Free Love Always by Ann Beattie Page A

Venue?”
    “I’ve been there a few times. It’ll be better next week, when the mosquitoes disappear.”
    He had taken a Valium before lunch, because he knew he would have to speak to a reporter, and the effect of the pill and the beer was drowsiness.
    The silver Checker was parked in front of the driveway beside the
Country Daze
building. They parked a block away and walked back. Remembering the Fourth, Hildon thought what a welcome thing a hit of grass would be, to smooth things out even more. With his luck—with Myra DeVane in tow—Noonan would be there smoking a joint, as casually as George Burns out on the porch, smoking a cigar.
    When they walked in, Noonan was walking out the door. “You the reporter?” he said to Myra. “I’m Noonan, the one who holds everything together here. Off the record, this man is a Communist and is planning to run for office as a Republican. I’m on my way to lunch or I’d tell you more.” Noonan continued out the door.
    The secretary had on earphones. She smiled when Noonan started talking, but did not stop typing. A month ago, when Hildon had gone to bed with Elena, she had not removed her earphones. She had been listening to a tape of a Jerry Lewis Telethon. Hildon noticed that the pig had epaulets of memos, and its stomach was entirely covered with white paper. He cocked his head and read a few of them without removing any, and walked up the stairs, with Myra behind him.
    He gestured for Myra to walk into the mailroom. There was a Victorian sofa he and Lucy had bought at an estate sale the year before, and he had brought some lamps from his house—things Maureen didn’t want when she redecorated. It was a comfortable room; sometimes at the end of the day Hildon went there and stretched out and read mail. There were more letters stacked in trays marked “In,” “Out,” and “Coitus Interruptus.” There were several letter openers on the table.
    “Make yourself at home,” Hildon said. “Come and get me, or go downstairs and get Elena if you have any questions.”
    When Hildon left, she walked to the window and looked out.It was a view of town she hadn’t seen; a few stories higher up, she could have looked down on the domed roof of the bank. She looked into the empty window boxes. A squirrel ran up the trunk of a dead elm, then ran down again, circled the tree, and dashed into an alleyway.
    She had only read half a dozen letters in the In basket when she came to one that interested her so much that she read it again, and then transcribed it:
    Dear Cindi Coeur,
    My problem is my former lover. She writes an advice column for messed-up people, but the joke is, she is very messed up herself. She has never broken the tie—or made a real connection—with the man who is now her boss and longtime on-again, off-again lover. Years ago, I thought that if we left New York and moved to Vermont, they could confront the situation (Vermont is also where he is in hiding from being a serious person) and find out for themselves what was real and what was a delusion. Are they hedonists or masochists? Nothing has made them figure it out, including my leaving. Don’t you miss me? Aren’t you tired of avoiding yourself and of parodying somebody who does care about people’s problems? Now that you don’t have me to analyze anymore, have you spent any time trying to figure yourself out? I’ll tell you one thing: you’re a hard act to follow. Can we see each other?
    Love Always, Les

8

    L IKE the heroine of her favorite novel, there were many things that Maureen would never do: drink tequila; give blood; do volunteer work; put into practice what Hildon had taught her about changing a tire; sharpen her own knives; read Proust; bargain for lower prices at the vegetable stand at the end of the day; have oral sex; learn the metric system; snorkel; have a conversation with a Jehovah’s Witness; do acrostics.
    She had just done one of those things, and it was the most horrible thing