What Was Mine: & Other Stories by Ann Beattie Read Free Book Online Page A

supposed to say ‘physically challenged.’ They’re not on the streets now. I think that aging made it worse. It was some spine deformity, along with funny speech and a few marbles missing.” She tapped the side of her head. “They came to the dance, a few of them,” she said. “Everyone looked out for them.” She had another sip of coffee. “They were physically challenged because their mothers slept with their own brothers, and so forth,” she said.
    I had a sip of 7-Up. I knew before she said so that the world could be a terrible place.
    “Why don’t you move, then?” I said. “If it’s not the way it used to be, why don’t you and your husband move?”
    She said “Ha!” and threw back her head. She had a mole under her chin I hadn’t seen before. “Because of my husband,” she said. “Now you’re going to think I’m trying to sell something, the way I was telling you I suspected the post office of doing. The thing is, my husband is a marriage counselor, and he works out of our home. It’s very centrally located, and he’s very much in demand. The patients don’t want to drive all over kingdom come to find him.” She took another sip of coffee. “My husband would never move,” she said. Then, as if struck by sudden inspiration, she picked up the bag she’d brought with her and put it on her lap. “If you and your husband did want his services, he’s the only marriage counselor in the book,” she said. “I’m not here to advocate his services, but since it came up in conversation, I thought I’d be forthcoming. When he and I have troubles, he irons them right out. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m your Welcome Wagon lady, and I have some things for you. We’ll just be optimistic and say that you’re staying in our fine community.”
    She was a different person when she next started to talk. Her voice rose an octave higher, and her chin strained as if lifting to meet it. First she gave me a trowel. It was green metal, quite nice, with a wooden handle. Narrower than most trowels. It was from the greenhouse where my husband worked. A special trowel to plant bulbs.
    She kept eye contact with me, reaching into the bag without looking down. She probably had the things in a particular order, because as she was speaking she produced each thing she began to talk about.
    First I got the trowel, then a wide-tooth comb from the local hairstylist. Then Betty took out a golf ball and held it close to my face. “Tell me where that came from,” she said.
    I moved my head back about a foot so I could focus. It was a white golf ball. I craned my neck to look around to the other side.
    “It doesn’t say anything,” I said.
    She yanked it back as fast as a child when another child shows interest in its toy. She examined it, held close to her chest.
    “Imagine that!” she hooted. “All these years of giving away Willy Wyler Putt-Putt balls, and this one doesn’t bear the name!”
    She put it on the table and continued. I reached out and played with it like a worry stone as she continued.
    “A box of bonbons is yours from the local market,” she said, feeling in the bag. “It can be claimed when you purchase groceries in the amount of ten dollars.” She continued to feel around in the bag. “I mean, the bonbons aren’t here, but there’s a coupon—a coupon that’s rather thick, like cardboard.” She gave up feeling around and looked into the bag. “Oh no!” she said, pulling out a slip of pink paper. “Look at that!” she said. “I know just what happened. I told my husband about the parking ticket I got, and I said that it was in my bag, and he must have reached in and left the ticket there and removed the coupon for bonbons!” She shook her head from side to side. Tears had started to well up in her eyes. “Imagine taking the wrong piece of paper! That’ll show you how helpful men are when they mean to help you out!”
    Wiping a tear away with her wrist, she continued to