Picturing Will by Ann Beattie Read Free Book Online

Halloween party at an abandoned church twenty miles outside of town. She had been hired by one of the men who owned the hundred acres and planned on tearing down the old clapboard church. Earlier in the year she had photographed the same man’s daughter’s wedding, which took place in an orchard adjacent to his Earlysville property. He had made it clear that if she hadn’t been involved with someone, he would have liked to have an affair. Will had been along that day, dressed in a gray suit that resembled Mel’s favorite suit, because at the last minute the baby-sitter had canceled, and she couldn’t get Duncan or Mary Vickers on the phone. She had promised Will a Lego train if his behavior was impeccable, and as the father of the bride tried to ingratiate himself with Jody, Will kept coming to her side—and her rescue—with visions of train tracks and imaginary puffs of smoke rising in his eyes. Lowering his voice, as if his whispered tones would escape Will’s notice, the father of the bride suggested having a drink, in order to offer her some advice about real estate investments in the county. She was curt with him because she wasn’t interested, but also amazed that he thought she had that kind of money. The following day, three dozen irises had arrived, and that afternoon Will’s new train whizzed through Iris-land: water glasses filled with flowers meant to approximate trees the train would pass by.
    At the wedding, she had moved away quickly once the man’s intentions were clear, walking across the grass, holding Will’s hand. She wondered how many times women tempted Mel in New York. Mary Vickers’s expression about Jody’s refusal to make a permanent commitment to Mel was that she was “playing with fire.” Hardly a unique way to express the idea of danger, but over time Jody had come to interpret what Mary Vickers meant by “fire” as having to do with all the matches carefully cupped in waiters’ hands as they ignited the white candles on your dinner table; all the flame-haired beauties who had back-combed and sprayed their hair to make it wild and electric; all the hot tips you got every day, about as-yet-unannounced corporate mergers, about which doorman would tell you honestly how many tenants might be about to die. Mary insisted upon seeing New York as either burning or smoldering, whether it involved physical passion, or the burnt-rubber smell that rose off the streets from so many slammed brakes, or lunatics who wired themselves and blew apart on the subway. Of course Mary Vickers feared and hated New York so much because she had convinced herself that it was the city—anthropomorphized as a burning witch—that had taken her lover away from her. She was sure that if Jody didn’t watch out, time and the city could well do the same with Mel.
    Jody looked at Mel across the room. He was dressed as a stalk of celery. He had borrowed the costume from a ballerina whose husband was one of the new artists represented by his gallery. BAM popped into Jody’s mind, and she smiled. She didn’t think Mel would turn to ashes. She still was not sure that marrying him and moving to New York was the right thing. Though she would never say it to Mary Vickers, her hesitancy had less to do with the vague feeling that the moment wasn’t right than with the belief that the more she withheld, the more Mel would desire her. She did not think it was necessary to be withholding in a physical way, but she hesitated to talk too much, to have too many discussions. She and Wayne had talked their relationship to death, but when he left, he had taught her an important lesson by leaving unexpectedly and silently. It had been a rude awakening, but later a relief, to find that saying nothing could be the strongest way of communicating—and also the strongest way to flirt: A hesitant shrug or narrowing of your eyes in concentration as you listened could make a man’s heart beat harder. You could honestly say “I