Free What Was Mine: & Other Stories by Ann Beattie Page A

heaven, being able to do that in the house.”
    “You didn’t speak to Marie on the phone tonight?” I say.
    “I haven’t even seen her in a week. Is everything all right?” she says.
    “It must have been somebody else she invited over,” I say.
    The little girl whizzes by again on the skateboard, doing wheelies.
    “Jesus,” Molly says, putting her hand over her mouth. “Michael went to Dulles to pick up his brother. You don’t think Marie asked Michael and he forgot to tell me, do you?”
    “No, no,” I say. “I’m sure I’m mistaken.”
    Molly smiles her usual radiant smile, but I can tell I’ve made her nervous.
    Back in my house, I turn the light down a notch and stand at the front window, looking up at the sky. No stars tonight. Maybe in the country, but not here. I look at the candles and figure what the hell. I strike a match to light them. They’re in ornate, heavy silver candlesticks—a hand-me-down from my aunt, who lives in Baltimore. As the candles burn, I look at the window and see the flames, and myself, reflected. The breeze makes the wax bead and drip, though, so I watch the candles burn only a few seconds more, then blow them out. They smoke, but I don’t lick my fingers and pinch the wicks. After looking again at the empty street, I sit in a chair and look at the table.
    I’ll show her, I think. I’ll be gone when she gets back.
    Then I think about having a few drinks and some food.
    But time passes, and I don’t leave and I don’t get a drink. I haven’t touched the table when I hear a car coast to a stop. The blinking lights get my attention. An ambulance, I think—I don’t know how, but somehow she hurt herself, and for some reason the ambulance is here, and …
    I spring up.
    The caterer is standing at the door. She is frowning. Her shoulders are a little hunched. She has on a denim skirt, a tube top, and running shoes. Behind me, the house is entirely quiet. I see her peer around me, toward the light in the front room. Her puzzlement is obvious.
    “It was all a joke,” I say. “My wife’s joke.”
    She frowns.
    “There isn’t any party,” I say. “My wife went away.”
    “You’re kidding,” the caterer says.
    Now I am looking past her, at her car, with the lights blinking. The boy is not in the front seat. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
    “Oh,” she says, dropping her eyes. “I actually—I thought that you might need help, that I’d pitch in for a while.”
    I frown.
    “I know that sounds funny,” she says, “but I’m new in this business and I’m trying to make a good impression.” She is still not looking at me. “I used to work in the bursar’s office at the community college,” she says, “and I hated that. So I figured that if I could get enough work as a caterer …”
    “Well, come in,” I say, standing aside.
    For some time, bugs have been flying into the house.
    “Oh, no,” she says. “I’m sorry there’s trouble. I just thought …”
    “Come have a drink,” I say. “Really. Come in and have a drink.”
    She looks at her car. “Just a minute,” she says. She goes down the walkway. She turns off the lights and locks the car. She comes back up the walk.
    “My husband said I shouldn’t butt in,” she says. “He says that I try too hard to please and when you let people know you’re eager you’ll never get what you want.”
    “His philosophy aside,” I say, “please come in and have a drink.”
    “I thought your wife seemed edgy,” the caterer says. “I thought she was nervous about having such a big party. That she might be grateful for some help.”
    She hesitates, then steps in.
    “Well,” I say, throwing up my hands.
    She laughs nervously. Then I laugh.
    “Wine?” I say, pointing to the windowsill.
    “That would be fine. Thank you,” she says.
    She sits, and I pour her a glass of wine and carry it to her.
    “Oh, I could have gotten that. What am I—”
    “Sit still,” I say. “I’ve got to be the