The New Yorker Stories - Ann Beattie [270]
My brother’s knuckles are white on the wheel.
“Are we going to the hairdresser?” she says suddenly. She taps the back of her neck. Her fingers move up until they encounter small curls. When Tim realizes that I’m not going to answer, he says, “Your hair looks lovely, Mom. Don’t worry about it.”
“Well, I always like to be punctual when I have an appointment,” she says.
I think how strange it is that I was never dressed up as Cleopatra, or as a ballerina. What was wrong with me that I wanted to be a tomato?
“Ma, on Halloween, was I ever dressed as a girl?”
In the mirror, my brother’s eyes dart to mine. For a second, I remember Vic’s eyes as he checked my reactions in the rearview mirror, those times I had my mother sit up front so the two of them could converse more easily.
“Well,” my mother says, “I think one year you thought about being a nurse, but Joanne Willoughby was going to be a nurse. I was in the grocery store, and there was Mrs. Willoughby, fingering the costume we’d thought about the night before. It was wrong of me not to be more decisive. I think that’s what made you impulsive as a grown-up.”
“You think I’m impulsive? I think of myself as somebody who never does anything unexpected.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” my mother says. “Look at that man you married when you didn’t even really know him. The first husband. And then you married that man you knew way back in high school. It makes me wonder if you didn’t inherit some of your father’s fickle tendencies.”
“Let’s not fight,” my brother says.
“What do you think other mothers would say if I told them both my children got married without inviting me to their weddings? I think some of them would think that must say something about me. Maybe it was my inadequacy that made your father consider us second-best. Tim, men tell other men things. Did your father tell you about the other family?”
Tim tightens his grip on the wheel. He doesn’t answer. Our mother pats his arm. She says, “Tim wanted to be Edgar Bergen one year. Do you remember? But your father pointed out that we’d have to buy one of those expensive Charlie McCarthy dolls, and he wasn’t about to do that. Little did we know, he had a whole other family to support.”
Everyone at the Oaks is referred to formally as “Mrs.” You can tell when the nurses really like someone, because they refer to her by the less formal “Miz.”
Miz Banks is my mother’s roommate. She has a tuft of pure white hair that makes her look like an exotic bird. She is ninety-nine.
“Today is Halloween, I understand,” my mother says. “Are we going to have a party?”
The nurse smiles. “Whether or not it’s a special occasion, we always have a lovely midday meal,” she says. “And we hope the family will join us.”
“It’s suppertime?” Miz Banks says.
“No, ma’am, it’s only ten a.m. right now,” the nurse says loudly. “But we’ll come get you for the midday meal, as we always do.”
“Oh, God,” Tim says. “What do we do now?”
The nurse frowns. “Excuse me?” she says.
“I thought Dr. Milrus was going to be here,” he says. He looks around the room, as if Jack Milrus might be hiding somewhere. Not possible, unless he’s wedged himself behind the desk that is sitting at an odd angle in the corner. The nurse follows his gaze and says, “Miz Banks’s nephew has feng-shuied her part of the room.”
Nearest the door—in our part of the room—there is white wicker furniture. Three pink bears teeter on a mobile hung from an air vent in the ceiling. On a bulletin board is a color picture of a baby with one tooth, grinning. Our mother has settled into a yellow chair and looks quite small. She eyes everyone, and says nothing.
“Would this be a convenient time to sign some papers?” the nurse asks. It is the second time that she has mentioned this—both times to my brother, not me.
“Oh, my God,” he says. “How can this be happening?” He is not doing very well.
“Let’s step outside and let the ladies get to know each other,