The New Yorker Stories - Ann Beattie [259]
I was sitting in my father’s chair. The doilies on the armrests that slid around and drove him crazy were gone. I looked at the darker fabric, where they had been. Give me a sign, Dad, I was thinking, looking at the shiny fabric as if it were a crystal ball. I was clutching my glass, which was sweating. “Mom—you can’t be serious,” I said.
She winked.
“Mom—”
“I’m going to live in his house, which is on the street perpendicular to Palm Avenue. You know, one of the big houses they built at first, before the zoning people got after them and they put up these little cookie-cutter numbers.”
“You’re moving in with him?” I said, incredulous. “But you’ve got to keep this house. You are keeping it, aren’t you? If it doesn’t work out.”
“Your father thought he was a fine man,” she said. “They used to be in a Wednesday-night poker game, I guess you know. If your father had lived, Drake was going to teach him how to e-mail.”
“With a, with—you don’t have a computer,” I said stupidly.
“Oh, Ann, I wonder about you sometimes. As if your father and I couldn’t have driven to Circuit City, bought a computer—and he could have e-mailed you! He was excited about it.”
“Well, I don’t—” I seemed unable to finish any thought. I started again. “This could be a big mistake,” I said. “He only lives one block away. Is it really necessary to move in with him?”
“Was it necessary for you to live with Richard Klingham in Vermont?”
I had no idea what to say. I had been staring at her. I dropped my eyes a bit and saw the blue eyes of the lion. I dropped them to the floor. New rug. When had she bought a new rug? Before or after she made her plans?
“When did he ask you about this?” I said.
“About a week ago,” she said.
“He did this by mail? He just wrote you a note?”
“If we’d had a computer, he could have e-mailed!” she said.
“Mom, are you being entirely serious about this?” I said. “What, exactly—”
“What, exactly, what one single thing, what absolutely compelling reason did you have for living with Richard Klingham?”
“Why do you keep saying his last name?” I said.
“Most of the old ladies I know, their daughters would be delighted if their mothers remembered a boyfriend’s first name, let alone a last name,” she said. “Senile old biddies. Really. I get sick of them myself. I see why it drives the children crazy. But I don’t want to get off on that. I want to tell you that we’re going to live in his house for a while, but are thinking seriously of moving to Tucson. He’s very close to his son, who’s a builder there. They speak every single day on the phone, and they e-mail,” she said. She was never reproachful; I decided that she was just being emphatic.
Just a short time before, I had relaxed, counting trois, deux, un. Singing with Mick Jagger. Inching slowly toward my mother’s house.
“But this shouldn’t intrude on a day meant to respect the memory of your father,” she said, almost whispering. “I want you to know, though, and I really mean it: I feel that your father would be pleased that I’m compatible with Drake. I feel it deep in my heart.” She thumped the lion’s face. “He would give this his blessing, if he could,” she said.
“Is he around?” I said.
“Listen to you, disrespecting the memory of your father by joking about his not being among us!” she said. “That is in the poorest taste, Ann.”
I said, “I meant Drake.”
“Oh,” she said. “I see. Yes. Yes, he is. But right now he’s at a matinee. We thought that you and I should talk about this privately.”
“I assume he’ll be joining us for dinner tonight?”
“Actually, he’s meeting some old friends in Sarasota. A dinner that was set up before he knew you were coming. You know, it’s a wonderful testament to a person when they retain old friends. Drake has an active social life with old friends.”
“Well, it’s just perfect for him, then. He can have his social life, and you and he can be compatible.