Distortions by Ann Beattie Read Free Book Online Page B

helped push the handle through the snowman. Her mother was impetuous, alwaysletting her stay home from school to enjoy the snow, and her father had been surprised when he returned from work to see the broom head on the kitchen table. “Well, we couldn’t get out. How could we go out in the snow to get anything?” her mother had asked her father. The snowplow has passed. Except for the wind, it is very quiet outside. In the room, the man is talking to her. He wants to show her his postcards. She’s surprised; she hadn’t realized she was being spoken to.
    “Oh, not that kind of postcard. I’m an old man. Just pretty postcards.”
    He has opened a night-table drawer. Inside there is a box of tissues, a comb and brush, an alarm clock. He sits on the side of the bed, his feet not quite touching the floor, reaching into the drawer without looking. He finds what he wants: an envelope. He removes it and carefully pulls out the flap. He lets her look through the postcards. There is a bird’s nest full of cherubs, a picture of a lady elegantly dressed in a high, ruffled collar, curtseying beneath a flowering tree, and one that she looks at longer than the rest: a man in boots and a green jacket, carrying a rifle, is pictured walking down a path through the woods in the moonlight. Stars shine in the sky and illuminate a path in front of him. Tiny silver sparkles still adhere to the postcard. She holds it under the lamp on the night table: the lining of his jacket is silver, the edges of the rocks, a small area of the path. There is a caption: “Joseph Jefferson as Rip Van Winkle.” Beneath the caption is a message, ornately written: “Not yet but soon. Pa.”
    “Did your father write the postcard?”
    “That’s just one I found in a store long ago. I could make up a romantic story to tell you. I love to talk.”
    She waits, expecting the man’s story. He leans back in bed, putting the envelope back in the drawer. His bedroom slippers fall to the floor, and he puts his legs under the covers.
    “People get old and they can’t improve things,” he says, “so they lie all the time.”
    He waves his hand, dismissing something.
    “I trust young people,” he says. “I’d even tell you where my money is: in the dresser drawer, in the back of a poetry book.”
    The snowplow has returned, driving up the other side of thestreet. The lights cast patterns on the wall. He watches the shadows darken the wallpaper.
    “I have real stories,” he says, pointing to a photograph album on a table by the chair. “Look through and I can tell you some real stories if you want to know.”
    He is ready to sleep. She arranges the quilt at the bottom of the bed and starts to leave.
    “The light doesn’t bother me,” he says, waving her toward the chair. “Look through my album. I’m old and cranky. I’m afraid for my pictures to leave the room.”
    It’s early afternoon and no one is in the house. There are dishes on the dining-room table, records and record-album covers. There’s a plate, a spoon, two bowls, three coffee cups. How many people have been here? There’s no one to ask. There’s some food on the counter top—things she doesn’t remember buying. An apple pie. She goes into the living room and sits in a chair, looking out the window. More snow is predicted, but now the day is clear and bright, the fields shining in the sun. She goes into the kitchen again to look for the note he hasn’t left. On her way to the bedroom to sleep, she looks out the window and sees David coming up the road, only a sweater and scarf on, holding a stick at his side that the dog is jumping for. On the floor by the chair the plant book is open, and several others, books he’s studying for his exams. The front door is open. The dog runs into the living room, jumps on her.
    “You should be asleep. You can’t work at night if you’re not going to sleep in the day.”
    “I thought I’d wait for you to come back.”
    “You shouldn’t