Chilly Scenes of Winter (23 page)

“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.”

NINE

C
oming home from work, Charles sees Sam’s car parked outside. The car looks as though it has a flat tire on one side; it tilts noticeably to the right. Charles gets out of his car and looks it over. There is no fiat tire. The car does tilt noticeably to the right. While he is there, Charles tries to open the door on the passenger’s side. It doesn’t open. He tries the driver’s side. It doesn’t open. Charles walks up his front lawn to take this good news to Sam. Sam is in the tub, doing his “singing in the tub” number. He is grunting, so he must be kicking. The radio is turned to a classical music station. There is a can of V-8 on the table.

Charles sits down and begins opening the mail. There is a letter from Susan. Not a letter, it turns out, but a brief note. “I couldn’t tell you over the phone that Mark swallows to avoid stuttering. Isn’t it amazing how well that works? Found out Elise is in Vail. But by the time you get this she’ll probably be back at school. I’m sorry she caused you so many problems. I hope Mother isn’t. Love, Susan.”

“Hiya,” Sam says. “I brought over a few boxes. I’ve decided to sell my furniture. I gave away the two black chairs today to people in the building. I might get some money for that crummy sofa.” His mother gave him the sofa when his father got the apartment. His father went out and bought one just like it for his apartment, but still complains that the original sofa isn’t still at the house.

“How did it go at work?” Sam asks.

“I got up the nerve to find out Betty’s phone number.”

“Who’s Betty?”

“A secretary there. She used to pal around with Laura.”

“You don’t mean you’re going to get at Laura somehow through her?”

“No. In fact, I’m so unimpressed with Betty that I left the piece of paper with her number on it out in my car. Which reminds me: you were right. Both doors
are
stuck.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No. I tried them. And there’s something funny about the way that car is balanced. Your shocks must be gone or something.”

“What do you mean?”

“It tilts.”

“I’ll just prop it up with cinder blocks.”

“How are you going to drive it?”

“I’ll put roller skates on the cinder blocks.”

“You’re in a jovial mood.”

“My hangover finally went away. I’ve slept on every piece of furniture in your house today. Kept falling asleep. I finally feel okay again.”

“That’s good. Want to go out for dinner?”

“Yeah. Where should we go?”

“Some place close. The seafood place. Feel like that?”

“Those old men are depressing.”

“We don’t have to sit at the bar. We can get a table.”

“I don’t think they’re too clean.”

“Where do you want to go, Sam?”

“Delicatessen?”

“Okay. Sure. I want to wash my face first.”

“You’re not pissed off that I’m moving in?”

“No. I’m glad you took me up on it. You can save some money this way.”

“Thanks a lot,” Sam says. “I’m really a very nice person,” Charles says. “You do a good imitation of her,” Sam says.

“Thank you.”

“I’m going to go out and see if I can get one of my doors open,” Sam says.

Charles takes a swig of the V-8, goes into the bathroom, and runs the water. Sam’s toothbrush is in the toothbrush holder: a red toothbrush. Even Sam’s toothbrush is falling apart; the bristles splay outward. Charles fills the sink and leans over, closing his eyes and putting his face in the water. He puckers his lips and blows a thin stream of bubbles underwater. It would be wonderful to be submerged in water, to wade out, off the coast of Bermuda, until the water slowly covered his head, and then to blow a thin stream of bubbles before bobbing up for air. To arch his back and glide in the water until his body was horizontal, eyes on the blue, blue sky. The idea is so appealing that he runs the water in the bathtub. At least he can get all of his chest underwater before his knees come up. He sits on the toilet watching the water flow into the bathtub. He thinks of his mother, of the time she called him to get her out because she was having terrible stomach cramps, and how he had to go into the bathroom and lift her from under her arms. She was dead weight, and was complaining so much she wouldn’t follow orders. He started laughing, because he suddenly thought of her as a big shark, a big, slippery fish that he could just let go of, and it would return to the depths of the ocean. He was laughing so hard, and she was complaining so loudly, that neither of them heard Pete come in. Charles didn’t know he was there until Pete spoke from behind him, and then he was so genuinely surprised that he almost did let go. Pete held a towel in front of her as Charles hauled her out. After it happened about ten more times, though, Pete not only didn’t hold a towel in front of her, he didn’t even wrestle her into her bathrobe once she was on the bed. Saturday. He has to go over there for dinner Saturday.…