Chilly Scenes of Winter Page 8

  “Did you get the candy bars?” Sam asks. Sam is very hoarse.

  “Oh, yeah. They’re in my coat pocket.”

  “Probably won’t be able to eat that much, though,” Sam says.

  “Sure you will.”

  “I’ve got to get back to work tomorrow,” Sam says.

  “You’re nuts. You can hardly stand up.”

  “Then let them send me to the doctor and send me home. That way I won’t lose my job.”

  “Call them and tell them you’re sick.”

  “Won’t work.”

  “Bastards,” Charles says.

  “I’m lucky to have the damned job,” Sam says.

  “A Phi Beta Kappa is lucky to be selling men’s jackets. Yeah.”

  “The money, I mean.”

  “Speaking of which, you’ve still got a twenty of mine for grass.”

  Susan looks up, surprised.

  “Coming in end of the week,” Sam says. He gets it from a woman whose son gives it to her. She puts it in her lunch pail. The woman works in the “Bath Accessories” shop. She’s a nice woman—a dumb, nice woman. Charles met her once when he came to pick up Sam, and Sam was walking out with her. “I like being dangerous,” she said, swinging the pail. “Only I don’t got the nerve to use it. You boys have a good time. I’m dependable. My boy can get you more.”

  “One time Sam got a memo from the boss saying that he should wear a tape measure around his neck to make himself look more official,” Charles says to Susan.

  “He didn’t.”

  “I did,” Sam says. “God, did I drink a lot that weekend.”

  “You don’t wear the thing, do you?” she asks.

  Sam rolls his eyes. “Oh, Sam, that’s awful.”

  “I sort of think it’s funny now. Another time, when I first started working there, he sent his brother around. His brother was a big fellow. He took forty-two extra long. And the guy told me he wanted a thirty-eight regular. He could hardly squeeze into it. What did I care. I rang it up. Next day the boss came around to congratulate me. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘The customer is always right.’ ”

  Susan shakes her head and laughs.

  “Laugh while you can. Wait until you get out,” Sam says.

  “She’s going to marry the doctor,” Charles says. “She’s got no worries.”

  “It’s nuts to get married,” Sam says. “What would you get married for?”

  “I never said I was getting married. He did.”

  “I should know,” Charles says. “According to you, I’m so smart”

  Susan looks at her watch. “I don’t know when visiting hours are, do you?”

  “We’re family. I don’t think it matters. It would be good to avoid the regular hours because we’d probably miss Pete that way.”

  “We ought to at least say hello to him. He’s awfully upset, you said.”

  “We cheer him up a lot. We’re such good-natured kids.”

  “We could try to act nice tonight. It could be a sort of rehearsal for you, Charles. For when Mark gets here.”

  “I already like him immensely,” Charles says.

  “I do too,” Sam says.

  “Will you let him in?” Susan says to Sam.

  “When he makes his house call, you mean?”

  Susan sighs.

  “Iffen I don’t shoot at the varmint from behind the moonshine machine,” Sam says. Sam puts down his napkin. “Good dinner,” he says. He walks slowly back to the bedroom.

  “Let’s get ready,” Susan says.

  “Let’s do the dishes.”

  “Come on,” she says. “We don’t want to find her asleep when we get there.”

  Charles goes to the closet for his jacket. He takes out the candy bars and takes them in to Sam. Sam is propped up in bed, watching the news.

  “Thank you,” Sam says.

  “Welcome,” Charles says. “I got you cigarettes, too. Do you want them?”

  “Not right now. Thanks, though.”

  Charles meets Susan at the front door, and they go outside to the car. He notices that the birds have eaten all the seed, and that he will have to put out more. Predictable: put out birdseed, it disappears, you put out more, it disappears, and so on. Susan is nervous. She wants to drive, and he lets her. He puts on the radio. John Lennon is singing “Mind Games.” John Lennon thinks that “love is the answer.” But John—what if she won’t get out of her A-frame to be loved? The snow that was not predicted until the eighteenth has started to fall lightly.

  “Road’s getting slick. Watch it on the turns,” Charles says.

  “I drive Mark’s car all the time,” she says. She is in a bad mood. It always upsets her to see Clara in the bin.

  “Stop at that drugstore,” he says. “I’m going to get a pack of cigarettes. They all want cigarettes.”

  She stops in front of the drugstore, and he gets out and buys a pack of Camels. A woman in front of him is buying a magazine with Cher on the cover. “Bonos Bust” the headlines read. Cher, in a low-cut silver gown, is pictured holding their daughter, Chastity, and Sonny has his arm against his brow, as if shielding himself from the sun. The three people have all been cut out of separate photos and jumbled into this one. Charles stares at Sonny, who is wearing boots and fringed pants and a pink shirt. If you don’t shield yourself from the sun you can get an inoperable melanoma, Charles thinks. He would not really care if Sonny Bono died at all, if he didn’t have to be in the bed next to him. The outfits the Bonos are wearing look like something mental patients would put together. Except that then Cher would have on bedroom slippers with her silver dress. The bin. He pays for the cigarettes and walks back to the car. The announcer is talking about the attempt to deport John Lennon. “Does anybody out there want John out of the country? Call in and let us have your views. You know, some people say the government has harassed John. Some of our best citizens have written letters or appeared in John’s behalf. Should they continue? Should John Lennon stay in the U.S.A.? Call us at.…” The announcer’s message is followed by “The Ballad of John and Yoko”: “Christ, you know it ain’t easy, you know how hard it can be, the way things are goin’….” John sings about eating chocolate cake from a bag. Now there’s something nice to remember, one of those crazy in-love things, like special songs and Chinese restaurants. He didn’t do enough of that. Even then he was tired. Right now he is very tired. He rests his head against the foggy side window. He closes his eyes and imagines scenes that never took place: he and Laura went to the beach, and she got sunburned and he rubbed Solarcaine on her back; Laura cooked a ten-course Chinese dinner for him, gave him a surprise birthday party; she asked him for advice, and he gave her good advice that made her happy; they ate Fudgsicles in a park in Paris. Do they have Fudgsicles in Paris? They must. They have a McDonald’s. Revision of that fantasy: he and Laura had a Big Mac in the Paris McDonald’s, later went to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Her eyes were wide at the Lido, the horses racing to the edge of the stage. They climbed a mountain in Switzerland, drank hot mulled cider. They held hands and walked down a street in the spring. She tripped, he fixed the heel of her shoe. She dropped a scented handkerchief, he picked it up, smelled Vol de Nuit. They were together at Christmas, and the house smelled of turkey. She gave him a pineapple. He parted her hair, smoothing his hand down in between brush strokes. In a supermarket, she kissed his ear. They went ice-skating, she in a long skirt, he in a long scarf just like the Currier and Ives print that used to be in his sixth-grade history book. In the rain in Mexico she bought a big white bowl with a rooster in it that he carried. They had a villa and a maid, and where they were the water was so blue it seemed to burn. In actuality, they once had cheeseburgers at McDonald’s on Saturday and were happy eating them there, in spite of the noise the children made and how downtrodden the people looked. Once he got in the tub with her, and she didn’t kick him out. She taught him to play chess, and they drank a delicious, expensive French wine. She gave him a sweater, an
d he had it for a long time before he lost it. He gave her Vol de Nuit, and she smiled. Once he got in the shower with her and she laughed at him, but didn’t kick him out. She did an imitation of the way he slouched when he walked; he imitated her distracted gaze. Nobody got mad. The roller coaster, and the Ferris wheel. They made cookies together. She took her picture in a photo booth to give to him. They ate at a famous seafood restaurant and had brandy. They got stoned and listened to Schubert. She sent him a valentine signed “Anonymous” and always swore that she didn’t do it, even though it was her handwriting. He gave her a chair for her apartment, brought it to her in the rain. She sat in it. It was all wet.

  He looks out the window at the snow. They are already at the hospital. There are three lights in a row, and a few cars. Susan pulls into a place at the end of the row, and they get out and walk toward the side door. A security officer points them to their mother’s wing. Room 14-B. Walking to room 14-B he gives away four cigarettes and lights four cigarettes. He gives out a fifth on the threshold of his mother’s room, turns to light it. “Don’t shake,” the woman says, holding his hands. She frowns at them, no doubt realizing she’ll have little success. She exhales in his face.

  “We’re here, Mom,” Susan says to their mother.

  She is sitting in bed with a bright yellow ribbon tied around her hair.

  “I’m going home tomorrow,” she says. “They knew, they knew it was a mistake to put me here.”

  Susan looks at Charles.

  “That’s great,” he says. “How are you?”

  “Charles, they won’t believe me, but a young doctor here does believe me that I nearly died in that hospital, and I had to get the card of laxatives from my purse and into the bathroom I went, only to get rid of the pain.”

  “What does the doctor say about the pain? What caused it?”

  She stares at him. “The laxatives. So many laxatives. No one believes me that I almost died with the pain. I had to go into the bathroom and take them, those that I had with me from home, in my purse.”

  “Pete at dinner?” Charles says.

  “Yes, he is. I want you to meet a very fine friend, Mrs. DeLillo.”

  “The lord have mercy on your soul,” she says. “Do you smoke?”

  “A cigarette. Yes,” Charles says, extending the pack. She folds the pack into her hand, puts it down the front of her nightgown.

  “Matches?” she says.

  “Can you have matches?” he asks.

  “What good are cigarettes without matches?” she asks. He gives her a book of matches.

  “Charles, I’m so glad not to be dead. My first baby.”

  “We’re having quite a snow,” Susan says.

  “Imagine the snow in Madison, Wisconsin,” their mother says. “My girl goes to school far away,” she says to Mrs. DeLillo.

  “I don’t have to imagine snow,” Mrs. DeLillo says. “I can see it right out this window.”

  “My friend Mark is coming down tonight. He’s going to drive me back.”

  “Who’s that?” Clara says.

  “I told you, Mom. Mark. The pre-med student.”

  “When did you tell me?”

  “In a letter.”

  “I save all your letters. My second baby.” She looks past Mrs. DeLillo, out the window. The lights in the parking lot are visible through the window. They light up the slowly falling snow.

  “How long ago did Pete leave?” Charles asks.

  Clara opens a night-table drawer. There is a piece of paper inside. She hands it to Charles. “Gone to dinner, 7:15, return approximately 7:45,” it says. He should like Pete. He nods and hands it back.

  “Charles, they don’t believe me, except for the young doctor who knows I’m telling the truth, about the woman in the bed next to me dying.”

  “I’m not dead, I’m here,” Mrs. DeLillo says. She lights a cigarette.

  “She was discharged, I heard,” Susan says.

  “With a blanket over her head, honey?”

  “I don’t know.… I wasn’t there,” Susan says.

  Their mother takes the yellow ribbon out of her hair. “When they put this on me, I said, ‘Oh, the yellow ribbon of the old oak tree.’ Everything you say to them here they think you’re crazy.”

  “It’s a song,” Charles says stupidly. He looks at his watch. It is 7:40.

  “Here’s my family,” Pete says, coming up in back of Charles and Susan.

  “I’m Mrs. DeLillo,” Mrs. DeLillo says.

  “I should have called to save you the trip. Mommy’s coming home tomorrow. The doctor says it was a mistake to have Mommy brought here, but since Mommy’s so weak, she might as well rest up one place as another.”

  “And I’ve met my fine friend Mrs. DeLillo,” she says.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. DeLillo says. Mrs. DeLillo has a green ribbon in her hair. Her hair is too short to hide the ribbon. You can see it going around both sides of her head.

  “My Pete,” Clara says. Pete is sweating. He looks like he’s been drinking.

  “Mighty cold and snowy out,” Pete says. “I saw it start, sitting down in the cafeteria.”

  “Do you have snow tires?” Susan asks. She is better at making conversation with Pete than he is.

  “Studded snow tires,” Pete says.

  “All my family take care of themselves,” Clara says.

  “Today was my first day back at work,” Charles says.

  Pete slaps him on the back. “Thatta boy,” he says.

  “You don’t drive in the rush hour, do you?” Clara says.

  “I have to drive in the rush hour. I have to be there at nine o’clock.”

  “Oh, Mommy knows the way things are,” Pete says, slapping Charles again. “Nobody’s going to put one over on Mommy.”

  “She’s a sensible woman,” Mrs. DeLillo says.

  “Charles, when I came here the nurse reported something I said to the doctor, the young doctor …”

  “What a fine fellow,” Pete interrupts.

  “And he came to me and he said, ‘You know that song about the yellow ribbon on the old oak tree, don’t you?’ Charles, I was very sick in the hospital, but now that I’m not so weak I see that I’m not so sick. I told the young doctor that I was much improved, and if it hadn’t been for the pain, you have my word of honor, Charles, I would not have medicated myself with the laxatives.”

  “They give you laxatives here,” Mrs. DeLillo says.

  “Talk to the doctor,” Clara says.

  “The doctor?” Susan says.

  “He will tell you—the young one—that my word is good, and it was an accident that I made the mistake of taking the laxatives in the bathroom.”

  “Well,” Pete says. “Let’s not dwell on past mistakes.”

  “Did you get to see the football game Sunday?” Susan asks Pete.

  “No,” he says. “I didn’t.”

  Susan seems to have run out of things to talk to Pete about.

  “But I wish I had,” Pete says.

  Charles looks at Pete’s shoes. They are shiny brown cordovans.

  “What did the doctor say about a few twirls?” Pete says.

  “Take them,” Clara answers.

  “Ya-hoo!” Pete says. He says it very quietly; it sounds absurd not being shouted.

  “What has happened to Wilbur Mills?” she asks.

  “He showed up in Boston where Fanne Foxe was stripping and got on stage drunk,” Pete says, brightening.

  “I knew that. I mean, how is he now?”

  “A wife cheater,” Mrs. DiLillo says. “You know the saying: ‘Wife cheater, child beater.’ ”

  “He’s still there, as far as I know,” Susan says. “In Walter Reed.”

  “I read that that place was a firetrap,” Charles says.

  “You be very careful when you drive to work tomorrow, Charles.”

  “I will,” he says.

  “Bring my fitch coat when you come tomorrow,” Clara says to Pete.

 
; “Yes, sir,” he says. “Mommy’s going home in style.”

  “In the meantime, in between time, ain’t we got fun?” Clara says.

  “What’s that?” he says.

  “Another song!” she says, delightedly.

  “I remember that one,” Mrs. DeLillo says. “Not so long ago, huh?”

  “Do you remember that one?” their mother says to Charles.

  “Sure,” Charles says.

  “No,” Susan says.

  “Mommy knows her music,” Pete says. He looks at his watch. “Mommy,” he says, “if we don’t leave on time they come around, you know. Shall we say goodnight?”

  “My Pete,” she says. “And my Charles and Susan.”

  “Good-bye, Mom,” Susan says, kissing her. “I’ll be home in a while. I have to leave tomorrow.”

  “Be careful in rush-hour traffic,” she says, pressing Susan’s hand.

  “I’ll see you soon,” Charles says.

  “I know you will,” she says, pressing his hand. “And my Pete.”

  “Tomorrow,” Pete says. “Good night, honey.”

  “My family,” she says.

  In the corridor, Pete says, “What do you think?”

  “Is she weak, is that why she’s acting so strange?”

  “What do you think?” Pete says. “She took herself a dozen laxative tablets. She’s still not on solid food. Only soup and milk.”

  They walk past the guard’s desk. “All clean,” Pete says, flashing the inside of his overcoat. The guard does not smile. Charles glances at the book on the guard’s desk: Seventeenth Century Poetry. Probably the only job the guard could get.

  “I guess my asking you for a drink is getting to be a joke,” Pete says. “I guess you wouldn’t have a drink with me after I called and said that you were a son of a bitch.”

  “Sure I would,” Charles says. “Maybe I should get Susan home, in case Mark is there, and meet you somewhere.”

  “Couldn’t you come for a short drink?” Pete says to Susan.