The New Yorker Stories - Ann Beattie [248]
It was good they had bought him a ticket for only a brief visit, because if he’d stayed longer he might never have gone home. Though who would have cared if he hadn’t? His wife didn’t care where he lived, as long as she lived in the opposite direction. His daughter might be relieved that he had moved away. He lived where he lived for no apparent reason—at least, no reason apparent to him. He had no friends, unless you called Don Kim a friend—Don, with whom he played handball on Mondays and Thursdays. And his accountant, Ralph Bazzorocco. He supposed Bazzorocco was his friend, though with the exception of a couple of golf games each spring and the annual buffet dinner he and Bazzorocco’s other clients were invited to every April 16—and except for Bazzorocco’s calling to wish him a happy birthday, and “Famiglia Bazzorocco” (as the gift card always read) sending him an enormous box of biscotti and Baci at Christmas . . . oh, he didn’t know. Probably that was what friendship was, he thought, a little ashamed of himself. He had gone to the hospital to visit Bazzorocco’s son after the boy injured his pelvis and lost his spleen playing football. He’d driven Bazzorocco’s weeping wife home in the rain so she could shower and change her clothes, then driven her, still weeping, back to the hospital. Okay: he had friends. But would any of them care if he lived in Los Angeles? Don Kim could easily find another partner (perhaps a younger man more worthy as a competitor); Bazzorocco could remain his accountant via the miracle of modern technology. In any case, Keller had returned to the North Shore.
Though not before that last odd day in L.A. He had said, though he hadn’t planned to say it (Lynn was not correct in believing that everything that escaped his lips was premeditated), that he’d like to spend his last day lounging around the house. So they wouldn’t feel too sorry for him, he even asked if he could open a bottle of Merlot—whatever they recommended, of course—and raid their refrigerator for lunch. After all, the refrigerator contained a tub of mascarpone instead of cottage cheese, and the fruit drawer was stocked with organic plums rather than puckered supermarket grapes. Richard wasn’t so keen on the idea, but Rita said that of course that was fine. It was Keller’s vacation, she stressed. They’d make a reservation at a restaurant out at the beach that night, and if he felt rested enough to eat out, fine; if not, they’d cancel the reservation and Richard would cook his famous chicken breasts marinated in Vidalia-onion sauce.
When Keller woke up, the house was empty. He made coffee (at home, he drank instant) and wandered out through the open doors to the patio as it brewed. He surveyed the hillside, admired the lantana growing from Mexican pottery urns flanking one side of the pool. Some magazine had been rained on—it must have rained during the night; he hadn’t heard it, but then, he’d fallen asleep with earphones on, listening to Brahms. He walked toward the magazine—as offensive as litter along the highway, this copy of Vogue deteriorating on the green tiles—then drew back, startled. There was a small possum: a baby possum, all snout and pale narrow body, clawing the water, trying futilely to scramble up the edge of the pool. He looked around quickly for the pool net. The night before, it had been leaning against the sliding glass door, but it was no longer there. He went quickly to the side of the house, then ran to the opposite side, all the while acutely aware that the drowning possum was in desperate need of rescue. No pool net. He went into the kitchen, which was now suffused with the odor of coffee, and threw open door after door looking for a pot. He finally found a bucket containing cleaning supplies, quickly removed them, then ran back to the pool, where he dipped the bucket in, missing, frightening the poor creature and adding to its problems by making it go under. He recoiled in fear, then realized that the emotion he felt was not fear but self-loathing. Introspection was not his favorite mode, but no matter: