The New Yorker Stories - Ann Beattie [278]
He looked at the dog, sniffing the trash can. It was too tall for him to get his snout in.
“Absolutely,” she said. “I’m going to speak to Ed at the hardware store about how to fix the latch. Tomorrow.”
“They’re open till nine tonight,” he said.
“Morty, you do not hint subtly!” she exclaimed. “I’m overwhelmed tonight, if you must know, with Father having misplaced his glasses and his teeth, and he’s got a terrible cold, so he’s in a foul mood. The practical nurse didn’t show up today, either.”
“A lot of part-timers in that profession,” he said. “Doesn’t make for reliability.”
“Well, Morty, that may be true, but what alternative do I have? If dear Barbara were still alive, I could at least get a hug.”
Breezy had been his wife’s best friend. She had received endless sympathy from Barbara—especially concerning her father’s move into her house. Breezy was one of the reasons that Barbara had wanted to spend what turned out to be the last winter of her life in Maine.
After they hung up, Breezy did not appear for so long that he suspected she might not be coming at all. The dog lay curled next to him in the living room, as Cahill read a book called How Buildings Learn, his feet stretched out on the footstool. Finally, she arrived.
“Morty, I hope I didn’t cause you pain by mentioning Barbara,” she blurted, instead of saying hello. The dog rose and shook himself, ambling toward her. She bent and stroked his side. “You ran away again,” she said. “Did Napoleon run away again?”
“Exile to Elba next time,” Cahill said.
“I’ve been to the hardware store. Ed was off tonight, but I left a note saying I came in and that it was an emergency. We are going to solve this problem, aren’t we?” she said in baby talk to the dog. Then she turned to Cahill. “Morty, I feel sometimes that when I say something you aren’t . . . I don’t know . . . that you don’t approve of what I’m saying. I don’t want a gold star for going to the hardware store, but I did go there as you suggested.”
“I’m afraid the dog is going to be hit by a car, Breezy,” he said, with the firm sympathy of a doctor giving a bad diagnosis. He heard his voice pitched a bit too low, and softened. “Just a long day,” he said, standing. Breezy—she’d got her nickname because she loved to talk—was clearly hoping to be asked to stay for a cup of tea. But it had been a bad day—the officious letter, the wasp—and he realized that he’d had nothing to eat since breakfast. He patted Breezy’s shoulder as if she were a patient he was steering gently out the door. At the front stoop, she turned to face him and said, “I know you miss her very much, Morty. I do, too, every day of my life,” and then she was gone, down the steps, curving with the path into the night, Napoleon—so named because the dog did not like to chew on bones, though he liked to tear the bones apart (the sole original thing he’d ever known Breezy’s father to come up with)—trotting along on his leash without a backward glance.
Cahill went into the kitchen and took a potpie from the freezer, placed it on a cookie sheet, and set the oven for four-fifty. Though the oven had not reached the correct temperature, he put his dinner in anyway. Then came another knock at the front door: most certainly Breezy, back for some reason.
Cahill went to the door and opened it. A young woman was standing there.
“Dr. Cahill?” she said. “Excuse me for knocking so late. I’m Audrey Comstock. I live in Portsmouth.”
“Yes?” he said.
“May I come in? I’m a friend of Matt’s.”
“Enter,” he said, gesturing toward the living room. She walked in and looked around. She did not sit, nor did he motion toward a chair. Patients were that way: some would remain standing forever if you did not formally offer them a seat. “What can I do for you?” he said.
“Get him to marry me,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“He doesn’t think he can leave here. You,” she amended. “Leave you.”
“I know nothing about this,” he said.
“We’ve been seeing each other for more than a year. We met at a painting group in Portsmouth. At Christmas, he all but