The Accomplished Guest by Ann Beattie

Author:Ann Beattie
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner

LADY NEPTUNE

Mrs. Edward R. was pushed into the building in a wheelchair with a half-sized seat, several straps pulled not exactly tightly, but tightly enough, over her lap. She loved, loved those skirts from several years ago, weighted at the bottom and voluminous, with ruched sides billowing below the stitches into parachutes—so comfortable, so (as is said) forgiving.

But of course, with a real parachute you’d be up in the air, dangling above the Atlantic. Blowing right past the condos overlooking the water, such as 1800 Atlantic, where her son, Darryl, lived with the nicer of his twin sons following an abominable stroke when he was fifty-six: a nonsmoker; a jogger; okay—a few too many recreational drugs in his youth. Darryl spent many days on the balcony, staring at the water. She didn’t do that—she wasn’t in that sort of shape, thank God—but she did sometimes cross her eyes and look at nothing as a way of introspecting.

She was being carried into the building’s private elevator, key-activated so that everyone else coming to the party would have to climb the stairs, regardless of age, infirmity, fame. That, or they’d already know better than to come. Only for her, only for Alva, did the host admit to having the key. “Alvie,” he’d said to her years ago, “it’s our little secret.” Among their other little secrets was that they sent the cook away and had a flute of champagne with lunch, and that they’d found an accountant who had ingenious ways for his clients to cheat on their taxes. Her husband, R. (that was their nasty nickname for him; he’d read too many Russian novels), had never particularly liked Duncan Oswald, though he, too, had usually gone to Duncan’s annual Christmas party. It was a small community, and one didn’t want to give offense by not attending. Still, one year R. had sent Alva along without him—back when she simply walked places—and sent flowers the next day with a note of apology about his ostensible last-minute nausea, but the florist had gotten the orders mixed up, so Duncan—who always did like R., or at least appreciated that he was often, wittingly or not, the occasion for fun—received a bouquet of tulips and a dirty note about how their dowsing heads wanted to be you-know-where. It was Key West, so of course the florist had just written down whatever message the caller gave. Though he had nothing to do with the mix-up, obviously, R. resented Duncan for the amount of kidding he’d had to endure: Duncan had spread this story around.

Ned, the less nice of her grandsons, was accompanying her. At this very moment, he was squeezing into the little elevator, placing a hand on her shoulder. The elevator’s slowness made him nervous. “Here we go,” he said tensely. He had nothing else to say as they ascended. She plucked up a bit of fabric so that it fell even lower on her leg—she hoped low enough to obscure the bruise. She couldn’t get into panty hose anymore, and she detested those stockings that ended just at the knee.

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