he had thought about weeping in bed, calling Sam at work to tell him to come right over. He had even thought of calling his mother. That’s when he decided it would be best if he went to work.

When he walked into his office Bill was there, sitting in his chair, going through his desk.

“Thank God I called you!” Bill said, shooting up, as though he’d been caught doing something terrible anyway. “If I hadn’t called, imagine what you would have thought if you’d come in and found me with my hand in the till!”

“Find your pen?”

“I just got here,” Bill says.

“Try the drawer on the right,” Charles says.

“How are you feeling, Charlie? Try my home remedy?”

“Didn’t have any whiskey. I’ll get some on the way home.”

“You don’t look good,” Bill says.

“I feel awfully queasy.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I just didn’t feel like lying around the house.”

“Yeah. It must be rough when you’re sick, not having a wife to take care of you.”

“Yeah. So I figured I’d come in.”

“Well, take it easy.”

“I will.”

Charles sits in a chair against the wall, waiting for Bill to finish.

“Sometimes having a wife can present problems, too. Last night she got herself into a state about my boy not being accepted at Harvard. A very paranoid thing about how they would have taken him if he’d been black. I spent an hour calming her down. Her sister married a colored fellow ten years ago, and you should have heard her then. I told her — you don’t have to see your sister. What does it matter to you? She hasn’t seen her sister in ten years.”

“There’s too much emphasis put on what college you go to,” Charles says.

“That’s what I tell her. And Dartmouth isn’t the small time. She cries because he’s told her it’s very cold there. She thinks he’s suffering in the cold. She talks about him like he’s a stray cat or something.”

“That’s too bad. I hope she starts feeling better about it.”

Bill stands up. “I can’t find it. Thanks for letting me look. If you see it around, let me know.”

“A silver pen?”

“A narrow Cross number. My wife gave it to my son to give me for my birthday. You know.”

Charles looks at the paperwork he has to do. He closes his door and takes out his cassette and earphones and puts on “John Wesley Harding.” He works while he listens. When the tape has finished he clicks it off and stands up and stretches. His head is hot. He walks down the hallway to the library and stands looking at it. He goes in and asks for something he doesn’t need — a financial report from 1970. The new librarian (he thinks, sadly, that she’s not so new any more) writes the information down on a slip of paper and goes into the stacks to get it. He thinks about following her, whispering to her that he loves her, pinning her against the shelves. He shakes his head, smiling. Imagine Bill’s reaction: “Why, I just left his office and he was fine. He’d been sick, you know.…” Imagine the librarian’s reaction. Imagine even thinking of doing such a thing. When he gets the report he thanks the librarian and goes back to his office and gets four aspirin, goes to the drinking fountain and takes them, one at a time, tipping his head back to swallow each time. He reminds himself of a bobbing-bird toy he had when he was young. The birds would dip interminably over a glass of water. One night he felt sorry for them because they weren’t getting any rest and poured the glass of water on the floor and attached the birds to the empty glass. He denied doing it. Not much was made of it. His mother showed his father the wet spot in the rug, his father shrugged and filled the glass again.

He leaves the office at quarter after eleven, kidding himself that he’s going to meet Laura at school. He even drives to the school and circles the block, but of course Rebecca goes to school a full day now, and Laura won’t be there for her until three. He could go back then. Except that he doesn’t want to be pushy. Of course she would be polite. And beautiful. But she would think it was in bad taste. Maybe she’ll call. Maybe he will drive over around three.

Three o’clock comes and goes, and he is still working. At three-thirty Betty comes in for the typing and asks how he’s feeling. He is embarrassed, thinking, with his fever, that she knows he deliberately forgot to ask her number. Renounced. The villain.

“Okay,” he says.

“Do you need aspirin or anything?”

“No thanks,” he says.

If only she would leave him alone and not make him feel guiltier.

“Okay,” she says, taking the reports out of the basket. “I’ll get these back to you in the morning. Is that soon enough?”

“Certainly,” he says.

She leaves. He looks up only briefly, when she is almost out the door. The black boots are back. She has on a red miniskirt and a white sweater. She slumps. He should call her, put a little romance in her life, tell her he loves her, marry her. He still doesn’t know her last name.

Leaving work early (four twenty-five), he sees Sid from his floor in the elevator.

“Sid, do you know Betty’s last name? Betty in the typing pool?”

“I can’t say that I do.”

A curious look from Sid. Sid knows. Everything. Both sides of it. That Betty wants him to call, that he is going to call. Well, not without her name or number he isn’t. He could call Laura and ask. That would be loutish; it would be something one of Sam’s old girlfriends would do to him. And Sam wouldn’t mind. Would Laura?

He remembers, finally, to go grocery shopping. There is nothing in the entire store he wants to eat. He buys two frozen pizzas, some soup, some salami and cheese, a roast beef, and a can of lima beans. He goes to the dairy counter and gets another kind of cheese and a half gallon of milk. A hippie is standing at the far end, a half gallon of milk opened and being poured into his mouth. What if he’s caught? The hippie raises his milk carton in salute. Charles waves back. He leaves immediately, in case a store official thinks he knows the hippie.

Charles always has a moment of apprehension at the checkout counter, even though he has money. He checks his wallet several times while he’s still in the store. Other shoppers probably feel sorry for him, having to economize, poor fellow, but that’s all right. That’s better than putting all his things on the checkout counter and not having the money. He leaves the store and drives home. Sam’s car is out front. Sam is in the shower. He is doing his “singing in the tub” song, but he is quieter than usual. Usually he can hear Sam kicking (Sam has confessed to this), but the legs will not break tonight. Figuring that Sam hasn’t eaten, he unwraps the roast and puts it in a pan in the oven. He opens the can of lima beans and dumps them in a pan. He takes a piece of salami out of the white paper it is wrapped in and rolls it into a little tube, bites into it. It’s very strong. Too strong. He finishes it anyway, goes into the living room and turns the thermostat up, sits down with his coat still on. There is a postcard from Pamela Smith: “The Clocks: Walter Tandy Murch, American 1907–1967.” The message: “Thank you again for being so nice to me. I’ve found a ride to LA Will try to call. P.S.” It takes him a while to realize that there was never an additional message she left off; they are her initials. In fact, it takes that so long to register that he also goes into the bedroom and looks for the thermometer. He can’t find it. He goes back to the living room and looks at the rest of the mail. Kittens are apparently no longer being thrown out in trash cans: there is nothing from the Humane Society. There is a notice that he should make a dentist appointment. There is also a note from Pete: “Mommy (crossed out) Clara suggested I send a note to remind you of your dinner invitation this Sat. We will be eating around seven, unless anything goes wrong with the chicken. I’m going to stuff it. I hope there are no hard feelings. Called the other night, but the line was busy. Clara has been working a nice needlepoint footrest of a poddle that she thinks would be nice to put in front of my chair. Be sure to ask to see it. So far, the baths are at a minimum. I really enjoyed that drink you and Susan had with me. Maybe we can do it again sometime. I’ll see you Sat. Clara suggested that I write. I’ll show her the envelope now.”

“Hi,” Charles says to Sam.

“To dispense with formalities, I’m out of a job.”

“What? When did you find out?”

“Five o’clock. I was going to work until eight tonight, when they came around and told me that wouldn’t be necessary.”

“Oh, no. You said you were selling a lot of jackets.”

“I don’t know. They were very vague. They don’t even do you the favor of saying one specific thing that can stick in your mind for you to brood over.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Collect unemployment as long as I can.”

“Couldn’t they have switched you to another one of their stores?”

“I didn’t ask. They actually sent two of them around, probably in case I decided to take one of them on. They were both big.”

“Those bastards.”

“I looked around me at the rows of jackets, and I just couldn’t do anything but nod. I guess I’m glad to be out of there. At least for a while I can collect unemployment.”

“How much will that give you?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“That’s awful, Sam.”

“Now that I’m out of work I won’t have to pay back the college loan. Maybe I’ll actually have it easier.”

“It’s a rotten way to have it easier.”

“I don’t know. What did I do with the money anyway? I just realized going home that I don’t go out on dates any more. I don’t do anything any more.”

“You sound like Pete.”

“Pete says he doesn’t do stuff, but he does. He’s always doing stuff for your mother. I used to do stuff for my dog. Now she’s dead.”

“Don’t start feeling bad about the dog. Why don’t you get yourself another dog? You’d have time to train it.”

“Great. Get fired, and it gives you time to swat a dog’s ass when it shits in the house.”

“You get sarcastic every time I tell you to get another dog.”

“I liked the dog I had.”

“Go on, get another dog.”

“Get another girl friend.”

“Okay,” Charles says. “Touché.”

Sam slumps in the chair.

“I’ve got a roast beef in the oven. Maybe we ought to go out and get a bottle of wine and celebrate: your loss of a job, my loss of Laura.”

“Maybe we should get a bottle of whiskey, too, and finish it off after the celebration.”

“Come on,” Charles says. “Want to go get some wine?”

“Yeah, I guess so. I haven’t had a decent dinner for so long I can’t remember.”

“Your car or mine?” Charles asks.

“Mine’s okay,” Sam says. He gets up, shakes his head. “I don’t think this is registering yet. I just realized that tomorrow I won’t have anywhere to go.”

They walk out the front door. The door on the passenger’s side is frozen shut; Sam has to push it open from the inside. The upholstery on the front seats is ripped, and the rug has pulled away from the door and curled up on both sides. There is a crack across the windshield that begins in the middle and takes a ninety-degree turn across Charles’s line of vision. A truck threw a rock into the window. Sam’s insurance didn’t cover it Charles thinks about Pamela Smith talking about marriage as ashes — the wind will blow the ashes away. She should have been a poet. She did write poetry, in college, and then again for the feminist newspaper she wrote for. But that was ugly poetry, poetry about slippery tongues and pendulous breasts. He is glad he didn’t sleep with her when she spent the night.

“Which one?” Sam says. “The new one on the avenue?”

“Sure. Whatever’s closest.”

“Do you have money, by the way? I guess it goes without saying that I’m broke.”

“Yeah. I’ve got money.” He knows he has thirty-some dollars. If he were going into the grocery store he would already have checked his wallet a couple of times, but this is just a liquor store. He has a twenty and a ten for sure.

“I actually think I might be doing better temporarily, not having to pay so much money back to that bank for the loan.”

“Like I said — it’s a great way to do better.”

“Yeah, I know. Wait until my father hears about this.”

“Don’t tell him. What’s he got to know for?”

“I don’t intend to tell him.”

Sam’s father lives thirty miles away. He has an apartment. Sam’s mother lives in their house, which is only fifteen minutes from where Sam lives. Although sometimes she moves into Sam’s father’s apartment. And sometimes, rarely, Sam’s father shows up at the house. There are always suitcases all over. Sam’s father retired, then went back to work; his mother took a job, then quit, and at last report was thinking about studying to be a beautician. There was a fight about that, and Sam’s father moved out of the house, back to the apartment.

They should get rid of the house and live together in the apartment and send Sam to law school. Neither one likes him well enough to do it. Sam is their only child. Sam’s mother had a hysterectomy after Sam was born. She tells people that she couldn’t have another child because of a delicate heart She tells them she has had heart surgery. She even buys a salt substitute for her bad heart.

“What do you hear from him lately, anyway?” Charles asks.

“He called to say that my mother was over at his apartment I never call her — I don’t know why he’d think I should know.”

“How long have they been shuttling back and forth?”

“Eight years, I guess. Maybe a little longer.”

“What was Christmas like?”

“Awful, as usual. His sister was invited to dinner, and she showed up at the apartment, and nobody was there. She called from the lobby and made a big thing of it — how they should tell her where they were living. She showed up late and everybody was crabby and hungry. It took her about twice as long to get there as it should have. She made a big thing of saying that all the way over she kept thinking that she should just turn around and go back to her apartment and eat alone.”

“That’s all, though?”

“Well, every time my mother fixes dinner Eleanor makes her feel bad by saying, if there’s no parsnips, how much she likes parsnips, or if there’s no bread, how much she likes bread. And she pretends I’m still in college and asks how I’m doing there. I don’t know why they invite her.”

“Is she still working?”

“Yeah. It’s her last year. She told her boss she was retiring next December and he said, ‘I’ve been in hell so many years I’ve gotten used to it. What will I do without you?’ ”

“How long has she been there?”

“Forty years.”

“Jesus. Imagine typing for forty years.”

“I can’t. My imagination is dead. I don’t even dream any more. I was reading that Fritz Perls book over Christmas. Fritz suggests you sit down and ask your dreams why they are eluding you. You know: you set up two chairs and run back and forth.”

“Tried it?”

“Are you kidding?”

Sam double parks in front of the liquor store.

“Since you’ve got the money …” Sam says.

Charles goes in and buys a bottle of bordeaux. The man behind the cash register has bushy white hair and eyebrows. He always says the same thing: “Should prove drinkable.” Charles gives him the $5.80 and nods. Then the man asks if he wants a bag. He doesn’t. He walks back to the car. Sam has turned on the radio and “Benny and the Jets” is playing. Charles wonders if that guy in Mendocino is still playing his jew’s-harp and singing that song. He is glad he is not on the West Coast. He is too old for the West Coast. He found his Frisbee in the closet a few weeks ago and didn’t even give it a toss.

“Pamela Smith was over at my house the other night.”

“Is that right? I thought she was in California.”

“She came back for some reason. She was working in a canning factory out there and it freaked her out, so she came back. Then she decided to go back out and not work in a canning factory.”

“That girl was nuts. Interesting, though.”

“She’s got a friend out there who’s going to teach her to be a silversmith.”

Sam shrugs. “Beats selling jackets.”

“You don’t think there’s any way you could go to law school, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Well, maybe eventually.”

“Sure. I’ll marry a rich woman. Actually, even if I had the money, I think my brain has atrophied too much to understand what anybody’s talking about.”

“You exaggerate.”

“I got a letter from my landlord last week saying that the rent was going up in March, and I had to read it twice to get it through my head what was being said to me.”

“He probably wrote it that way on purpose.”

Sam shrugs. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if this car falls apart. Hear that? If it’s the carburetor I’m okay, but if it’s the engine, I’m sunk.”

Sinking. Bermuda. The sharks. The fountain.

“It’s probably the carburetor.”

“It’s probably the engine.”

The car turns into Charles’s block. The people in this neighborhood go to bed very early. They are almost all asleep by ten, and some go to bed this early — before eight o’clock. Burglars are always breaking in on sleeping couples.

“Did you hear if Rod Stewart was dead?”

“No. Why do you think he’s dead?”

“Some clerk in Housewares told me that this morning.”

“Not as far as I know,” Charles says.

Sam parks. This time Charles’s door sticks from inside and Sam has to go around and pull on it. That doesn’t open it. Charles slides across the seat, tearing it more, and gets out Sam’s side.

“That’s how it protests its existence. One morning I’ll go out and both doors will be stuck.”

They go into the house and Charles looks at the roast. It looks like it might be done. He sticks a fork in it. It might or might not be done. He leaves it in, uncorks the bottle of wine, and turns on the heat under the lima beans.

“This is going to be swell,” Sam says.

“Yeah. We eat such rotten stuff usually that I’m surprised we’re still alive.”

“What the hell. You could know everything like Adele Davis and still be dead.”

“At least she got to take a lot of acid and trip for half a year until she died.”

“Who’d want to trip for half a year?”

The hippie drinking milk in the food store?

“Susan says there aren’t many drugs around any more.”

“Yeah. Things must really be strange on campus now. Having fraternities and proms and swallowing goldfish again.”

“What do you think they do to expand their minds now?” Charles says.

“Get engaged to doctors. I don’t know.”

“I wonder if she’ll have a formal wedding. The whole bit.”

“That girl I told you about before — the one in Housewares. She’s keeping her wedding to five thousand bucks, she told me today. She’s compromising and not having matches and napkins.”

“That’s sad.”

“I don’t know. Maybe there’s something to it. It just seems silly to me.”

“My sister seems silly to me.”

Charles gets napkins and plates out of a cupboard. Sam gets forks and knives. “We don’t need spoons, do we?” Sam always asks that. “No,” Charles says.

“Shit. This is going to be great.” Sam says.

Charles lifts the roast out of the oven, puts it on a plate and carries it to the table. He goes back and gets the pan of lima beans, pours most of the water into the sink, and carries the pan to the table. He goes back and turns off the oven and the burner and gets the wine. He takes the wine to the table, where Sam is sitting, then goes to the kitchen for glasses.

“I should have thought of glasses,” Sam says.

He brings two thermal mugs (a gas-station giveaway of many years ago) and puts one in front of Sam.

“Thanks,” Sam says.

“Sure,” Charles says.

Sam picks up his steak knife and begins to cut the roast “Thick?” Sam says. “Yeah. Please.”

Sam begins to carve. “It won’t cut thick,” he says. “Thin is okay.”

Sam cuts several thin pieces and puts them on Charles’s plate.

“Thanks,” Charles says. “Lima beans?”

“Please.”

Charles lifts the pan closer to Sam’s plate, pushes the lima beans over the rim of the pan with his fork. “Thanks,” Sam says. “Wine?” Charles nods. “Say when,” Sam says.

Charles says nothing, so Sam fills the thermal mug. He pours some into his thermal mug. “Great wine,” Charles says.

“It looks good,” Sam says. He lifts his mug and sips. “It is good.”

Charles spins the bottle to face him so he can read the label.

“What kind of wine is that?” Sam says.

“Bordeaux.”

“French wines are expensive now, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Charles says. “But they’ve never been cheap.”

“Well,” Sam says. “This is a fine celebration.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“Beats Christmas dinner all to hell. She really had parsnips, to shut Eleanor up. Have you ever tasted a parsnip?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“They’re foul. They smell like Vanish.”

“What’s that?”

“Stuff you put down your toilet.”

“Shut up about the toilet when I’m eating.”

“Sorry. I was just thinking about those rotten parsnips.”

“Drop it. I don’t want to think about the toilet when I’m eating.”

“More lima beans?” Sam says. “Thanks,” Charles says. “More than that?” Sam says. “That’s fine.”

Sam dumps the rest on his plate trying, unsuccessfully, to hold back the water with his fork. “Some frozen vegetables taste very good,” Sam says. “These were canned,” Charles says.

“Oh yeah? Well, they’re very good. There’s plenty of vegetables I don’t mind. Hell. I never eat vegetables any more.”

“We’re probably going to get scurvy or something. Did you know that when old people have varicose veins it’s the start of scurvy? Malnutrition?”

“Shut up about disgusting diseases while I’m eating. You don’t hear me talking about the toilet, do you?”

“Stop mentioning the goddamn toilet.”

“This is really very good wine,” Sam says.

“It ought to be.”

“It was awfully nice of you to fix us this big dinner.”

“Don’t tell me that. I had to endure a whole night of Pamela Smith telling me what a nice guy I was. I was so bored I forgot to lay her.”

“You used to lay her, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. I used to.”

“That’s what I thought,” Sam says. “More roast?”

“Yeah. I could use some more. It’s a big roast, isn’t it? I never notice weight when I buy them. I just pick them up.”

“What would Betty Furness say about that?”

“She’s not the one any more. It’s somebody else.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you knew Betty Furness was out.”

“I’m just smart. Like that girl who said Rod Stewart was dead.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s not dead. We could put on the news tonight, though.”

“Yeah. We ought to check. He is a junkie, isn’t he?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, he could have died anyway.”

“Sure,” Charles says.

“She just sort of worked that information in when she was talking about her wedding. She talks about it all the time to make me feel bad, I think. She always wanted me to ask her out. Somebody told me that.”

“Why didn’t you ask her out?”

“Who’s got the money to go on dates? Anyway, I’m too old to go on dates.”

“You’re twenty-seven.”

“Dates are a waste of time. I’d just as soon scrub the toilet.”

“Jesus! Shut up about the toilet.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Do you want the rest of this wine?”

“No. You finish it,” Sam says.

“Okay, I will.”

“This was just great. I’m not even depressed now.”

“It’ll hit you in the morning,” Charles says. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“Sorry.”

Charles drains his mug. “You know, if you want to, you can move in here. I don’t mind having you around.”

Sam looks up. His fork is raised above his roast. “That’s very nice of you. But I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. It’s your place.”

“Hell, if your landlord’s going to raise your rent, what are you going to do?”

“I haven’t thought about it. Maybe I could pay the rent okay, not having to pay back the loan.”

“How much is it being raised?”

“Twenty-five bucks.”

“And how much unemployment will you be collecting?”

“I told you before. I don’t have any idea.”

“Call tomorrow and find out.”

“Stop talking about tomorrow.”

“Would you like some coffee?”

“Please.”

Charles gets up, taking his plate and Sam’s, and goes to the kitchen. He did not turn off the burner after all. He turns it off. Then he puts it on again — silly to turn it off — and puts the coffeepot on it.

“If you think there’s milk, there isn’t,” Charles says.

The hippie raising the milk carton, smiling …

“I don’t drink milk in my coffee.”

“Oh yeah? That’s good.”

“You’ve been watching me drink black coffee for years.”

“Yeah, but I’ve only seen you drinking coffee when you’re sobering up. I thought you drank it black to sober up.”

“No. I drink it black anyway.”

Charles drums on the table with his fork. He puts his fork on the plate with what’s left of the roast.

“Thanks for offering, though,” Sam says. “I appreciate it.”

“I think you’re nuts not to take me up on it. It’s a big house. I would have asked you years ago, but all those women trailing in and out would have depressed me.”

“You’ve given up on me too, huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“On me finding a woman.”

“I don’t care if you find a woman or not. I just don’t want a lot of them trailing in here.”

“Women don’t like me anyway.” Charles shrugs. “Women are getting strange.”

“I read The Dialectic of Sex. You ever read that?”

“What are you reading all this junk for?” Charles says. “That one’s not junk. She’s exactly right. Men are incapable of loving.”

“You’re out of your mind. Why did you start reading all that crap?”

“I don’t know. I read a lot of stuff over Christmas.”

“You ought to be in law school. Then you wouldn’t have time to poison your mind with that crap.”

“No. If you read this one you wouldn’t think it was crap.”

“I thought I was spared when Pamela Smith was here. She leaves with no feminist lecture at all, and you start in.”

“I didn’t start in. I mentioned that I read a good book.”

“I’m getting the coffee.”

“But anyway, it was nice of you to ask me over here.”

Charles goes into the kitchen, lifts the boiling water from the burner, and pours it into two cups. He forgot the coffee. He gets a spoon and puts coffee in the boiling water, stirs, and walks back to the dining room.

“I was thinking about my dog,” Sam says.

“Don’t think about your dog. You’ll get depressed.”

“I already am depressed. I was thinking about my dog the whole time you were gone. You know what I was thinking? That I should have let the vet do an autopsy. She might have been poisoned. Somebody might have poisoned her.”

“Nobody poisoned your dog.”

“I’m not paranoid. I don’t think it was deliberate. I just think that there might have been poison somewhere and she might have eaten it.”

“Her heart gave out.”

“Yeah. Unless she was poisoned.”

“Stop depressing yourself.”

“Shit. She was a great dog. I wouldn’t want to think that anybody poisoned her.”

“So. You don’t have an autopsy, you don’t have to think that.”

“I guess so,” Sam says. “But I feel like I ought to know for sure.”

“If she was poisoned you’d go around mad all the time. She’s dead, whatever she died of.”

“Okay. I don’t want to talk about my dog any more.” The dog, head thrown back, silly toy in her mouth … “I should have bought something for dessert,” Charles says. “Couldn’t hold it,” Sam says. “Ice cream,” Charles says. Sam looks into his coffee cup.

“What’s the matter? Now you’re feeling rotten because you think somebody poisoned your dog.”

“Not just that. I don’t have a job, and I’m in debt, and women don’t like me any more. I’ve been reading those books to try to find out how women think.”

“That’s pathetic.”

“It’s not pathetic. You ought to read some of that stuff. You’d never believe what’s going through their heads.”

Sam, slapping his mother’s hand …

“I don’t want to know. I’ve got enough crap knocking around my own head.”

“But you’re right. Women have changed. You’ve got to try to understand them now.”

“What for?”

“So you can get one.”

“I don’t want one. I mean, the only one I want is taken.”

“You still thinking about her?”

“She was so great. How can I not think about her?”

“I don’t know. I was just asking.”

“Yeah. I’m still thinking about her. I used to dream about her, but now I’ve stopped. I wish I could still dream about her.”

“Old Everly Brothers philosophy, huh?”

“Yeah. The Everly Brothers.”

The dancing instructor, hands clapping together: get closer, get closer.…

“What are you grinning about? We’re old fuckers. We remember the Everly Brothers.”

“I wonder what happened to them?”

“They’re still around, aren’t they?”

“I don’t know. You never hear about the Everly Brothers.”

“I could check in with that girl at work and see if they’re still alive. Except that I won’t be going to work any more.”

“Don’t think about that. You’ll depress yourself.”

“Okay. Say something funny.”

“One time somebody sent Cary Grant a telegram: ‘How old Cary Grant?’ Cary Grant wired back, ‘Old Cary Grant fine, how you?’ ”

Charles’s father had told him that one. He had had to explain it twice before Charles got it. The second time his father wrote it out, showed him what the telegrams actually looked like. “Think about it,” his father had said, his face earnest. “See how Cary Grant kids around in the telegram he sends back? He pretends not to understand.” His father has been dead for sixteen years.

Sam snickers.

“It doesn’t take much to amuse you,” Charles says. “Not when I’m this loaded it doesn’t.” Charles realizes, for the first time, that he is also a little drunk.

“How’d we get loaded on a bottle of wine?”

“I never drink any more. I never do anything any more.”

“You do too.”

“What do I do?”

“How should I know? You do stuff.”

“I don’t do anything,” Sam says sadly.

“Let’s go out to a bar,” Charles says. “I don’t want to just sit around here all night.”

“Let’s catch the news. See what we can find out about Rod Stewart.”

“It’s not time for the news.”

“Okay. Let’s go to a bar.”

“Your car or mine?” Charles asks.

“Mine is okay.”

They put their coats on and leave the house, dishes still on the table. Charles ducks back in to check the burners. They are off. He goes back out the front door. It is very cold, and almost every light on the block is off. Riding along, Charles stares at the dark houses with wonder. How can they go to bed so early? It must be habit, years of training. Got to get up for work, got to go to bed. And they do it. He once asked Laura what time she went to bed, so he could think of her. She wouldn’t tell him. “It would end up depressing you,” she said. She was right; it would depress him to know. But at least he would know — he wouldn’t think of her asleep at ten, eleven, twelve, one.… He gives the finger to the house he thinks the cripple lives in.

They end up at the same bar he went to with Pete. The college kids are back, though, and it’s crowded and noisy. The bar smells of sweat. There is a clock over the jukebox that shows a beer mug perpetually bubbling. Charles decides to drink a beer. He has more than twenty dollars. He can get good and drunk. In a few minutes a couple gets up to leave, and they sit at a table. The same waiter who took Pete’s order comes to the table. Tonight he is wearing dark green slacks. They look like velvet. There is a big grease stain across the thigh. Janis Joplin says, loudly, “This is a song called ‘Get It While You Can.’ Cause it ain’t gonna be there when you get up.” Do the kids in the bar even know who Janis Joplin is, or do they accept anything that comes to them by way of the ceiling speakers? What a depressing song. Janis Joplin is dead. Maybe Rod Stewart.

“I don’t think Rod Stewart is dead,” Charles says.

Sam doesn’t say anything. He is staring at a girl across the room. Charles orders a pitcher of beer for them.

“Hey, hey, get it while you can,” Sam says.

“Looks like reading those trash book didn’t do you any good,” Charles says.

“It did. You don’t see me getting up, do you?”

“Maybe you should go over. Don’t listen to me. I’m just being witty,” Charles says.

“To tell you the truth, I’d rather have my dog back than that girl,” Sam says.

“Forget the dog. Stop talking about her.”

The dog, sitting down, rolling over, shaking hands for a beef bone …

“ ’Atta way, Maria!” a drunk shouts at the speakers. It is the same man.

“That clown was here when I came for a drink with Pete.”

“He’s always here.”

“He looks like he’s in bad shape.”

“I heard that he was a sociology professor.”

“You’re kidding.”

“That’s what I heard.”

Sam turns around and stares at the checked tablecloth. The pitcher of beer is put down in the middle of the table.

“Good centerpiece,” Sam says.

“Amy Vanderbilt would think so.”

“She doesn’t think shit any more,” Sam says.

“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

“That Elise was really a dummy.”

“She wasn’t even very good-looking,” Charles says.

“She wasn’t,” Sam agrees. “I should have kept my fifteen. Then I could contribute to the beer fund.”

“I’ve got plenty of money.”

“That was a subtle hint, in case you’d forgotten I was broke.”

“I didn’t forget”

“Did you forget that you asked me to come live at your place?”

“Of course not How drunk do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to check.”

“You ought to do it, Sam. I don’t think we’d get on each other’s nerves.”

“I couldn’t do that. It’s nice of you, though.”

“Think about it,” Charles says.

“I’ll think about it,” Sam says.

“Oooooh, Mama,” the drunk shouts. “Maria!”

“He’s no sociology professor,” Charles says.

“I’ll ask him,” Sam says. Sam gets up. Charles stares straight ahead, in case there is a fight. He doesn’t want to get involved. If only Sam hadn’t gotten up so quickly, he could have dissuaded him.

“He is,” Sam says, sitting down again.

“You really asked him? What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Yeah.’ ”

“Jesus,” Charles says.

Charles pours another glass of beer.

“Then what did you say? You didn’t just ask and then walk away, did you?”

“I said, ‘You’re not giving a graduate course this semester, are you?’ And he said he wasn’t”

“What if he had been?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says. “I would have thought of something.”

Clever Sam, the drinking fountain handle twisted off … Sam pours another glass of beer. “I wish I was back in college,” he says.

“Yeah,” Charles says.

“But I don’t think I’d want to go to college now,” Sam says. “With these people, I mean. They look just like they’d go to a prom.”

Charles fills his half-empty beer glass.

“You want to hear something sad?” Charles says.

“Do I?”

“It’s not that sad. It’s just something I read. You know Jacques Cousteau?”

“Sure. You think just because I’m not in law school I’m an ignoramus?”

“I think you’re very intelligent That’s why I wish you could be a lawyer.”

“I don’t have any goddamn money. Or motivation.”

“Jacques Cousteau had this dolphin he was working with …”

“If the goddamn dolphin died, I don’t want to hear about it.”

“It didn’t die. The dolphin liked Cousteau and all the attention he gave her so much that she always had her head out of the water, and she got sunburned.”

Sam laughs. “That’s not depressing,” he says.

“I think it is.”

“It’s not as depressing as some things I could think of.”

“Such as my unrequited love for Laura?”

“I was thinking more selfishly.”

“I’m paying for the beer. Think charitably.”

“Well, I wish she liked you.”

“She does like me. She might even love me. She just won’t leave her husband.”

“We’ve been through this before.”

“Be charitable, goddamn it. I love her.”

“Yeah. She was nice.”

“I know she was nice. Why did her husband have to meet her before I did?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says. “I don’t know, either. She says she doesn’t know.”

“Maybe you can shame her into leaving him or something.”

“I doubt it”

“I don’t know. I never have anything intelligent to say on the subject.”

“I just like to talk about her. I’m a masochist. Susan says I am. Do you think I am?”

“I don’t want to insult you. You’re my best friend.”

“You do think so, then?”

“I guess you are.”

“Maybe I am. I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

“Mama Maria, ooh la la,” the man hollers.

The waiter brings another pitcher of beer.

“You know what you could do for me?” Charles says.

“What?” Sam says, picking up the pitcher.

“You could just drive me past her house.”

“What good would that do?”

“I want to see if the lights are off.”

“You’ll make yourself miserable.”

“Come on, Sam.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Then we’ll go over to your apartment and get as much of your stuff as we can haul and bring the stuff to my place.”

“No, no. I can’t move in with you. But thanks.”

“What’s the real reason you won’t move in?”

“I just wouldn’t feel right about it. It’s your house.”

“You can pay half the bills. That would still be a hell of a lot less than the rent you pay.”

“Jesus, I can’t do that. You mean just move out of my apartment?”

“Yeah. Then if you find another cheaper place to move, go ahead and move. Meanwhile you’d be out of there.”

“I don’t know,” Sam says.

“Anyway, there’s a gas leak in your apartment.”

“Everybody who’s got a gas stove has a smell like that.”

“That’s because they leak.”

“I don’t want to fight with you.”

“You’re not able to fight with me.”

“I wouldn’t want to anyway.”

“Come on, finish this beer with me and we’ll get moving.”

“What if you’re just drunk and you wake up in the morning and I’ve moved into your house?”

“I asked you at dinner. I wasn’t drunk at dinner, Sam.” Sam bends his fingers, cracks his knuckles. “Well?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says.

“You could save some money. You could look around and find some better place to live. You’re not going to give them twenty-five bucks more a month for that place that’s poisoning you, are you?”

“Let me finish this beer,” Sam says.

“Will you at least drive me past Laura’s?”

“Yeah. It seems maudlin to me, but if that’s what you want.”

“Maria Muldaur!” the man hollers.

Charles smiles. If Sam had said no, he was going to have Sam drop him off and drive his own car. He doesn’t want Laura to look out her window and see his car, though. He doesn’t want her to think he’s harassing her. She doesn’t know Sam’s car. Not that she’ll be awake.

“Maybe I could move in temporarily,” Sam says. “Until I get another job.”

Charles nods.

“That’ll surprise the landlord,” Sam says.

“Yeah. Just move out on him.”

“It’ll be strange not going home and riding in the elevator,” Sam says.

“Apartments are for shit.”

“Yeah,” Sam says.

Charles pours the last of the beer into his glass. It’s flat. He pours a little salt in. It will make him thirsty during the night, but so what. He stares at the head rising on his beer.

“There she goes,” Sam says.

The girl that Sam had been staring at earlier is walking out of the bar. She looks about twenty, a tall, blond girl in a navy blue coat. This close, she’s not as pretty. She’s with another girl, a dumpy brunette. The brunette smiles at Charles. He smiles back, reflexively. The smile is too wide; he’s pretty drunk. They walk out the front door. Charles stares at his fingers. Both his hands are on top of the table, as if playing with the Ouija board. He hangs his hands at his side. He feels the blood go into them. He puts them back on the table.

“Are we going?” Sam says.

Charles reaches in his pocket for his wallet, counts out the bills, and leaves them on the table. He folds the check and puts it in his pocket without thinking, shakes his head and takes it out. On the back is written: “Your Waiter” and under that “J.D. — Thank you!” in handwriting very small and pale.

They shiver walking to the car, but Charles doesn’t feel the cold air sobering him up much. He reaches up and smoothes his hand across his forehead. “Don’t drink so much,” Laura used to say. His forehead is numb.

Sam fumbles putting the key in the ignition.

“If you make me drive over there and then get depressed, I’m going to be mad,” Sam says.

“I’m not going to get depressed. I just want to drive by the place.”

“You ever go in her house?” Sam asks.

“No.”

“I just wondered what an A-frame was like. What’s the point of them?”

“I never thought about it.”

He has never been in her house, but he knows what it’s like inside. The bathroom has white tile on the floor. Plain white. The tub and sink and toilet are all white. The sink in there is always getting stopped up. You’d think the tub would, since that’s where they wash their hair, but it’s the sink. The white sink, against the left wall. There is white tile halfway up the wall, and gray and yellow flowered paper the rest of the way. Tiny flowers. Rebecca’s room is also done in this wallpaper. He has no idea what paper is in her bedroom, because she won’t discuss it with him. The living room and kitchen are off-white. There is a gray and red rug in the living room. There isn’t very much furniture. There are two comfortable chairs, and there is one uncomfortable chair. The sofa seat isn’t wide enough — it hits everyone just wrong. She has a blender. There is no umbrella stand. There is an Impressionist painting on Rebecca’s wall: Seurat’s “Une Baignade Asnières.” “La Grève du Bas Butin à Honfleur” hangs in the living room. No, there is no art in the bathroom. That’s a little tacky, isn’t it? He has bought a print of “Une Baignade Asnières,” but can’t find the other. It’s a little depressing, to be honest. It’s so empty, so washed-out She bakes the gingerbread cookies in a white oven. There is a pale green refrigerator — not her choice, but it was on sale, that color only. There is a wood table in the kitchen, and chairs they got at an auction for fifty cents each. He imagines Jim bidding on them. He would never have the nerve to go to an auction. He would always look like he was bidding when he wasn’t. He would be forced to pay for and take home everything in the place. Then he’d be stuck with it. He brightens; no he wouldn’t. He could call Best Bird Antiques. He is a little drunk.

Charles has been silently pointing directions to Sam. “Turn,” he says, pointing right Sam turns just in time. He seems to be a little drunk also. Charles starts looking for policemen. What if Sam got stopped? This isn’t such a hot idea. They should go home. But he wants to see her house.…

Sam makes another right turn. Not much traffic, even on this street. Charles looks at his watch. It is one in the morning. Work. Impossible. Work. No.

“That street,” Charles says.

“This is where it is?”

“No. This takes you right into her street.”

“It’s like the country out here. It’s nice.”

“I was sort of hoping she’d despise it.”

“It’s a nice part of town. I was never out this way.”

Charles closes his eyes for a minute. In the back of his head he hears the beginning of “Gimme Shelter.” Was that playing in the bar? He opens his eyes and sees that Sam has put the radio on. “Gimme Shelter” is indeed playing. Charles imagines a dolphin leaping, that music in the background, a water ballet in cartoon style. He would really like to get out of the cold for a while, to stretch out on a beach in the sun. Inoperable melanoma notwithstanding. He points left, and Sam turns. The Rolling Stones are wailing as Sam coasts by Laura’s house. There is a light in the kitchen. A light in the kitchen! Charles reaches over and grabs Sam’s arm. Sam slows down.

“Christ, I knew this was a mistake,” Sam says.

“Oh shit,” Charles says. “She’s baking gingerbread cookies. She’s awake.”

“Baking cookies? Are you out of your mind? It must be one in the morning.”

“I know that’s what she’s doing.”

Sam turns in a driveway, coasts past Laura’s house again.

“How do you know that light’s in the kitchen if you’ve never been in there?”

“She drew me a floor plan once.”

“That’s the sickest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I asked her to do it.”

“I figured.”

“Oh, Sam, she’s baking cookies.”

“Christ,” Sam says. “She’s a room mother.”

“What’s that?”

“They give parties for the elementary school kids on holidays. That kind of stuff.”

“We didn’t have one of those.”

“I know it.”

“I didn’t know anything improved in school,” Sam says. “What do you know.”

Charles closes his eyes. Gingerbread men dance with dolphins.

“Why don’t you give her a call tomorrow? Why don’t you just give it one last chance and find out one way or the other?” Charles shakes his head.

“Don’t tell me it’s pride at this point,” Sam says. “After you sent her four dozen roses you’re acting coy?”

“I sent them years ago. I’ve gotten coy, as you put it.”

“Why do you want to drag this out? Get an answer. You’ll feel better.”

“I don’t want to get no for an answer.”

Sam sighs. They are back on the main road, and Sam is headed for Charles’s.

“Man, are you going to be suffering tomorrow,” Sam says.

Charles puts his feet on the front seat and tips his head forward until it rests on his knees. He closes his eyes. The dolphins jump. Gingerbread men are riding them. It’s a ridiculous vision. Charles opens his eyes. What does the blind man do when he has a bad dream?

“Did you mean what you said before about moving in?”

“How many times have I got to tell you?” Charles says.

“Okay. I’m going to do it. But not tonight. I’m wiped out. I’ll load some stuff over tomorrow.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Charles prepares to leave, realizes that he is still riding in the car, miles from home.

He rides the rest of the way home with his head on his knees, no more disturbing visions.

“You want to know something?” Sam says.

“What?”

“When I first came here, you remember in the fifth grade? You remember how there was that valentine box?”

“Yeah, I remember. The girls decorated the thing.”

“This is really awful. I shouldn’t tell you this.”

“Go on.”

“Well, my mother bought me a box of valentines. I was addressing them at the kitchen table. My father came in and started picking them up. I was sending them to everybody, you know? He just about had a breakdown. He sorted out every enveloped addressed to a boy and ripped it up under my nose. He said, ‘A valentine is romantic. What the hell are you sending valentines to the boys for?’ It really made me feel like hell.”

Charles frowns. “That’s awful,” he says. “I didn’t know he ever pulled that kind of stuff on you.”

“He was always having tantrums. I guess that was just one more excuse.” They ride in silence to Charles’s house. “See you tomorrow,” Sam says.

“Okay. See you,” Charles says. The door opens, and he runs to his front door, reaching in his pocket for his key. He takes it out and opens the door. Sam drives off. Inside the house, he leans against the front door as if he’s escaped something terrible. He reminds himself of the frightened heroine, hiding in the closet from the villain. He laughs. He puts the light on and goes into the dining room. The roast is there, in a puddle of blood. He puts on the bathroom light and urinates. He sits in a chair and looks into space. Work. Tomorrow.

As he is getting ready for bed, the phone rings.

“How’s my boy? I hate to disturb you at this hour, but I know you just got in because I’ve been calling.”

“Hi, Pete.”

“I’ve got to talk low. Can you hear me?”

“Oh, God. What’s the matter now?”

“Nothing. Something good.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll bet I know where you’ve been,” Pete whispers. “Where?” Charles asks. “With your California sweetie,” Pete says. “No. I was out drinking.”

“Oh,” Pete says. “Well. I’ve got very good news, but when you come over Saturday you’ve got to promise to act surprised.”

“What is it, Pete?”

“I got it,” Pete whispers.

“Got what?”

“The Honda Civic,” Pete whispers. “White one.”