Ann Beattie
Ann Beattie
The New Yorker
THE BOWL WAS PERFECT. Perhaps it was not what you'd select if you
faced a shelf of bowls, and not the sort of thing that would inevitably
attract a lot of attention at a crafts fair, yet it had real presence. It was as
predictably admired as a mutt who has no reason to suspect he might be
funny. Just such a dog, in fact, was often brought out (and in) along
with the bowl.
Andrea was a real estate agent, and when she thought that some
prospective buyers might be dog lovers, she would drop off her dog at
the same time she placed the bowl in the house that was up for sale. She
would put a dish of water in the kitchen for Mondo, take his squeaking
plastic frog out of her purse and drop it on the floor. He would pounce
delightedly, just as he did every day at home, batting around his favorite
toy. The bowl usually sat on a coffee table, though recently she had
displayed it on top of a pine blanket chest and on a lacquered table. It
was once placed on a cherry table beneath a Bonnard still life, where it
held its own.
Everyone who has purchased a house or who has wanted to sell a
house must be familiar with some of the tricks used to convince a buyer
that the house is quite special: a fire in the fireplace in early evening;
jonquils in a pitcher on the kitchen counter, where no one ordinarily
has space to put flowers; perhaps the slight aroma of spring, made by a
single drop of scent vaporizing from a lamp bulb.
The wonderful thing about the bowl, Andrea thought, was that it was
both subtle and noticeable - a paradox of a bowl. Its glaze was the
color of cream and seemed to glow no matter what light it was placed
in. There were a few bits of color in it - tiny geometric flashes - and
some of these were tinged with flecks of silver. They were as mysterious
as cells seen under a microscope; it was difficult not to study them,
because they shimmered, flashing for a split second, and then resumed
their shape. Something about the colors and their random placement
suggested motion. People who liked country furniture always commented on the bowl, but then it turned out that people who felt comfortable with Biedermeier loved it just as much. But the bowl was not at
all ostentatious, or even so noticeable that anyone would suspect that it
had been put in place deliberately. They might notice the height of the
ceiling on first entering a room, and only when their eye moved down
from that, or awayfrom the refraction of sunlight on a pale wall, would
they see the bowl. Then they would go immediately to it and comment.
Yet they always faltered when they tried to saysomething. Perhaps it was
because they were in the house for a serious reason, not to notice
some object.
Once, Andrea got a call from a woman who had not put in an offer
on a house she had shown her. That bowl, she said - would it be
possible to find out where the owners had bought that beautiful bowl?
Andrea pretended that she did not know what the woman was referring
to. A bowl, somewhere in the house? Oh, on a table under the window.
Yes, she would ask, of course. She let a couple of days pass, then called
back to say that the bowl had been a present and the people did not
know where it had been purchased.
When the bowl was not being taken from house to house, it sat on
Andrea's coffee table at home. She didn't keep it carefully wrapped
(although she transported it that way, in a box); she kept it on the table,
because she liked to see it. It was large enough so that it didn't seem
fragile, or particularly vulnerable if anyone sideswiped the table or
Mondo blundered into it at play. She had asked her husband to please
not drop his house key in it. It was meant to be empty.
When her husband first noticed the bowl, he had peered into it and
smiled briefly. He always urged her to buy things she liked. In recent
years, both of them had acquired many things to make up for all the
lean years when they were graduate students, but now that they had
been comfortable for quite a while, the pleasure of new possessions
dwindled. Her husband had pronounced the bowl "pretty;' and he had
turned away without picking it up to examine it. He had no more
interest in the bowl than she had in his new Leica.
She was sure that the bowl brought her luck. Bids were often put in
on houses where she had displayed the bowl. Sometimes the owners,
who were always asked to be away or to step outside when the house
was being shown, didn't even know that the bowl had been in their
house. Once - she could not imagine how - she left it behind, and
then she was so afraid that something might have happened to it that
she rushed back to the house and sighed with relief when the woman
owner opened the door. The bowl, Andrea explained - she had purchased a bowl and set it on the chest for safekeeping while she toured
the house with the prospective buyers, and she ... She felt like rushing
past the frowning woman and seizing her bowl. The owner stepped
aside, and it was only when Andrea ran to the chest that the lady
glanced at her a little strangely. In the few seconds before Andrea picked
up the bowl, she realized that the owner must have just seen that it had
been perfectly placed, that the sunlight struck the bluer part of it. Her
pitcher had been moved to the far side of the chest, and the bowl
predominated. All the way home, Andrea wondered how she could have
left the bowl behind. It was like leaving a friend at an outing - just
walking off. Sometimes there were stories in the paper about families
forgetting a child somewhere and driving to the next city. Andrea had
only gone a mile down the road before she remembered.
In time, she dreamed of the bowl. Twice, in a waking dream - early
in the morning, between sleep and a last nap before rising - she had a
clear vision of it. It came into sharp focus and startled her for a moment
- the same bowl she looked at every day.
She had a very profitable year selling real estate. Word spread, and she
had more clients than she felt comfortable with. She had the foolish
thought that if only the bowl were an animate object she could thank it.
There were times when she wanted to talk to her husband about the
bowl. He was a stockbroker, and sometimes told people that he was
fortunate to be married to a woman who had such a fine aesthetic sense
and yet could also function in the real world. They were a lot alike, really
- they had agreed on that. They were both quiet people - reflective,
slow to make value judgments, but almost intractable once they had
come to a conclusion. They both liked details, but while ironies attracted her, he was more impatient and dismissive when matters became many sided or unclear. But they both knew this; it was the kind of
thing they could talk about when they were alone in the car together,
coming home from a party or after a weekend with friends. But she
never talked to him about the bowl. When they were at dinner, exchanging their news of the day, or while they lay in bed at night listening to
the stereo and murmuring sleepy disconnections, she was often tempted
to come right out and say that she thought that the bowl in the living
room, the cream-colored bowl, was responsible for her success. But she
didn't say it. She couldn't begin to explain it. Sometimes in the morning, she would look at him and feel guilty that she had such a constant secret.
Could it be that she had some deeper connection with the bowl- a
relationship of some kind? She corrected her thinking: how could she
imagine such a thing, when she was a human being and it was a bowl? It
was ridiculous. Just think of how people lived together and loved each
other ... But was that always so clear, always a relationship? She was
confused by these thoughts, but they remained in her mind. There was
something within her now, something real, that she never talked about.
The bowl was a mystery, even to her. It was frustrating, because her
involvement with the bowl contained a steady sense of unrequited good
fortune; it would have been easier to respond if some sort of demand
were made in return. But that only happened in fairy tales. The bowl
was just a bowl. She did not believe that for one second. What she
believed was that it was something she loved.
In the past, she had sometimes talked to her husband about a new
property she was about to buy or sell- confiding some clever strategy
she had devised to persuade owners who seemed ready to sell. Now she
stopped doing that, for all her strategies involved the bowl. She became
more deliberate with the bowl, and more possessive.She put it in houses
only when no one was there, and removed it when she left the house.
Instead of just moving a pitcher or a dish, she would remove all the
other objects from a table. She had to force herself to handle them carefully, because she didn't really care about them. She just wanted them
out of sight.
She wondered how the situation would end. As with a lover,there was
no exact scenario of how matters would come to a close. Anxiety
became the operative force. It would be irrelevant if the lover rushed
into someone else's arms, or wrote her a note and departed to another
city.The horror was the possibility of the disappearance. That was what
She would get up at night and look at the bowl. It never occurred to
her that she might break it. She washed and dried it without anxiety,
and she moved it often, from coffee table to mahogany corner table or
wherever, without fearing an accident. It was clear that she would not be
the one who would do anything to the bowl. The bowl was only handled
by her, set safely on one surface or another; it was not very likely that
anyone would break it. A bowl was a poor conductor of electricity: it
would not be hit by lightning. Yet the idea of damage persisted. She did
not think beyond that - to what her life would be without the bowl.
She only continued to fear that some accident would happen. Why not,
in a world where people set plants where they did not belong, so that
visitors touring a house would be fooled into thinking that dark corners
got sunlight - a world full of tricks?
She had first seen the bowl several years earlier, at a crafts fair she had
visited half in secret, with her lover. He had urged her to buy the bowl.
She didn't need any more things, she told him. But she had been drawn
to the bowl, and they had lingered near it. Then she went on to the next
booth, and he came up behind her, tapping the rim against her shoulder
as she ran her fingers over a wood carving. "You're still insisting that I
buy that?" she said. "No:' he said. "I bought it for you:' He had bought
her other things before this - things she liked more, at first - the
child's ebony-and-turquoise ring that fitted her little finger; the wooden
box, long and thin, beautifully dovetailed, that she used to hold paper
clips; the soft gray sweater with a pouch pocket. It was his idea that
when he could not be there to hold her hand she could hold her own clasp her hands inside the lone pocket that stretched across the front.
But in time she became more attached to the bowl than to any of his
other presents. She tried to talk herself out of it. She owned other things
that were more striking or valuable. It wasn't an object whose beauty
jumped out at you; a lot of people must have passed it by before the two
of them saw it that day.
Her lover had said that she was always too slow to know what she
really loved. Why continue with her life the way it was? Why be twofaced, he asked her. He had made the first move toward her. When she
would not decide in his favor, would not change her life and come to
him, he asked her what made her think she could have it both ways.And
then he made the last move and left. It was a decision meant to break
her will, to shatter her intransigent ideas about honoring previous commitments.
Time passed. Alone in the living room at night, she often looked at
the bowl sitting on the table, still and safe, unilluminated. In its way, it
was perfect: the world cut in half, deep and smoothly empty. Near the
rim, even in dim light, the eye moved toward one small flash of blue, a
vanishing point on the horizon.
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