The New Yorker Stories - Ann Beattie [296]
“He wanted the two of us to spring my son and take care of him, you know that? Go on welfare and take care of him.” Jim shook his head. “He’s somethin’, ” he said.
“Would that not be at all possible?” Francis said.
“No, it wouldn’t,” Jim said. “You’d know that in one second.”
“He miscalculated, then. He obviously looks up to you,” Francis said again.
“Yeah, well, it’s no ‘Brokeback Mountain,’ ” Jim said, taking a big bite of his bagel.
Francis tried again: “I think he might do things—say things, maybe—to impress you.”
“Scare me, is more like it. My son’s a pretzel,” he said. “Not one doctor, ever, thought anybody could take care of him anywhere but in an institution.” He got up. “Ten minutes, out front,” he said.
Francis stood to get some coffee. “I hope I didn’t offend you by asking whether Don’s idea might have some viability,” he said.
“No, it’s just that Don’s not my kid and sometimes it feels like he is.” Jim started for the door, shaking his head. Then he turned back. “If he pressured you into saying you wanted one of the decoys and you don’t, no hard feelings.”
“He didn’t do that. I want one very much. You do beautiful work. You’re a real artist,” Francis said.
Jim nodded slowly. “My grandfather was better, back twenty years ago, but I stick with it, and every now and then I learn something.”
“The price is very reasonable,” Francis said.
“If I have more money or less money things are about the same, I notice.”
“You didn’t feel you had to quote me a low price, for any reason?” Francis asked.
Jim looked at him.
“You know, it might be a little tense at my house. My son’s girlfriend was on that plane. That’s bad enough, but she’s also pregnant, and he doesn’t want to marry her.”
A look of concern flickered over Jim’s face. “You’re full of surprises today,” he said. He seemed to be debating continuing on his way or staying rooted to the spot. “Tell him not to,” he said. “If he’ll listen to your advice.”
“I wanted to prepare you, because there might be a bit of tension in the air,” Francis said.
“We’ll just carry the furniture in. Leave,” Jim said. “We’re just the moving men.”
“My wife sometimes deals with her anxiety by remaining rather aloof.”
Jim nodded. “Not lookin’ to make friends with your wife,” he said.
“Five minutes?” Francis said.
“About,” Jim said, turning and walking across the breakfast area’s chaotic carpeting, which looked like shards from a broken kaleidoscope, the wild colors dusted with crumbs.
“Your friend Don,” Francis said, coming up behind Jim. “Is he like a bad kid, sometimes? Does the wrong thing?”
“That’s shit-shootin’ sure,” Jim said. “But what can you do?”
“I don’t know what to do about my son,” Francis said. “Like you said—he’s my son. He isn’t very likely to listen to me.”
Jim nodded. “Worth a try to stop him from marrying somebody he doesn’t want to marry,” he said. “Life doesn’t hold a lot of happy surprises.”
“That’s exactly what I think,” Francis said.
“Friends, family, they get you every time,” Jim said.
With that, Francis felt sure that Jim had known about Don and the wallet, or at least he’d known that Don was capable of having hidden the dropped wallet so that he could return for it later. Otherwise, what would they have been talking about? Friends and family?
Francis took a deep breath and entered the oppressively gray-walled bedroom where Lucy lay facing the window. She had told his wife that she and Sheldon had been writing and talking to each other, and that they had decided to separate, but at the last minute she’d e-mailed him from Japan and asked him to come to the airport. Then she had done a very bad thing: she had insisted, when she was finally allowed to leave J.F.K., that he wouldn’t have cared if she had died. She wanted it both ways: to break up with him, and also to have him love her. Lucy told Francis that Sheldon had pointed that out, calmly but coldly, and when she would not let up he had stalked out of the house. So it hadn’t been as simple as Bern had reported.
Still, he knew there was more. She did not look pregnant,