Distortions by Ann Beattie Page B

Someone has already built a snowman. He likes it, wants a closer look. They go down the walk to the sidewalk. The children next door call hello. A little boy comes over to tell the old man about the snowman he’s built. On another lawn some children are building a fort. Two little girls in snowsuits are carrying snow to the fort in buckets. She sees a big boy push a small boy into a snowbank. It’s just fun. It’s not just fun—he’s kicking snow on him, kicking the little boy.
    “Wait!” she says.
    The big boy kicks snow in her face and runs. She pulls the younger boy out of the snow, brushing it out of his hair.
    “What happened?” she asks him. He’s crying, brushing himself and pointing to the boy who ran away at the same time. Now another boy is screaming. She turns and sees that the old man has slipped in the snow. She runs back. He’s red in the face, but he’s all right. He bent over to make a snowball and one of the children accidentally ran into him. She reaches down to help him up. He’s light, but it’s hard to get a good grip. The pavement is slippery, she’s afraid she might slip. She sends one of the children home to get his mother. But a man walking down the sidewalk has already bent to help the old man up.
    “What are you doing here?”
    “I came to pick you up,” David says. “Your car never would have made it up the hill. I had chains put on.”
    They help the old man into the house. In the hallway he brushes snow off his shoulders, embarrassed and angry. He thinks the child knocked him over on purpose. She hangs up his coat and David helps him upstairs. He goes up the stairs more quickly than he came down, talking about the boy who knocked into him. But he’s forgotten about it by the time his sister arrives. He’s telling David about Berlin in the winter, about the birds. He complains about his memory—Berlin must have been beautiful in the spring. When his sister arrives she’s brought fruit for her, too, saying that she’s a nurse, she must know about Dr. Pauling. It’s her last day. The daughter and the husband will be coming home from Florida. But the sister comes every day, even when they’re home—she has an umbrella and high boots. Wait. The old man has something for her: a postcard. He’s giving her the postcard. The stars twinkle brightly in her hand.
    The children are still playing when she goes outside with David. The big boy she spoke to earlier hides behind a car and tries to hit them with a snowball, but he misses. David’s mad at her, mad that she took the old man out. He won’t speak.
    “We’ll have to go back for my car,” she says.
    No answer.
    “I called you last night and there was no answer.”
    He looks up. “You called?”
    “Yes. You weren’t there.”
    “I didn’t know it was you. I was asleep. Why were you calling?”
    The snow is very deep. He’s driving slowly, concentrating so the car doesn’t skid. On the radio, the weather forecast calls for more snow.
    “I guess you were walking the dog in the woods,” she says.
    “I just told you,” he says. “I was asleep.”
    She closes her eyes, imagines him sleeping, then imagines him with the dog, pulling a broken branch out of the snow, holding it high for the dog to jump up. The dog yelps, runs in circles, but the snow is too deep to jump out of. David is asleep, under the covers. He’s walking up the hill, the dog barking, jumping for the stick. She tries to imagine more, but she’s afraid that if she doesn’t open her eyes she’ll fall asleep in the car.
    Back in the house, she closes her eyes again. He’s drawn the curtains, and the room is a little less bright. She’s very tried. The dog whines outside the door, wanting David. David takes his trumpet off the night table and puts it in the case. He must be practicing again.
    David leaves, saying that he’s going downstairs to clean up. He hears some noise: cups and saucers? and much later, ringing. She’s calling David, but