The New Yorker Stories - Ann Beattie [22]
“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” MacDonald says. He takes the glass of sherry from Mrs. Esposito.
“I shouldn’t? I have to raise a dwarf and take care of him for thirty-eight years and then in my old age he leaves me. Who should I blame for that?”
“James,” MacDonald says. “But he didn’t mean to offend you.”
“I should blame your father,” his mother says, as if he hasn’t spoken. “But he’s dead. Who should I blame for his early death? God?”
His mother does not believe in God. She has not believed in God for thirty-eight years.
“I had to have a dwarf. I wanted grandchildren, and I know you won’t give me any because you’re afraid you’ll produce a dwarf. Clem is dead, and Amy is dead. Bring me some of that sherry, too, Carlotta.”
At five o’clock MacDonald calls his wife. “Honey,” he says, “I’m going to be tied up in this meeting until seven. I should have called you before.”
“That’s all right,” she says. “Have you eaten?”
“No. I’m in a meeting.”
“We can eat when you come home.”
“I think I’ll grab a sandwich, though. Okay?”
“Okay. I got the parakeet.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“It’s awful. I’ll be glad to have it out of here.”
“What’s so awful about a parakeet?”
“I don’t know. The man at the pet store gave me a ferris wheel with it, and a bell on a chain of seeds.”
“Oh yeah? Free?”
“Of course. You don’t think I’d buy junk like that, do you?”
“I wonder why he gave it to you.”
“Oh, who knows. I got gin and vermouth today.”
“Good,” he says. “Fine. Talk to you later.”
MacDonald takes off his tie and puts it in his pocket. At least once a week he goes to a run-down bar across town, telling his wife that he’s in a meeting, putting his tie in his pocket. And once a week his wife remarks that she doesn’t understand how he can get his tie wrinkled. He takes off his shoes and puts on sneakers, and takes an old brown corduroy jacket off a coat hook behind his desk. His secretary is still in her office. Usually she leaves before five, but whenever he leaves looking like a slob she seems to be there to say good night to him.
“You wonder what’s going on, don’t you?” MacDonald says to his secretary.
She smiles. Her name is Betty, and she must be in her early thirties. All he really knows about his secretary is that she smiles a lot and that her name is Betty.
“Want to come along for some excitement?” he says.
“Where are you going?”
“I knew you were curious,” he says.
Betty smiles.
“Want to come?” he says. “Like to see a little low life?”
“Sure,” she says.
They go out to his car, a red Toyota. He hangs his jacket in the back and puts his shoes on the back seat.
“We’re going to see a Japanese woman who beats people with figurines,” he says.
Betty smiles. “Where are we really going?” she asks.
“You must know that businessmen are basically depraved,” MacDonald says. “Don’t you assume that I commit bizarre acts after hours?”
“No,” Betty says.
“How old are you?” he asks.
“Thirty,” she says.
“You’re thirty years old and you’re not a cynic yet?”
“How old are you?” she asks.
“Twenty-eight,” MacDonald says.
“When you’re thirty you’ll be an optimist all the time,” Betty says.
“What makes you optimistic?” he asks.
“I was just kidding. Actually, if I didn’t take two kinds of pills, I couldn’t smile every morning and evening for you. Remember the day I fell asleep at my desk? The day before I had had an abortion.”
MacDonald’s stomach feels strange—he wouldn’t mind having a couple kinds of pills himself, to get rid of the strange feeling. Betty lights a cigarette, and the smoke doesn’t help his stomach. But he had the strange feeling all day, even before Betty spoke. Maybe he has stomach cancer. Maybe he doesn’t want to face James again. In the glove compartment there is a jar that Mrs. Esposito gave his mother and that his mother gave him to take to James. One of Mrs. Esposito’s relatives sent it to her, at her request. It was made by a doctor in Puerto Rico. Supposedly, it can increase your height if rubbed regularly on the soles of the feet. He feels nervous, knowing that it’s in the glove compartment. The way