The New Yorker Stories - Ann Beattie [121]
“There’s some roast left over. And salad, if you want it,” I say.
“Bring it in the living room,” Frank says to J.D. Freddy is holding out a plate to him. J.D. reaches for the plate. Freddy pulls it back. J.D. reaches again, and Freddy is so stoned that he isn’t quick enough this time—J.D. grabs it.
“I thought you’d know it was me,” J.D. says. “I apologize.” He dishes salad onto the plate. “You’ll be rid of me for six months, in the morning.”
“Where does your plane leave from?” Freddy says.
“Kennedy.”
“Come in here!” Tucker calls. “I’ve got a story for you about Perry Dwyer down at the Anvil last week, when he thought he saw Aristotle Onassis.”
“Who’s Perry Dwyer?” J.D. says.
“That is not the point of the story, dear man. And when you’re in Cassis, I want you to look up an American painter over there. Will you? He doesn’t have a phone. Anyway—I’ve been tracking him, and I know where he is now, and I am very interested, if you would stress that with him, to do a show in June that will be only him. He doesn’t answer my letters.”
“Your hand is cut,” J.D. says to me.
“Forget it,” I say. “Go ahead.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Did I make you do that?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Don’t keep your finger under the water. Put pressure on it to stop the bleeding.”
He puts the plate on the table. Freddy is leaning against the counter, staring at the blood swirling in the sink, and smoking the joint all by himself. I can feel the little curls on my forehead that Freddy was talking about. They feel heavy on my skin. I hate to see my own blood. I’m sweating. I let J.D. do what he does; he turns off the water and wraps his hand around my second finger, squeezing. Water runs down our wrists.
Freddy jumps to answer the phone when it rings, as though a siren just went off behind him. He calls me to the phone, but J.D. steps in front of me, shakes his head no, and takes the dish towel and wraps it around my hand before he lets me go.
“Well,” Marilyn says. “I had the best of intentions, but my battery’s dead.”
J.D. is standing behind me, with his hand on my shoulder.
“I’ll be right over,” I say. “He’s not upset now, is he?”
“No, but he’s dropped enough hints that he doesn’t think he can make it through the night.”
“O.K.,” I say. “I’m sorry about all of this.”
“Six years old,” Marilyn says. “Wait till he grows up and gets that feeling.”
I hang up.
“Let me see your hand,” J.D. says.
“I don’t want to look at it. Just go get me a Band-Aid, please.”
He turns and goes upstairs. I unwrap the towel and look at it. It’s pretty deep, but no glass is in my finger. I feel funny; the outlines of things are turning yellow. I sit in the chair by the phone. Sam comes and lies beside me, and I stare at his black-and-yellow tail, beating. I reach down with my good hand and pat him, breathing deeply in time with every second pat.
“Rothko?” Tucker says bitterly, in the living room. “Nothing is great that can appear on greeting cards. Wyeth is that way. Would Christina’s World look bad on a cocktail napkin? You know it wouldn’t.”
I jump as the phone rings again. “Hello?” I say, wedging the phone against my shoulder with my ear, wrapping the dish towel tighter around my hand.
“Tell them it’s a crank call. Tell them anything,” Johnny says. “I miss you. How’s Saturday night at your house?”
“All right,” I say. I catch my breath.
“Everything’s all right here, too. Yes indeed. Roast rack of lamb. Friend of Nicole’s who’s going to Key West tomorrow had too much to drink and got depressed because he thought it was raining in Key West, and I said I’d go in my study and call the National Weather Service. Hello, Weather Service. How are you?”
J.D. comes down from upstairs with two Band-Aids and stands beside me, unwrapping one. I want to say to Johnny, “I’m cut. I’m bleeding. It’s no joke.”
It’s all right to talk in front of J.D., but I don’t know who else might overhear me.
“I’d say they made the delivery about