Ann Beattie
Chilly Scenes of Winter
To my mother and father
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.