The New Yorker Stories - Ann Beattie [168]
Atley wanted to have his chauffeur drop us, but out on the street Billy took my hand and said that we wanted to walk. “This nice weather’s not going to hold up,” he said. Atley and I realized at the same moment that two young girls were in the back of the limousine.
“Who are they?” Atley said to the chauffeur.
The chauffeur was holding the door open and we could see that the girls were sitting as far back in the seat as they could, like people backed up against a wall who are hoping not to be hurt.
“What could I do?” the chauffeur said. “They were lit. They hopped in. I was just trying to chase them out.”
“Lit?” Atley said.
“Tipsy,” the chauffeur said.
“Why don’t you proceed to get them out?” Atley said.
“Come on, girls,” the chauffeur said. “You get out, now. You heard what he said.”
One got out and the other one, who didn’t have on as many clothes, took longer and made eye contact with the chauffeur.
“There you go,” the chauffeur said, extending his elbow, but she ignored it and climbed out by herself. Both of them looked back over their shoulders as they walked away.
“Why do I put up with this?” Atley said to the chauffeur. His face was red again. I didn’t want Atley to be upset and his birthday lunch to be spoiled, so I pecked him on the cheek and smiled. It is certainly true that if women ran the country they would never send their sons to war. Atley hesitated a minute, kissed me back, then smiled. Billy kissed me, and for a second I was confused, thinking he might have intended to send me off with Atley. Then he and Atley shook hands and we both said, “Happy birthday,” and Atley bent over and got into the back of the limousine. When the chauffeur closed the door, you couldn’t see that it was Atley in there, because the glass was tinted. As the chauffeur was getting into the front seat, the back door opened and Atley leaned forward.
“I can tell you one thing. I was surprised that somebody remembered my birthday,” he said. “You know what I was just thinking apropos of your story about your mother and father dancing to the television? I was thinking that sometimes you go along in the same way so long that you forget how one little interlude of something different can change everything.” He was grinning at Billy. “She’s too young to remember those radio shows,” he said. “Life of Riley and things like that.” He looked at me. “When they wanted to let you know that time was passing, there’d be a few bars of music, and then they’d be talking about something else.” Atley’s foot, in a black sock and a shiny black oxford, was dangling out the door. The chauffeur pulled his door shut. Then Atley closed his door too, and the limo drove away. Before we had turned to leave, though, the car stopped and backed up to us again. Atley rolled down his window. He stuck his head out. “ ‘Oh, Mr. Atley,’ ” he said in falsetto, “ ‘wherever are you going?’ ” He whistled a few notes. Then, in a booming, gruff voice, he said, “ ‘Why, Atley, back at work after your surprise birthday lunch?’ ” He rolled up the window. The chauffeur drove away.
Billy thought this was nice weather? It was March in New York, and there hadn’t been any sun for three days. The wind was blowing so hard that an end of my scarf flew up over my face. Billy put his arm around my waist and we watched the limousine make it through a yellow light and swerve to avoid a car that had suddenly stopped to back into a parking space.
“Billy,” I said, “why did you keep kissing me all through lunch?”
“We’ve known each other quite a while,” he said, “and I realized today that I’d fallen in love with you.”
This surprised me so much that as well as moving away from him I also went back in my mind to the safety