Distortions by Ann Beattie Page A

from the floor, waking up. She goes to the bureau and gets the tea, even though it’s cold. The snow is falling heavily now. Everything is blanketed in whiteness; it clings to the trees, her car is covered with snow. She must have slept through the night. She hears his sister downstairs, closing the door behind her.
    “I take her for granted,” the old man says. “Like snow. Every day I expect more snow.”
    The plant is gone. She looks in all the rooms and can’t find it. Her watch is on the bathroom sink, where she put it when she showered. She showers again and washes her hair, blows it dry. The bathroom is steamy; she can’t see her face in the glass.
    “David?”
    She thought she heard something, but it was only a branch brushing against the bathroom window. She walks naked up to the bedroom and puts on jeans and one of David’s sweaters. She notices that some of the books he’s been studying have been replaced in the bookcase. Now she’s sure she hears him. The dog runs into the house. The front door bangs shut.
    “Hi,” she calls.
    “Hi.” David is climbing the steps. “I’m not used to you working for a whole week. I never see you.” His cheeks are so cold they sting when he kisses her. “I was down at the Duanes’. They had puppies born this morning.”
    “What kind?”
    “Collies.”
    “Take me to see them,” she says.
    “They were going out when I left.”
    “We could go later in the afternoon.”
    “They’ll think I live there,” he laughs.
    “It’s good for you to be out. You’ve been working so hard.”
    “I haven’t done any work for a couple of days.”
    “Yes you have. I saw pages of notes on the dining-room table.”
    “Larry left his notes behind. He brought them down to read me an article he’s working on. He teaches at the university. Botany.”
    “Botany?” she says. “Is that what happened to the plant?”
    “They liked it so much I gave it to them. It was such a freak thing, to grow that way in the winter.”
    She calls early in the morning: 4 A.M . The telephone rings, and there is no answer. The old man can tell that she’s worried when he awakens.
    “I tried to get my husband last night but there was no answer.”
    “Men are heavy sleepers.”
    “No,” she says. “He’d wake up.”
    “All men are heavy sleepers. I can sleep when people are talking—I don’t even hear the children talking on their way to school any more. I can sleep with the light on.”
    “I think school was canceled,” she says, looking out the window.
    It has snowed all night. It’s still snowing.
    “Call my sister and tell her not to come,” he says. “If anything happens I can call.”
    She picks up the phone in the upstairs hallway and gives his sister the message, but the old lady is coming anyway. She has boots and an umbrella, and she’s coming. He shakes his head.
    “It’s terrible to be old. You have no power.”
    He gets out of bed and opens a bureau drawer.
    “Can I help you?”
    “I’m putting on my things to go for a walk in the snow.”
    “You should stay inside. It’s too cold today.”
    “I don’t feel the cold any more. I can go out.”
    “Have breakfast first,” she says.
    “No. I want to go out before she comes.”
    She leaves the room while he dresses. He takes a long time. Maybe his sister will come early, before they go out. No. He opens the door and walks out without his cane, wearing a sweater and a silk scarf tucked into the neck.
    “My jacket is in the hall closet,” he says. “I need the air.”
    She helps him down the stairs. He doesn’t weigh much. She asks if he’ll take his cane, but he wants her arm instead. She gets his jacket and holds it for him to put on. She takes her own jacket out of the closet and zips it.
    It’s bright outside. They both stop, momentarily blinded by the glare. The snow is wet and deep.
    “Just down the walk,” she says.
    “Yes. All right.”
    Children, off from school, are playing in the yards.