The New Yorker Stories - Ann Beattie [43]
“How did you meet your husband?” May asks Mrs. Wong.
“I met him in an elevator.”
“Did you go out with him for a long time before you got married?”
“For a year.”
“That’s a long time. My parents only went out together for two weeks.”
“Time doesn’t seem to be a factor,” Mrs. Wong says with a sigh. She examines a blister on her big toe.
“Wanda says I shouldn’t get married until I’m twenty-one.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I bet I’ll never get married. Nobody has ever asked me out.”
“They will,” Mrs. Wong says. “Or you can ask them.
“Honey,” Mrs. Wong says, “I wouldn’t ever have a date now if I didn’t ask them.” She puts her sandals back on.
Wanda opens the screen door. “Would you like to have dinner with us?” she says to Mrs. Wong. “I could put in some extra chicken.”
“Yes, I would. That’s very nice of you, Mrs. Marshall.”
“Chicken fricassee,” Wanda says, and closes the door.
The tablecloth in the kitchen is covered with crumbs and cigarette ashes. The cloth is plastic, patterned with golden roosters. In the center is a large plastic hen (salt) and a plastic egg (pepper). The tequila bottle is lined up with the salt and pepper shakers.
At dinner, May watches Wanda serving the chicken. Will she put the spoon in the dish? She is waving the spoon; she looks as if she is conducting. She drops the spoon on the table.
“Ladies first,” Wanda says.
Mrs. Wong takes over. She dishes up some chicken and hands the plate to May.
“Well,” Wanda says, “here you are happy to be gone from your husband, and here I am miserable because my husband is gone, and May’s mother is out chasing down her husband, who wants to run around the country taking pictures of hippies.”
Wanda accepts a plate of chicken. She picks up her fork and puts it in her chicken. “Did I tell you, Mrs. Wong, that my husband drowned?”
“Yes, you did,” Mrs. Wong says. “I’m very sorry.”
“What would a social worker say if some woman was unhappy because her husband drowned?”
“I really don’t know,” Mrs. Wong says.
“You might just say, ‘Buck up,’ or something.” Wanda takes a bite of the chicken. “Excuse me, Mrs. Wong,” she says with her mouth full. “I want you to enjoy your dinner.”
“It’s very good,” Mrs. Wong says. “Thank you for including me.”
“Hell,” Wanda says, “we’re all on the same sinking ship.”
“What are you thinking?” Wanda says to May when she is in bed. “You don’t talk much.”
“What do I think about what?”
“About your mother off after your father, and all. You don’t cry in here at night, do you?”
“No,” May says.
Wanda swirls the liquor in her glass. She gets up and goes to the window.
“Hello, coleus,” Wanda says. “Should I pinch you back?” She stares at the plant, picks up the glass from the windowsill, and returns to the bed.
“If you were sixteen, you could get a license,” Wanda says. “Then when your ma went after your father you could chase after the two of them. A regular caravan.”
Wanda lights another cigarette. “What do you know about your friend Mrs. Wong? She’s no more talkative than you, which isn’t saying much.”
“We just talk about things,” May says. “She’s rooting an avocado she’s going to give me. It’ll be a tree.”
“You talk about avocados? I thought that, being a social worker, she might do you some good.”
Wanda drops her match on the floor. “I wish if you had anything you wanted to talk about that you would,” she says.
“How come my mother hasn’t written? She’s been gone a week.”
Wanda shrugs. “Ask me something I can answer,” she says.
In the middle of the following week a letter comes. “Dear May,” it says, “I am hot as hell as I write this in a drugstore taking time out to have a Coke. Ray is nowhere to be found, so thank God you’ve still got me. I guess