The New Yorker Stories - Ann Beattie [297]
“Lucy,” he said, sitting down on the bed, “when I practiced law, I was often successful because I followed my instincts. I used to clear my head by closing my eyes and letting my mind drift until I admitted to myself what I knew. Lucy?”
“You and your wife have been very good to me. I don’t know why your son holds you at a distance, but when I was here I was imitating him, for no good reason. I guess I was wary, because I’ve always been overwhelmed by my parents. My mother, in particular.”
“Before we get off track,” he said. “Because my mind does wander and I do get off track when I shouldn’t. I quit practicing law before other people noticed that—good to quit when you’re still on top. But my mind wandered somewhere recently and it came to me that you were pregnant.”
She rolled toward him and stared, wide-eyed. Perhaps it was the background—the gray walls—that made her look unusually pale. “How could you know that?” she whispered.
“Do you want to know? Because of the bananas,” he said. “Though it was Bern who noticed the banana skins.”
“Oh my God,” Lucy said. She rolled away, facing the window again.
“But she didn’t put it together,” he said. “I didn’t either, at first. Maybe if you’d left out empty jars of marshmallow cream and pizza boxes, it would have been easier.”
“Just bananas,” she said.
He nodded.
“You know, and you hate me,” she said.
“Hate you? Bern and I like you. It’s our son whose behavior—even if you were mixed up, jet-lagged, scared to death . . . still. He should have been more understanding.”
“Where is he?”
“I’m not clairvoyant,” he said. “Sometimes I close my eyes and things come to me, but most times they don’t.”
“What are you going to do?” she said.
“Me? Would it be O.K. to ask what you’re going to do?” He looked at her long, thin legs. Her flat belly. “Or what you’ve done?”
She sprang up suddenly. She said, “I’m afraid to tell him. I don’t know if I missed him because I wanted to convince myself that I loved him, or whether I really do. My mother will kill me. She put me on birth-control pills when I was thirteen.”
“You returned early because you have to deal with this,” he said.
She nodded.
“He’ll come back, and you two have to talk it over.”
“Does your wife know?” she said.
“No.”
“You didn’t tell your wife?”
“I thought I was right, but I wasn’t sure,” he said. “In fact, if I’d been wrong, it would have taken me down a peg. It would have made me wonder whether something else I’d just recently figured out might not have been wrong, too.”
“What might have been wrong?” she said.
“Oh, that someone stole my wallet, then decided to look like a hero by finding it.”
“You knew the person who took it?” she asked. “Did you tell him that you knew?”
“Why would you assume it was a man?” he said.
“What?”
It wasn’t the time to play with her, she was in a bad way—she didn’t realize that he was trying to tease her into examining her assumptions. He said, “No, because I couldn’t prove it. But I more or less told his best friend, the one he wanted to impress, that I’d realized what was going on.”
He put his hands on his knees, getting ready to stand. She shifted her weight onto her hip, following him with her eyes. “Do you know what I should do?” she asked, as he stood. “I don’t have a lot of time.”
He thought about it. “I’d think you’d want to talk this over with Sheldon, as soon as he shows up.”
“Nothing tells you that he won’t show up?”
He smiled. He’d impressed her too easily, when usually he understood very little. Common sense told him that his son—his lazy, spoiled son—would return to the family home, if only because there was nowhere else for him to go. Even now, he could sense Sheldon watching, the way ducks circled decoys, waiting for some instinctive sense that everything looked right, that it was safe to move in; fooled by the sentry heads (that would be Bern, sitting in her chair with her embroidery, her head cocked in semi-disbelief at the way her life was turning out). The mallards would look