Free Distortions by Ann Beattie Page B

to Dianna Leigh in the tent: “It all comes to nothing. That must be the way she feels about her dancing. My father is the only one left who’s creative, and I think that she complains so much about the pasta machine because he creates the pasta—you know, putting a little spinach and some brains into the linguini … and I can’t think of anything to paint any more. Even my father, and he’s creative, lies on the ground, letting the mosquitoes eat him alive. I guess we are a messed-up family. What happened to that writer’s family?”
    “I don’t really remember. I think that they were religious, though.”
    *
    And now, here’s what will happen to David and Sheila and Wally:
    Other people like them for having only one child and not adding to the world’s overpopulation problem.
    The restaurant gets a glowing recommendation from the AAA; they say that “the pasta is cooked divinely
al dente”
    Wally and Dianna Leigh separate. In Provincetown, years later, he sees a copy of
The Catcher in the Rye
and buys it. It confirms his suspicion that she was full of shit, because there is no Glass family in the book.
    Sheila has one breast cut off, then the other. It becomes her new excuse for not dancing. If you don’t believe that this is atall logical, try taking a few leaps without your breasts and see how hard it is to keep your balance.
    *
    Background information on the trip to Reno, Nevada: If she can’t be a great dancer, at least she can be a good mother, and if Wally wants to go to Nevada, that isn’t much to ask. He’s a good boy. He may live in a tent with that girl, but he hasn’t gotten her pregnant. And perhaps he doesn’t draw because he’s frustrated, the way she is. And David doesn’t feel that he should be so quick to say that what Wally wants to do is nuts. Grinding internal organs into pasta is pretty nutty, as though a customer can tell the difference when it’s smothered in tomato sauce. What the hell—it’ll be a good test for the new car.
    *
    At The Silver Slipper Café: Two men walk into The Silver Slipper Café. One of the men—a pasty-white, tall man in a shirt with palm trees on it—has a black cat sitting on his shoulder. The other man, also tall, but with a good tan and bloodshot eyes, takes a knife from his friend’s shirtpocket and cuts the phone off from the cord. The waitress notices and starts for the other end of the counter, but both men mouth, “No,” and she freezes.
    “Hello, family,” the first man says. The cat looks down at them.
    “Hello,” David says.
    “What are you enjoying there, family?” the man asks.
    “Apple pie,” David says.
    “Don’t pick up that hot coffee,” the second man says to the waitress.
    She doesn’t. The second man hands Sheila the phone. “I’m gonna call you on this telephone,” he says. “I’m gonna ask you a question. You be Betty Crocker, okay?”
    Sheila looks at David, about to cry.
    “Sure she will,” David says. “Go ahead, honey.”
    “And just so the young fellow won’t be bored, he can whistle ‘Dixie,’” the first man says, tapping Wally’s shoulder.
    “Hello, Betty?” the second man says.
    “Yes,” Sheila says.
    “What ingredients go into an apple pie, Betty?”
    “Apples. And sugar and flour.”
    “Don’t you put in anything else, Betty?”
    “Yes. Lemon juice. Sometimes raisins …”
    “What else, Betty?”
    “Uh-cinnamon. That’s all, I think.”
    “But what accounts for the special goodness of your pies, Betty?”
    “Nutmeg. I use … cinnamon and nutmeg.”
    “Thanks, Betty. I’ll be ringing off now.”
    The other man is standing in back of Wally, who is loudly whistling “Dixie.”
    “Out!” he screams, and the two run from The Silver Slipper Café. The waitress screams. The police are called. Sometime during the confusion the cat wanders in.
    “That was their cat!” the waitress says, pointing.
    “Oh yeah?” one of the cops says. “I don’t think we’ve got anything