The New Yorker Stories - Ann Beattie [173]
Verna sat on the bench by the picnic table. “Perhaps when Gerald gets back we should have the cake,” she said.
“I’ll get the cake,” Henry said, and walked toward the house. Laurel caught his eye and ran to his side when he opened the porch door. She was still holding the cat. It jumped out of her arms and ran under a bush. He wished she’d stayed with the others; he thought that Sally had gone to the bathroom because his family had made her uncomfortable, and he wanted to talk to her.
“Where’s Mommy?” Laurel said.
“In the bathroom,” he said, pointing.
“Anything. Anything, if only you’ll have me back,” Gerald was saying on the telephone. “Counseling—hell, I’d have electroshock therapy. Anything. Anything.”
Henry stood in the hallway, looking at his brother. Gerald looked at him and smiled. “Wrong number,” he said, and hung up.
“Mommy, the cat likes it here,” Laurel said, skipping to the bathroom door. “It didn’t go home or anything.”
The birthday cake was on the kitchen table, sitting on top of a paper doily on top of a footed cake stand—a tall chocolate cake, with “Happy Birthday” written in loopy white icing. A packet of candles and a book of matches lay beside it, ready for the occasion. Henry tapped out some candles and began to press the little wicks upright, stiffening them between his thumb and forefinger.
“Mommy, that cat has a real short tail,” Laurel said.
The telephone rang, and Henry picked it up.
“Gerald?” a woman said.
“No. This is Henry.”
“Henry—it’s Cora. Is Gerald there?”
“Did you just call?” he said.
“Yes.”
“I think he’s had a few drinks. Maybe you ought to call back later.”
“I should have known better. I’m at the emergency room, waiting to have a broken ankle set. I fell off a damned stone wall. I called to see if he had that card with the insurance-policy number on it.”
“Do you want me to go get him?” Henry said.
“No,” she said. “I just remembered that even on the rare occasions when I can communicate with him it’s never worth the price.” She hung up.
Laurel walked on her heels through the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Mommy said I could play with the cat.” Henry heard the door slam. He continued to push wicks upright. Then he arranged the candles in two concentric circles. Sally had been in the bathroom too long. He went to the bathroom door.
“Sally,” he said.
“What?” she said.
“After we have the cake, let’s leave, O.K.?”
“This is the way families turn out,” she said.
“No, it isn’t,” he said.
“Rick got remarried this week. To that woman with the kid that we ran into on Sixth Avenue. Laurel hates the kid. She’s going to have to spend July with them.”
He put his fingertips to the door. “It’s only June,” he said.
Sally laughed.
“Sally,” he said.
“I don’t know how to act around your parents,” she said. “I’m not doing anything right.”
“You do more things right than anybody I can think of,” he said.
She sniffled. She had been crying. “What if I was really going to the bathroom? It would be embarrassing, with you standing right up against the door.”
“Nothing’s changed between us,” he said. “This is one day. My father’s in a bad mood. My brother’s nuts. I told you about my brother.”
“I have to pee,” she said. “Please get away from the door.”
Laurel was sitting on a chair in the kitchen, facing the table and the cake. “I wish I could have that cat,” she said.
Out the window Henry saw his father and brother wrestling. Verna was still on the bench, sipping champagne. The cat, standing by a tree, seemed to be watching what was going on. Henry saw Verna’s face turn stony; she put her mug on the table and smacked her hands. The cat ran away, taking high leaps like a rabbit moving through tall grass. He picked up more candles and poked them into the inner circle of the cake.
“I’m not afraid of matches,” Laurel said.
The birthday cake had gotten her attention. She swung her feet back and forth, eyes riveted on it. Her barrette had slipped; it was clamped below her ear, holding only a few strands of hair. Laurel picked