The New Yorker Stories - Ann Beattie [295]
“It’s terrible,” she said. “Lucy’s mother calling, like a woman possessed, forgetting it’s three hours later on the East Coast, and poor Lucy at wit’s end, trying to calm her. And Francis, it is unbelievable to me, but Sheldon is no help whatsoever. He went out for a walk! A walk! If I were Lucy, I’d never speak to him again.”
The non-smoking room smelled of cigarette smoke. Did it come as a surprise to him that people did not follow rules, when unobserved? He pinched the tip of his nose between thumb and finger, let go, but the itching continued. He rubbed his nose. “What is her mother so upset about?” he said.
“The crash landing! What do you think she’s upset about? Three people died.”
Francis let his mouth drop open. “Crash landing? The plane crashed?”
“You heard it on the radio, didn’t you? Somewhere?”
“No,” he said.
“You didn’t? Then what did you mean by asking—”
“I thought there was trouble between them,” he said.
“I just assumed you’d heard. They almost didn’t let the passengers who survived leave the airport. The investigators are coming to our house, Francis, at the crack of dawn. Something about someone on the plane telling his seatmate it was going to happen. Francis, go turn on the television.”
Francis didn’t move. He took in what she’d said with dumb shock.
“And Francis,” she said, “I do not have the slightest idea how we raised a son who could not reach out and comfort poor Lucy—who stalked off, instead, to take a walk.”
“Maybe he lives in his own head, like his father.”
“This is not the time to reproach me for criticizing you, Francis. Whether you do or do not live in your own little world, in the larger world, poor Lucy was two seats behind someone who died.”
“Horrible,” he murmured. “He’s still on his walk? Would it help if I spoke to Lucy, do you think?”
“I’ve given her an Ambien, poor thing. Her mother is hysterical about the U.S. government and wants to give us all a civics lesson, dragging in the war in Iraq. She’s a terrible woman.”
“Lucy’s asleep upstairs?” he said. He suddenly felt quite exhausted himself.
“Yes, of course. What did you think—that I’d have her stretch out on the sofa?” His wife’s voice broke.
“We’re coming home first thing in the morning,” he said.
“Who is ‘we’?”
“The moving men. There was some confusion about my wallet and we were delayed. I thought it best to put us all up at a motel. We’ll set out first thing in the morning.”
“What do you mean, ‘confusion’?”
“One of them took my damned wallet, then felt remorse and returned it. But do not breathe a word of this to either of them, do you understand? I want to remain cordial and simply conclude this move.”
She sniffed. “I suppose it’s very late, and I might not be understanding you,” she said. “You have the wallet, you and the moving men will be on your way. All right. But tell me, Francis—what do I say to our son about his behavior, when he returns?”
“That he’s an insensitive asshole, I guess.”
“I don’t think I should cross him,” she said quietly. “He got very angry when Lucy’s mother upset her, as if that was Lucy’s doing.”
“Get some sleep,” he said.
“We’ve raised an immature idiot,” she said.
He nodded, but of course she could not see him. “Sleep,” he repeated.
“He has a screw missing,” she said.
“See you tomorrow, early,” he said.
“You have your wallet? That all worked out all right, did it?”
“It worked out,” he said.
She said, “For God’s sake, turn on the television.”
At the Continental-breakfast buffet, he saw Jim sitting alone at a circular table. Jim had piled two Danish pastries onto a napkin—for Don, Francis was sure. A cup of coffee sat on the table, with a lid on the cup. “Didn’t hear the news until this morning,” Jim said. “Seems like plane stuff happens a lot more than it ought to.”
“Do they know what caused it?” Francis asked.
Jim looked at him. He seemed more tired than he had when they checked in. He had circles under his eyes, dark, like a raccoon’s. “They tell us what they want us to hear,” he said.
“Your friend Don,” Francis said, pulling back a plastic chair. “He obviously