Free Chilly Scenes of Winter by Ann Beattie Page B

told me I was a son of a bitch.”
    “He did not.”
    “He did. He said that I made him feel guilty. He called back and apologized.”
    “Was he drunk or something?”
    “I guess so. I don’t blame him.”
    “These are good,” Susan says. “Almonds are supposed to keep away cancer.”
    “I thought that was apricot pits.”
    “Maybe you’re right,” Susan says, crunching into the second cookie.
    “I saw a picture in a magazine of some Mexican doctor who injects people with apricot-pit extract. People go there and live in trailers and get injections. I hope if I get sick I don’t get crazy like that.”
    “If I had it, I’d do anything. I’d go to Lourdes. I’d do anything.”
    “How the hell did we get started talking about this?”
    “I probably started it. I’m so used to talking about diseases all the time with Mark.”
    “What conclusions has he come to?”
    “You’re not going to be nice to him, are you?”
    “I told you I was. He’s just a jackass.”
    “One of the doctors he knows has a theory that the cells react to music. He’s trying to get a grant to play music to diseased cells.”
    “I’m sure hell get it. There are a lot of jackasses out there waiting to give other jackasses money.”
    “You’re so smart,” Susan says.
    “I’m not so smart. I’m just not a jackass.”
    “Are you sure it’s okay for me to leave?”
    “Sure,” he says. “What color is the Cadillac?”
    “Maroon.”
    “Maroon. Jesus Christ.”
    They pay the bill and leave The Blue Pagoda. It is bitter cold, and nobody is on the street. Charles drives down to the newsstand across from the train station and gets the late paper. A baby is on the cover: “First of 1975.” He looks at the weather forecast, holding the paper near the floor so that the car light shines on it. Snow. He does not want to go back to work. He wants the car to hurry up and get warm. When they get home Sam is still asleep. On the note on the television is written: “Pete called.”
    “I forgot to get him food,” Charles says to Susan.
    “He’s out for the night,” Susan says.
    “Should we try to wake him up to see if he’s alive?”
    “No,” she says. “He’s okay.”
    He is glad Susan is there. She doesn’t tell him what to do much, but sometimes she does, and that makes it easier.

FIVE
     
    A t lunch time (if only it were eleven again, instead of twelve-thirty) Charles goes alone to a restaurant at the end of the block. He orders a well-done cheeseburger, a salad without dressing, and a Coke. He thinks if he eats salad without dressing that when he eats it with dressing again it will taste good. All of the food is terrible. He oversalts it and is thirsty all day.
    “Gimme a nickel,” a black kid says to him as he walks back to the office, “and I’ll do a somersault in the air for you.”
    Charles gives the kid a quarter. “You don’t have to do a somersault,” he says. The kid flips in the air.
    “That’s amazing,” Charles says.
    “My brother’s working on a double flip,” the kid says, and walks away to accost another man.
    Back at his desk early, Charles puts on his earphones and turns on his cassette player: “Folk Fiddling from Sweden.” After he has listened for a few minutes he dials his number.
    “Hello?” Sam says groggily.
    “I woke you up,” Charles says.
    “Glad you did. I was having nightmares. I dreamed you and I were hunting wolves, and there were so many of them we didn’t know where to start, and if we didn’t start soon …”
    “God, I hope I don’t catch this,” Charles says.
    Sam is panting.
    “Is there anything you want me to bring you back tonight?”
    “Can you get me some Mr. Goodbars?”
    “Mr. Goodbars? They’re no good for you when you’re sick.”
    “Maybe they’ll finish me off and I won’t ever have to go back to work.”
    “I know what you mean,” Charles says.
    “Susan’s doc didn’t show. She’s still here.”
    “Is she