Distortions by Ann Beattie

have waited. I could have been anywhere.”
    “Where would you go?”
    He’s chilled. His knuckles are bright pink, untying the scarf at his throat. He’s putting another log on the fire, pushing the screen back into place.
    “How’s the old man?”
    “He’s no trouble. Last night I fixed his photograph album for him. Some of the pictures had come loose and I glued them in.”
    “You look like you need sleep.”
    “Looks like you’ve been working,” she says, pointing to the books by the chair.
    “I’ve had trouble concentrating. The snow was so beautiful last night. I took the dog out for long walks in the woods.”
    David is stroking the dog, who lies curled by the fire, panting in his sleep.
    “Get some rest,” he says, looking at his watch. “I met the people who moved in down the hill and told them I’d help put a sink in. He’s very nice. Katherine and Larry Duane.”
    David kisses her on his way out. The dog wakes and wants to go with him, but at the front door he’s told to stay. The dog whines when the door closes, then waits a minute longer before going back to the living room to sleep by the fireplace.
    “It’s awful. When you get old you expect things to be the same. Sometimes I think the cold air could clear my head. My neighbor is ten years younger than me and he jogs every day, even through snow.”
    “I’m leaving now,” his sister says. She puts on a blue coat and a blue velvet cap that ties under the chin. Her hair is white and copper. She has small, dainty hands. She repeats that she’s leaving and pats him on the shoulder, more to make sure he’s listening than out of affection. “There are oranges in the bag on your bureau. Linus Pauling says that a sufficient intake of vitamin C will prevent colds.”
    “How would I get a cold? Every day is the same. I don’t go out.”
    Her coat is buttoned, her hat tied securely. “That’s like asking where dust comes from,” she says, and disappears down the stairs.
    “She’s very good to come every day. I forget to thank her. I take it for granted. Fifteen years makes so much difference. She’s able to do so much more, but her hands hurt her. She does embroidery so they don’t go stiff.”
    He is looking through a book of Currier and Ives prints. “I suppose I’ll have to eat her oranges. There’ll be more from Florida when they get back.”
    She looks at a picture he holds up for her to see, offers to read him science-fiction stories.
    “I don’t think so. My sister read them this morning. I’ve had enough make-believe. No spaceships are coming to Earth today, only snow.”
    She looks at her watch to see if it’s time for his medicine. Her watch isn’t there. Did she forget to wear it? He asks for tea, and while the water is boiling in the kitchen she dials David, to see if the watch is on the night table. She hangs up and dials again, but there’s still no answer. She looks out the window and sees that it has already begun to snow. Perhaps she lost the watch on the way in. The clasp was loose—she should have asked David to fix it. She turns off the burner and goes outside, looking quickly up and down the front walk before the snow begins to accumulate. She doesn’t see it. The car? She looks, but it isn’t there. She looks on the front steps and in the entranceway. No. It must be at home. She reheats the water, making tea, and carries the cup and saucer upstairs.
    She puts it down quietly on the bureau. He’s fallen asleep. She sits in a chair and watches the snow fall, and in a while she closes her eyes and begins imagining things: mountains, and blue, blue water, all the snow melted into water. This time the name of the country comes to her: Greece. She’s been sent to Greece to find something on the beach, but she just stands there staring at the mountains in the distance, the water washing over her feet. Her feet are cold; she takes them out of the water, backing up onto the sandy beach. She’s lifted her feet