The New Yorker Stories - Ann Beattie [199]
For the Christmas party tonight, there are cherry tomatoes halved and stuffed with peaks of cheese, mushrooms stuffed with puréed tomatoes, tomatoes stuffed with chopped mushrooms, and mushrooms stuffed with cheese. Kate is laughing in the kitchen. “No one’s going to notice,” she mutters. “No one’s going to say anything.”
“Why don’t we put out some nuts?” Howard says.
“Nuts are so conventional. This is funny,” Kate says, squirting more soft cheese out of a pastry tube.
“Last year we had mistletoe and mulled cider.”
“Last year we lost our sense of humor. What happened that we got all hyped up? We even ran out on Christmas Eve to cut a tree—”
“The kids,” Howard says.
“That’s right,” she says. “The kids were crying. They were feeling competitive with the other kids, or something.”
“Becky was crying. Todd was too young to cry about that,” Howard says.
“Why are we talking about tears?” Kate says. “We can talk about tears when it’s not the season to be jolly. Everybody’s going to come in tonight and love the wreaths on the picture hooks and think this food is so festive.”
“We invited a new Indian guy from the Philosophy Department,” Howard says. “American Indian—not an Indian from India.”
“If we want, we can watch the tapes of Jewel in the Crown,” Kate says.
“I’m feeling really depressed,” Howard says, backing up to the counter and sliding down until he rests on his elbows. His tennis shoes are wet. He never takes off his wet shoes, and he never gets colds.
“Try one of those mushrooms,” Kate says. “They’ll be better when they’re cooked, though.”
“What’s wrong with me?” Howard says. It’s almost the first time he’s looked at me since I arrived. I’ve been trying not to register my boredom and my frustration with Kate’s prattle.
“Maybe we should get a tree,” I say.
“I don’t think it’s Christmas that’s making me feel this way,” Howard says.
“Well, snap out of it,” Kate says. “You can open one of your presents early, if you want to.”
“No, no,” Howard says, “it isn’t Christmas.” He hands a plate to Kate, who has begun to stack the dishwasher. “I’ve been worrying that you’re in a lot of pain and you just aren’t saying so,” he says to me.
“It’s just uncomfortable,” I say.
“I know, but do you keep going over what happened, in your mind? When you fell, or in the emergency room, or anything?”
“I had a dream last night about the ballerinas at Victoria Pool,” I say. “It was like Victoria Pool was a stage set instead of a real place, and tall, thin ballerinas kept parading in and twirling and pirouetting. I was envying their being able to touch their fingertips together over their heads.”
Howard opens the top level of the dishwasher and Kate begins to hand him the rinsed glasses.
“You just told a little story,” Howard says. “You didn’t really answer the question.”
“I don’t keep going over it in my mind,” I say.
“So you’re repressing it,” he says.
“Mom,” Becky says, walking into the kitchen, “is it O.K. if Deirdre comes to the party tonight if her dad doesn’t drive here to pick her up this weekend?”
“I thought her father was in the hospital,” Kate says.
“Yeah, he was. But he got out. He called and said that it was going to snow up north, though, so he wasn’t sure if he could come.”
“Of course she can come,” Kate says.
“And you know what?” Becky says.
“Say hello to people when you come into a room,” Kate says. “At least make eye contact or smile or something.”
“I’m not Miss America on the runway, Mom. I’m just walking into the kitchen.”
“You have to acknowledge people’s existence,” Kate says. “Haven’t we talked about this?”
“Oh, hel-lo,” Becky says, curtsying by pulling out the sides of an imaginary skirt. She has on purple sweatpants. She turns toward me and pulls the fabric away from her hipbones. “Oh, hello, as if we’ve never met,” she says.
“Your aunt here doesn’t want to be in the middle