The Body Of Jonah Boyd

Five

IT WAS A Saturday morning near the end of October 1969.1 was sitting next to Nancy at the piano when the telephone rang. As was her habit, she jumped up to answer it, in case it was Mark, calling collect from Vancouver. But it was not Mark. It was Anne Boyd. I could tell, because after the initial “Hello,” Nancy’ voice rose into a girlish squeal that meant pleasure greater than anything I could induce. “Annie, An-nie!” she cried—and pulled the phone, which had a long cord, into the study.
I got up from the piano. The realization that for the moment, at least, my services would not be needed filled me with a giddy sense of freedom, as if school had been canceled for the day. So I puttered around the living room, flicking dust off the nesting tables and repositioning the cushion that covered Dora’ pee stain on the leather chair, all the while listening in on Nancy’ half of the conversation. “Oh, but that’ wonderful! What do you mean? Don’t be ridiculous, of course you can stay with us. Now, Anne, I don’t want to hear another word about it. You’ll stay here and that’ final. No, I don’t even want to hear the word ‘hotel’. . . Good. When will you get in? We’ll pick you up at the airport. Okay, if you’d rather . . . But how will you know how to find the house? I’m hopeless with directions, you’d better have Clifford—I mean Jonah—call back when Ernest’ here. Oh, Annie, I’m sorry about that. Will you ever forgive me? I’m just so used to your husband being Clifford! Tell Jonah I’m dying to meet him. We all are. Annie, I can’t wait to see you, it’ been so long . . . Yes, have him call tonight. Ernest should be back by seven. Right. We’ll be waiting. Bye.”
She hung up. “Denny, you’ll never believe it,” she said, sweeping back into the living room. “That was Anne Armstrong. I mean, Anne Boyd. I haven’t head from her in a year. And now guess what? She and her husband—her new husband—are coming for Thanksgiving.”
“Really? How wonderful.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Nancy’ hands flew to her face. “Oh, but there’ so much to do! I mean, this man she’ married—this Jonah Boyd—he’ a published writer. We’ve got to put him up in the style to which he’ accustomed.”
I was tempted to ask why she thought that published writers would be accustomed to any particular kind of style, then thought better of it, and followed her into Daphne’ room. It was the first time I’d ever been in there. With a queenly gesture, Nancy flung open the curtains, letting through a slant of late morning light that exposed the moss green carpeting, a double bed with a rumpled floral coverlet. Along one wall were bracketed bookshelves on one of which Ayn Rand’ Atlas Shrugged elbowed an assortment of high school textbooks. On another was Daphne’ collection of frog figurines. Two posters—a psychedelic peace sign and the cover of Bob Dylan’ Blonde on Blonde album—had been thumbtacked to the wall. Below them lay a heap of stuffed animals and dirty clothes. “Oh, well, I suppose it will have to do,” Nancy said, putting her hands on her hips and surveying the wreckage. “Of course, Daph will have to clear away all of her crap.” She tossed a pink elephant onto the pile, then sat down on the bed. “Oh, but this mattress! Feel it!”
I sat down next to her. I felt.
“The springs are shot. And these sheets! I’ll have to buy a new bed, that’ all there is to it. And new bed linens. You know the reason they’re coming—he’ supposed to give a lecture up in San Francisco. Someone else was supposed to give it, some very famous poet, but the poet went into a drunk tank, and they asked the husband—Jonah Boyd—to take his place. Now why do you think she wants to visit? Does she miss me? I hope nothing’ wrong. They’ll fly into LAX Thanksgiving morning, drive over, stay two nights, and then on Saturday head up north, stopping for a few days at Big Sur on the way. And the best part is, Anne and I will have plenty of time to play. Finally we can take another crack at the Grand Duo.”
I pretended both surprise and pleasure. It was obvious that Nancy needed a sounding board for her fretfulness and planning impulses; also an assistant in what was clearly going to be a redecoration project of considerable scope. And so that very afternoon, along with Daphne—whose outrage at being thrown out of her room Nancy had managed to quell, somewhat, by promising to let her to pick out the sheets—I was taken to Macy’, first to the furniture department, where Nancy arranged for immediate delivery of a new Serta Perfect Sleeper, and then to the whites department, where Daphne, after much debate, settled on a set of “Vera” sheets decorated with bright orange sunsets and blue rainbows in the style of Peter Max. Here the trouble began. Nancy didn’t like the sheets. She worried that Boyd—a novelist, after all—would mock them in one of his books, follow a description of their psychedelic gaudiness with some insulting witticism, something like, “I had to wear sunglasses to bed.” For Nancy, in addition to biographies of crowned heads, was an avid consumer of novels in which adulterous men and women parried rude remarks over martinis, and though she had not yet read any of Jonah Boyd’ novels, she took it for granted that they would fit into this category. “Really, honey, couldn’t we get something more subdued?” she asked Daphne, who had inherited her mother’ stubbornness, if not her taste.
“But you said I could choose!” Daphne said. “You promised. After all, these people are only going to sleep on them two nights. But I have to sleep on them practically the rest of my life!”
In the end, to avoid a public scene, Nancy gave in on the sheets. Bags in tow, we hastened back to Florizona Avenue, where we found Ernest and Glenn in the study, smoking cigars and listening to Mahler’ Fifth Symphony on the HarmonKardon stereo. Glenn and Daphne greeted each other with the studied casualness of people who don’t want anyone to guess they’ve recently been in bed together; I could tell, because that was just how Ernest and I greeted each other.
As no dinner invitation appeared to be in the offing, I said my good-byes and went home. Back then I still lived in a one-bedroom apartment on Orechusetts Drive. My complex—essentially a stucco rectangle with views of the 420 freeway—was called Eaton Manor. Nearby were Cavendish Hall, Hampton Estates, and Chatsworth Court. Most of my neighbors were fellow secretaries, some of whom were also having affairs with their bosses. On Sunday afternoons, Ford LTDs and Oldsmobile Cutlasses filled the parking lot, taking up the empty spaces between the Chevy Novas and Dodge Darts. At this point, my relationship with Ernest had not yet settled into the durable bond that would later prove so sustaining for us both; it was still an off-and-on thing, fretful and fitful. Some Sunday afternoons he would arrive unannounced at my door, pinion me to the wall or push me onto the bed, where we would make rough love. Afterward I would give him tea or Coca-Cola, and we’d look at the television until dusk fell, when he’d leave with as few words as he had come, and I’d move to the window, to watch his car pull out of the parking lot and imagine what, back on Florizona Avenue, Nancy was up to: feeding the cat, or baking a ham, or knitting. I admit that at those moments I envied Ernest, with Dame Carcas to have to hurry home to.
Much has changed in the field of psychoanalysis during the years since Ernest practiced it in the office above his garage. Freud is no longer totemic, and today, if a therapist were to say to his patient, “Well, it’ obvious: Even though it was the husband you were having the affair with, the one you were in love with was the wife,” the patient, though she might agree or disagree, would hardly be shocked. And yet at the time, such an idea wouldn’t even have occurred to Ernest, not because he rejected lesbianism as a category, but because he had yet to conceive of a universe in which men didn’t always stand at the very center. Thus he would never have guessed that as I had sat next to Nancy on Daphne’ bed that afternoon, a longing had swept through me which I could hardly articulate but which I now recognize to have been something akin to desire. Of course, it never would have occurred to me to try to kiss Nancy, or even embrace her. Nor, I suspect, would she have tolerated such advances. Still, the feeling was there, mixed up strangely with my daughterly adoration. This was what drove me back to that house every Saturday, despite the abuse I had to endure. Since then, of course, I have known my own fair share of amorous adventure, I have been loved by several good men (Ernest among them) and in at least one case experienced a love far deeper than anything I ever felt for Nancy. So why is it that today I keep dreaming about that afternoon on Daphne’ bed? What is it that I wanted to happen? Why is her voice—of which I have only a memory—so sharp and distinct in my head, and why, when I wake up in the middle of the night, am I tormented by her particular and peculiar smell of cigarettes and cooking and the perfume she wore only on special occasions, such as Thanksgiving, with notes of cassia and anise and bearing a name that would forever after connote, for me, that remote and lacquered world of womanhood in which she and Anne had spent such easy days, and which I could never penetrate—Apres I’Ondee?
The day before Thanksgiving Nancy called and asked if I could stop by after work to help her get the house ready for the Boyds. I readily agreed. The pleasure of holidays, it has often seemed to me, is mostly anticipatory, which is perhaps why, today, I recall those hours that I spent cleaning and cooking with Nancy, scrubbing the bathtub while she ironed the “Vera” sheets and made the bed, with a far greater fondness than I do the dinner itself. She was in a euphoria of planning. Already she had hounded Daphne into putting away everything that gave her room a sense of identity. Gone were the books, the frog figurines, the posters. Two drawers had been emptied and part of the closet cleared. Her mother’ orders Daphne obeyed flatly and without protest, since they fed a resentment the cultivation of which, at this stage in her life, was one of her principal occupations. With the pitiless dispassion of adolescence, of the child who believes that she will never make the mistakes that dog her elders, Daphne observed her mother as she went about the onerous routine of constructing a Active guest room, a stage set to last only two nights. Ben watched too, though with greater empathy: Although he would not be leaving home for two years, already he had begun composing a poem of farewell, in which the protagonist, from the vantage point of his Wellspring dorm room, regards with smug compassion the spectacle of his mother at the supermarket, buying his favorite treats and then bursting into tears upon the realization that he will no longer be home to eat them. I know this because, several weeks later, he read the poem aloud to us. “Isn’t he gifted?” Nancy asked, her eyes on the music desk.
As the afternoon wore away, Nancy grew more nervous. What would Anne look like? she wondered. Would she have quit smoking, gained weight, lost weight? “I wonder why she decided to come,” Nancy said at the piano. “I mean, why she really decided to come. What do you think, Denny?”
“To see you, of course.”
“Is that it, though? Is that all?”
We retreated to the kitchen, where we washed vegetables and tore up bread for the stuffing. It was now becoming clear that as much as it excited her, the prospect of Anne’ visit also filled Nancy with dread. She confided that every time the phone rang, part of her hoped that it would be Anne, calling to cancel—"because then, at the very least, I wouldn’t have to deal with any of it. The awkwardness, and having to explain about Mark, and the new husband.” What if the old connection no longer surged? What if, on reuniting, she and Anne felt nothing, or worse (was it worse?) felt too much—a tug of longing so intense it could engender only sorrow, given how rarely they were now able to see each other? In the first case, she would greet Anne’ departure with relief, in the second with regret, in both with an inconsolable ache of loss.
She did not sleep well that night (or so she told me the next morning). I came over early, and together we stuffed the turkey, taking care to adjust the thermometer before arranging it in its pan. Into the oven the bird went. Nancy took off her apron; lit a cigarette. She was harrowed by anxiety, while I, on the contrary, felt rising in me the richest flush of pleasure. That morning was the apogee of my love for Nancy, a love the name of which I dared not speak, and which I had tried, ironically, to consummate through my affair with her husband. Later I grew to love Ernest for himself; that Thanksgiving, he was an irrelevance. It was Nancy with whom I was besotted, and the passionate suitor, as all passionate suitors know, is profoundly selfish. How I longed for her to weep, just so that I could kiss away her tears! No matter that what preoccupied her was another love, no matter that I was as irrelevant to her, at that moment, as Ernest was to me! This was my chance to prove myself. So I bustled about, chopping carrots, setting the table, as effervescent as Daphne was sullen. I even took care, for once, to load the dishwasher to Nancy’ exact specifications, and was disappointed when, rather than peering inside to make sure I’d misarranged the plates, she slammed the door shut and switched the thing on without a word—when for once I had done a perfect job!
It was close to one o’clock. Nancy was basting the turkey for the umpteenth time. Dinner was scheduled for four, with the other guests invited for three. The Boyds’ flight had landed, on time, at ten-thirty (Nancy had checked with TWA), which meant that they should have arrived in Wellspring at twelve-fifteen. Ernest was sequestered in his office above the garage. Ben and Daphne were playing Scrabble at the tulip table. Already Mark had made his mournful holiday call; tears had been shed at his description of Vancouver going about its regular business, an ordinary weekday in Canada, which he and some of his fellow draft dodgers were going to try to make more cheerful by preparing a little feast of their own, with a soy loaf in the shape of a turkey. The memory of that call must have touched some nerve of maternal affection in Nancy, for now she stole up behind Ben and rubbed his shoulders.
“Mom, stop,” he said.
“Lucid,” she whispered. “Right there, the double letter score—”
“Will you please not help him?” Daphne asked.
“Sorry. What time is it?”
“Five past one.”
“I wonder why they haven’t gotten here. Maybe they had an accident. Or got lost.”
“Then they’d have called.”
“Or maybe they pulled in for gas in a bad neighborhood and got held up,” Ben interjected helpfully. “That happened to Hettie Longabaugh’ sister, remember? People who don’t know L.A.—”
“But if they rented a car, it would have a full tank.”
“It’ my fault,” Nancy said. “I should have sent Ernest to pick them up.”
Daphne switched on the television. “Poor mother, always so worried,” she said, with the easy gravity of a girl whom sex has endowed with delusions of maturity. “Anyway, a few hours in Compton would probably do them some good. Let them see how the other half lives, while we stuff ourselves with turkey.”
“Maybe I should call the highway patrol—”
“Just give them another hour. They could have stopped for lunch.”
“On Thanksgiving?”
Little Hans started to bark. “Oh, I hope that’ them,” Nancy said.
“It could be Glenn,” Daphne said, adjusting her hair. “He said he might come early.”
We all hurried to the front hall. Little Hans had his paws on the stained glass of the door, which Nancy opened. Outside a man and a woman in heavy East Coast coats were pulling luggage out of the trunk of a red Chevrolet.
“Anne, thank goodness!” Nancy cried, and ran to embrace her. They kissed and wept, and Anne introduced Jonah Boyd. Nancy reached for his hand; he pulled her closer and kissed her on both cheeks, which seemed both to fluster and please her. “Kids, come help with the luggage!” she yelled, and Daphne and Ben shuffled over to the car, pretending annoyance but obviously curious and not unhappy to see Anne again, and to meet her new husband. At first Anne held them at a distance, expressing astonishment at how much they had grown. Then, that convention dispensed with, she hugged them both.
Burdened with luggage, the group made its way into the house, Little Hans picking up the rear.
As for me, I hung back. No one had yet asked me to do anything.
I was introduced. Jonah Boyd appeared to be about forty-five. He had pink cheeks and a carefully groomed, salt-and-pepper mustache. His hair, given his age, was surprisingly luxuriant, his clothes immaculate—dark suit, white shirt, and striped tie. By contrast, Anne was wearing a wool coat that had been torn near the pocket and then clumsily restitched, and she carried an enormous, shapeless handbag. She had shaggy red hair that was graying at the roots, nicotine-stained teeth, a thick middle. Also, her eye makeup was smudged in a way that suggested she had been weeping.
All at once a sensation of misplaced triumph welled up in me. This Anne was a far cry from the willowy creature Nancy had described. Certainly they could never have shared clothes! I admit, my rival’ sordid demeanor—not to mention the expression of concern and disappointment that claimed Nancy’ face as she gave Anne the once-over—sparked in me an unexpected confidence, and I shook Anne’ hand heartily. “I’m Denny, Dr. Wright’ secretary,” I said. “Welcome to California.”
“So you’re the new four-hand partner.”
“Why yes,” I answered with surprise. Until that moment, I’d had no idea that Nancy had even mentioned me to Anne.
“We all rely on Denny,” Nancy said. Then she said, “Let me show you to your room,” and led the Boyds down the hall. Daphne and I followed. “Ernest’ in his office. He has a new office above the garage. He should be down in a few minutes.”
“This is a wonderful house,” Boyd said, in a rich, slightly cracked baritone.
“Oh, thanks. It’ nothing fancy, but we like it. And here’ the guest room.”
Daphne winced.
We crossed the threshold into the newly made room, which indeed looked quite guest roomish. “Very nice,” Boyd said.
“Wait a minute—” Anne stopped in her tracks. “I knew someone was missing. Where’ Mark?”
“Oh, he’ in Vancouver.”
“Vancouver!”
“Yes. He went in July to assert his opposition to the war.”
“You mean he’ a draft dodger?”
Nancy’ smile collapsed into a sort of tremble of the lips.
“Sweetheart, that’ not a very nice way of putting it,” Boyd said, resting a hand on his wife’ shoulder in a gesture that might have been protective and might have been a warning. “Anyway, I, for one, stand completely behind the draft resisters. I fought in Korea, you know. A brutalizing experience. If I were in his shoes, I’d do the same thing.”
“Thank you, Mr. Boyd.”
“Jonah.”
“Jonah. I appreciate that.”
“Oh, Nancy, you must miss him,” Anne said, sitting down on the bed. “And on Thanksgiving!”
Tears rimmed Nancy’ eyes. “I do miss him,” she said. “But I also respect that he’ doing what he feels he has to.” She straightened her back. “Well, you two must want to wash up. I’ve got the turkey to attend to. Whenever you’re ready, just come into the living room, and Ernest will make everyone drinks.”
We left, closing the door behind us. Back in the kitchen, Nancy blotted her eyes, gave Daphne an unwanted hug, and checked to see if the turkey’ thermometer had popped. (It had not.) Then she arranged some crackers around a cheese ball rolled in pecans and a pile of rumaki, and we adjourned to the living room, where Anne was settling herself on the cat-stained leather chair, Boyd on the sofa. By now it was fairly obvious, at least to me, that the Boyds had been fighting, and that this was probably why they had been late. You could tell from the puffiness of Anne’ eyes, the slight rasp in her voice—a weeper’ rasp, as opposed to a smoker’. And Boyd himself was smiling too broadly and talking too loudly, in that way of men who believe in always putting on a brave face, even when the house is falling down around them. Every now and then he shot a glance of irritation at his wife, who was clearly incapable of such emotion-masking niceties.
Soon Ernest came down from his eyrie. He kissed Anne, and shook Boyd’ hand manfully.
“The Boyds would like drinks,” Nancy said. In those days, women did not mix drinks.
“Certainly,” Ernest said. “What’ll it be?”
“Just Coca-Cola for me, thanks,” said Boyd.
“And you, Anne?”
“Gin and tonic. And make it strong. After that trip, I need it.”
“Oh, was there turbulence?” Nancy asked.
“Only in the car on the way from the airport.”
Nancy gave a trill-like laugh. “Anne, always such a card!”
“No, but seriously, Ernest, I want your professional opinion on something.”
“Honey, do we really have to go into all that?” Boyd asked.
“Be quiet, Jonah—it’ about a problem that arose on the way here from the airport, and not for the first time, and frankly I’m very, very upset about this, even though my husband insists on pretending nothing’ the matter.”
“Oh yes?” Ernest said. (As a rule, psychoanalysts loathe being asked to give free advice.)
“Darling,” Boyd said, “I really can’t imagine why Dr. Wright should be remotely interested in our trivial little—”
“Ernest, you’re a shrink. Wouldn’t you agree that there’ sometimes more to the trivial than meets the eye?”
“I suppose,” Ernest said, handing Anne her drink, “though of course, as Freud himself noted, not everything has a hidden meaning. Sometimes a cigar and all that. Well, cin-cin.”
“Cheers,” said Nancy.
“This really is a beautiful house,” Boyd said. “Why, do you know this is the first time in my life I’ve been to California?”
“He keeps losing them.”
“Losing what?”
“Sweetheart—”
“His notebooks. That’ why we were late. He left them on the plane, in the seatback pocket. We were halfway here in the car when suddenly he says, ‘They’re not in my briefcase.’ And then we have to turn around and make a mad dash back to the airport and run screaming down the concourse to stop the plane before it takes off again.”
“Notebooks?”
“Sorry, I should have explained. He writes in notebooks. His new novel.”
“My lady wife is making a mountain out of a molehill,” Boyd said. “It’ true, in a moment of inattention, I left the notebooks in the seatback pocket, thinking I’d already put them in my briefcase. But then I realized they were missing, we went back to the airport, and I retrieved them. The cleaners had taken them off the plane and left them with the gate agent. All this running screaming down the runway—”
“The concourse.”
“—running screaming down the concourse is my wife’ somewhat hysterical embellishment.”
Tears were suddenly streaming down Anne’ cheeks. “You just don’t understand,” she said. “You don’t realize how this is torturing me—”
“Excuse me,” Ernest said, “but didn’t you make a spare copy?”
“No, he did not! He refuses, simply refuses, no matter how much I beg him. See, Jonah? I’m not the only one who thinks this is craziness. Tell him it’ craziness, Ernest.”
“I’m not sure it’ anything so grave as that,” said Ernest, who was evidently becoming interested in spite of himself. “But I do think it would make sense—that it would be, well, practical—to keep a copy safe somewhere. As a precaution.”
“Whenever we go on a trip, if Ernest’ working on an article or something, he puts a copy in the refrigerator,” Nancy said brightly, “because there, at least, it should be safe in case of a fire.”
“I suppose it has always been my folly,” Boyd said, “to trust to the protection of the muse.”
Ernest raised his eyebrows, perhaps in response to Boyd’ antiquated way of speaking, which could be charming or off-putting, depending on your point of view.
“Do you see what I’m up against?” Anne asked. “I mean, here we are talking about this novel for which he’ been paid a lot—I mean, a lot—of money, and that he claims to care about more than anything in the world, even more than me, he said once. And what does he do? He ‘trusts to the protection of the muse.’ Only the muse is falling down on the job! This spring, for instance—we were getting off the train in New York, when he dropped one of the notebooks between the platform and the train, right onto the tracks.”
“Yes, and the stationmaster climbed down and got it for me, didn’t he?”
“It must be terrifying to think you’ve lost something pre-cious,” Nancy said to no one in particular.
“Dropping something is not the same as . . . I mean, my wife makes it sound like a pattern, which it isn’t. Just those two incidents, which, when you look at them closely, have nothing whatsoever to do with each other.”
“Let’ ask Ernest if they have anything to do with each other. Ernest?”
“I really couldn’t say,” Ernest said, scratching the back of his neck, “although I will repeat that I think it would probably be a smart idea to start making copies.”
“And you know what?” Boyd said. “I agree.” He held up his right hand. “How does this sound? I, Jonah Boyd, being of sound mind and body, vow that from this day forward I shall make copies of my notebooks thrice weekly.” He put his hand down again. “There, does that make you feel better, darling?”
A quiet fell. Anne nursed her drink.
“Well, isn’t it lovely to be witlrold friends for the holiday?” Nancy said.
“Yes indeed,” I said.
“It is lovely to be in the hands of such a charming hostess, and to spend the holiday in such a charming house,” Boyd said.
“Oh, Jonah!” Nancy said, blushing with pleasure and a susceptibility to Boyd’ rather idiotic pleasantries that I must admit made me think less of her.
As for Anne, she was turning her glass round and round in her hand, staring into the ice. Even from across the room I could see the smudge marks where she had pawed it.
A silence now ensued that was like the ash end of a cigarette—mesmerizing in its gradual attenuation, coming each second closer to collapse, until Nancy did the conversational equivalent of rushing in with an ashtray. “Well, I’m afraid that I, for one, need to be getting back to the kitchen,” she said, and jumped up. “You’ll excuse me, won’t you?”
“I’ll help,” I said, rising to follow her.
“Me too,” Anne said.
We all strode into the kitchen, where we found Glenn Turner sitting at the tulip table with Daphne and Ben. They were watching Bonanza. Nancy introduced Glenn to Anne. “At Thanksgiving, I always invite some of Ernest’ grad students,” she explained, “the ones who can’t afford to fly home. I call them my ‘trays.’”
“You look like a miniature version of Ernest in that bow tie,” Anne said to Glenn, reeling a bit from her drink. “Oh, can I do the gravy? I love doing the gravy.”
Nancy gazed at me—a little helplessly, if truth be told.
“Well, Denny, isn’t that nice of Anne?” she said. “She’ offered to do the gravy.”
“Lovely,” I said.
From inside the oven, a ping sounded. The turkey had popped.