The New Yorker Stories - Ann Beattie [128]
“What do you say, Hugo?” I say to the dog. “Another piece of cheese, or would you rather go on with your siesta?”
He knows the word “cheese.” He knows it as well as his name. I love the way his eyes light up and he perks his ears for certain words. Bobby tells me that you can speak gibberish to people, ninety percent of the people, as long as you throw in a little catchword now and then, and it’s the same when I talk to Hugo: “Cheese.” “Tag.” “Out.”
No reaction. Hugo is lying where he always does, on his right side, near the stereo. His nose is only a fraction of an inch away from the plant in a basket beneath the window. The branches of the plant sweep the floor. He seems very still.
“Cheese?” I whisper. “Hugo?” It is as loud as I can speak.
No reaction. I start to take a step closer, but stop myself. I put down the record and stare at him. Nothing changes. I walk out into the backyard. The sun is shining directly down from overhead, striking the dark-blue doors of the garage, washing out the color to the palest tint of blue. The peach tree by the garage, with one dead branch. The wind chimes tinkling in the peach tree. A bird hopping by the iris underneath the tree. Mosquitoes or gnats, a puff of them in the air, clustered in front of me. I sink down into the grass. I pick a blade, split it slowly with my fingernail. I count the times I breathe in and out. When I open my eyes, the sun is shining hard on the blue doors.
After a while—maybe ten minutes, maybe twenty—a truck pulls into the driveway. The man who usually delivers packages to the house hops out of the United Parcel truck. He is a nice man, about twenty-five, with long hair tucked behind his ears, and kind eyes.
Hugo did not bark when the truck pulled into the drive.
“Hi,” he says. “What a beautiful day. Here you go.”
He holds out a clipboard and a pen.
“Forty-two,” he says, pointing to the tiny numbered block in which I am to sign my name. A mailing envelope is under his arm.
“Another book,” he says. He hands me the package.
I reach up for it. There is a blue label with my name and address typed on it.
He locks his hands behind his back and raises his arms, bowing. “Did you notice that?” he says, straightening out of the yoga stretch, pointing to the envelope. “What’s the joke?” he says.
The return address says “John F. Kennedy.”
“Oh,” I say. “A friend in publishing.” I look up at him. I realize that that hasn’t explained it. “We were talking on the phone last week. He was—People are still talking about where they were when he was shot, and I’ve known my friend for almost ten years and we’d never talked about it before.”
The UPS man is wiping sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. He stuffs the handkerchief into his pocket.
“He wasn’t making fun,” I say. “He admired Kennedy.”
The UPS man crouches, runs his fingers across the grass. He looks in the direction of the garage. He looks at me. “Are you all right?” he says.
“Well—” I say.
He is still watching me.
“Well,” I say, trying to catch my breath. “Let’s see what this is.”
I pull up the flap, being careful not to get cut by the staples. A large paperback called If Mountains Die. Color photographs. The sky above the Pueblo River gorge in the book is very blue. I show the UPS man.
“Were you all right when I pulled in?” he says. “You were sitting sort of funny.”
I still am. I realize that my arms are crossed over my chest and I am leaning forward. I uncross my arms and lean back on my elbows. “Fine,” I say. “Thank you.”
Another car pulls into the driveway, comes around the truck, and stops on the lawn. Ray’s car. Ray gets out, smiles, leans back in through the open window to turn off the tape that’s still playing. Ray is my best friend. Also my husband’s best friend.
“What are you doing here?” I say to Ray.
“Hi,” the UPS man says to Ray. “I’ve got to get going. Well.” He looks at me. “See you,” he says.
“See you,” I say. “Thanks.”
“What am I doing here?” Ray says. He taps his watch. “Lunchtime.