The Body Of Jonah Boyd
The Body of Jonah Boyd
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Stories
Family Dancing
A Place I’ve Never Been
The Marble Quilt
Collected Stories
Novels
The Lost Language of Cranes
Equal Affections
While England Sleeps
The Page Turner
Martin Bauman; or, A Sure Thing
Novellas
Arkansas: Three Novellas
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Florence, A Delicate Case
With Mark Mitchell
Italian Pleasures
In Maremma: Life and a House in Southern Tuscany
The Penguin Book of Gay Short Stories
(coeditor)
Pages Passed from Hand to Hand
(coeditor)
The Body of Jonah Boyd
A Novel
DAVID LEAVITT
Copyright © 2004 by David Leavitt
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from
the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Bloomsbury
Publishing, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Published by Bloomsbury Publishing, New York and London
Distributed to the trade by Holtzbrinck Publishers
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manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Leavitt, David, 1961—
The body of Jonah Boyd : a novel / David Leavitt.
p. cm.
1. City and town life—Fiction. 2. Female friendship—Fiction. 3. College teachers—Fiction. 4. Draft resisters—Fiction. 5. Women
musicians—Fiction. 6. Secretaries—Fiction. 7. Mistresses—Fiction. 8. Adultery—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3562.E2618B64 2004
813’.54—dc22
2003020904
First published in the U.S. in hardcover by Bloomsbury Publishing in 2004
This paperback edition published in 2005
eISBN: 978-1-58234-503-1
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 42
Typeset by Hewer Text Ltd, Edinburgh
Printed in the United States of America by Quebecor World Fairfield
743 Cooksey Lane
Contents
E
VERY THANKSGIVING, THE Wrights gave a big dinner to which they invited all the graduate students—the “strays,” Nancy Wright
called them—who happened to be marooned in Wellspring over the holiday. Glenn Turner was usually one of these, as was Phil
Perry (later to cause such grief and uproar), and a shadowy girl with bangs in a plaid skirt whose name, for the moment, escapes
me. Also me. My name is Judith “Denny” Denham, and I was unique among the strays in that I wasn’t any kind of graduate student.
I was Ernest Wright’ secretary in the psych department. Since the Thanksgiving about which I am writing—1969—thirty years
have passed, which is as many years as I had then been alive.
In Wellspring, California, many of the street names combine the front and back ends of different states. Calibraska Avenue
is the main shopping thoroughfare, rising at a steady eastward incline from the university and then crossing under the 420
freeway to Springwell, where I lived, where most of the secretaries lived. Springwell is Wellspring’ service entrance, its
mirror twin; it is where you go for the best Mexican food, or to visit your children by a woman you have long since abandoned;
it is the wrong side of a freeway the chief function of which, I often suspect, is to give people something to live on the
right
side of.
Florizona Avenue, where the Wrights lived, is on the university side of the freeway—the right side. It begins its brief, three-block
trajectory as a sharp left turn off Minne-tucky Road, then winds upward amid rows of capacious houses, most of them two-story,
shingled or stucco, with somersaulting lawns and old oaks—and then, just at its point of greatest glory, where the view opens
up to reveal all of Wellspring, the university with its tiled roofs, and the arroyo, and on sunny days, in the remote distance,
the Pacific, it comes to an abrupt end at Washaho Avenue, the name of which has for generations been the subject of crude
undergraduate jokes. Today, due to the university’ peculiar charter, this neighborhood remains the exclusive domain of tenured
professors and senior administrators, even as the rest of Wellspring has been colonized by movie people and software engineers
from the “campuses” of the tech firms that have sprung up of late in the hills, as if in parody of the real campus to which
the town owes its name. The reigning provost, Ira Weiss, is at 304, formerly the Webb house, while at 310, where Ken Longabaugh
from Math once lived with his wife, Hettie, there’ a Russian biologist named Federov. Francine Chambers from History has replaced
Jim Heatherly from Geology at 307. 305 still belongs to Sam and Bertha Boxer—"the bizarre Boxers,” as we used to call them,
Sam long retired from the Engineering department and their yard more dilapidated than ever.
As for the Wrights’ house—302—after Nancy Wright died in 1981, it went through three more owners, the price doubling with
each resale, until Ben Wright, by then a famous novelist, managed at long last to buy it back in the late nineties. He lived
there until his own death last spring.
I remember that when I first started working at Wellspring, I used to sometimes take Florizona Avenue on my way home from
the office, just so that I could admire, for a moment, its easy affluence, the fruit trees and rose gardens and winding stone
paths. After school, if it wasn’t raining, there would be children in the street, playing Capture the Flag or Red Rover, though
Ben Wright was rarely among them. His allergies kept him indoors. In those days I thought the name “Florizona” exotic and
colorful; it brought to mind some tropical tree, a palm or a banyan, growing out of hot sand, in a landscape as crooked and
severe as the one through which the Road Runner chases the coyote.
Ernest Wright was an authority on Freud, and also maintained a small private practice as a psychoanalyst. Although he had
been born in St. Louis, where he had met and married Nancy, his ancestry was Eastern European, his parents having emigrated
from Poland around the turn of the century and adopted the name “Wright” in honor of the brothers who made the first successful
airplane flight. (His father had ambitions to be a pilot.) For much of his professional life, Ernest taught at Bradford College
in Bradford, New Hampshire. The Wrights only moved to Wellspring in 1964, two years before I went to work as his secretary.
They had three children: Mark, Daphne, and Ben. In 1969, Mark was twenty and living in Vancouver. That summer, he had fled
over the Canadian border to avoid the military draft. His draft number was four. Daphne was seventeen in 1969, and in the
throes of her first real love affair, with Glenn Turner, who was her father’ protege. (This had to be kept secret from Ernest,
who wouldn’t have approved.) In those years, she and her mother were waging a constant war the chief purpose of which, or
so it seemed to me, was to allow them to collapse, at battle’ end, into a cozy mess of tears, hugs, and chocolate ice cream.
To prolong the ordeal of fighting in order to intensify the pleasure of making up—this was classic Wright behavior, and worthy
of just the sort of Freudian analysis that Ernest was so skilled at doling out in every context except that of his own family.
Ben was the youngest—fifteen in 1969. He wrote poetry, and was a picky eater. At Thanksgiving dinners, if any one of the foods
on his plate touched any other—if the peas touched the turkey or the gravy got onto the marshmallow-crusted sweet potato casserole—he
would refuse to eat altogether. His eating habits were a source of great distress for Nancy, who seemed incapable of getting
her son’ meals arranged properly, and eventually had to buy him a special plate divided into sections to keep him from starving
himself.
My friendship with Nancy was in certain crucial ways remote from my relationship with her husband. Having heard that I could
play the piano, she had asked me to be her four-hand partner. And though, as a four-hand partner, I didn’t prove to be very
good—I was inclined to play wrong notes or fall out of step with her scrupulous metronome—still, she kept at it with me, and
kept inviting me to Thanksgiving dinners, in part, I think, because I could be counted on to make gravy without lumps, as
my mother had taught me, and to take on the more onerous of the cooking chores, the ones Daphne disdained, such as chopping
the carrots. Our friendship, which lasted almost fifteen years, was fractious and sometimes maudlin. Nancy resented me for
not playing the piano as well as Anne Armstrong, her four-hand partner and best friend from Bradford; I resented Nancy for
treating me as an unpaid servant, inviting me to the parties and faculty wives teas that she sometimes hosted and then expecting
me to wash the dishes or pour the coffee. And yet I also adored her, and craved the maternal solicitude she dispensed, as
I had lost my own mother when I was fourteen. And she, if nothing else, seemed to feel that she could talk to me as she could
to few others, that I would listen to her complaints and worries without judging her or ignoring her, as Ernest was wont to
do. Friendships between women are often like that, made up of blame and neediness in equal portions.
Nineteen sixty-nine was the third Thanksgiving that I spent with the Wrights—an exceptional Thanksgiving, in that Mark, for
the first time, was absent (Nancy wept about it), while two honored guests were to be in attendance: the novelist Jonah Boyd
and his new wife, the former Anne Armstrong, Nancy’ erstwhile four-hand partner and best friend from Bradford.
It was difficult to imagine Nancy Wright away from her house. It seemed to be a part of her, her very soul bound up with its
beams and plaster. Yet the first time she walked into the kitchen, she sat down on her suitcase and wept.
This was a famous story, one she told many times. “Well, you know that before we came to Wellspring, we lived in Bradford,”
she’d begin. “We’d already been there a dozen years, Ernest had tenure, Mark and Daphne were in school with kids they’d known
their whole lives. Also, we’d just moved into our dream house—I mean that literally, because I saw the house in a dream. I
woke up and drew it before the image faded, and gave the drawing to the architect, and that was the house he built, more or
less. It was three stories, but you entered on the middle story. One staircase went down, to the family room and the kids’
bedrooms. The other went up, to our bedroom and Ernest’ study. We had a fountain in the front and glass all around the front
door—gorgeous, except that the birds couldn’t tell that it was glass. I’d be practicing Mozart on the piano, when suddenly
there’d be this thwacking noise, and a bird body would drop to the ground. Dead. Horrible.
“After we built that house, I hoped we’d stay there the rest of our lives. And why not? You took settlement more for granted
in those days. But then Ernest got the offer from Wellspring, and it was that proverbial ‘offer you can’t refuse.’ He asked
me if I minded. He said that if I minded, of course he’d turn down the offer. I said that I minded, and he called to accept.
“We put the house in Bradford on the market. The kids were miserable. They didn’t want to leave their friends. And then at
the end of the summer, we made what my best pal Anne Armstrong liked to call ‘the great migration’—as if we were crossing
the prairie in a covered wagon! In fact, Ernest went first—he drove—and then a couple of weeks later, I flew out with the
kids. He didn’t ask my opinion about the house on Florizona Avenue. He just called me up one day and announced that he’d bought
it. Case closed. Never even bothered to send me a photograph.
“I remember that when we arrived at the airport, he had a new car waiting for us, a Ford Falcon station wagon with a red interior,
which I guess was supposed to make the kids feel better. Even though we were booked to stay at a motel for a couple of nights,
I made him drive us straight to the new house. Today it may be hard for you to envision, because of course we’ve done so much
redecorating since then, and put in the pool, and landscaped, but the first time I saw it, the house was a total wreck. The
window frames were rotting. There were birds’ nests between the screens and the windows, and all the gutters were clogged
with pine needles.
“We didn’t go in through the front door. We went up the back staircase—there was a hole in one of the treads—and then Ernest
put the key in the door, which wouldn’t budge because the lock was rusty. So we all just stood there in the cold, until finally
he got it open and let us inside. ‘Ta-da,’ he said, and I just stared. The kitchen floor was this hideous linoleum, printed
to look like terrazzo. There was no refrigerator, just a gaping hole where a refrigerator ought to be. The cabinets were made
of this awful old rusty metal, painted red. You see, before he’d signed the papers, Ernest had let the contractor convince
him that all the renovation work, or at least most of it, could be finished by the time we arrived. You know how contractors
are, they’ll say anything to get a job—and you know how gullible Ernest can be! As if that much work could be done in such
a short time! Visionary, but no common sense. And so we stood there in the middle of the wreckage, the kids flying around
like moths, and Ernest says, ‘o what do you think?’ And when I don’t answer, he says, ‘It’ll be gorgeous once it’ finished.’
And that’ when I sit down on my suitcase and start to cry.
“Whenever I tell people this story, I know they think I’m exaggerating, because—well, the house turned out to be so wonderful,
didn’t it, and now we’ve had so many Thanksgiving dinners here, and beginning-of-semester cocktail parties, and pool parties?
I think back to the house in Bradford, and it’ hard to imagine I ever assumed we’d always live there. You know, I really believe
that for some of us, there is a house that is a kind of destiny, a place that, once you arrive there, you say, ‘Yes, this
is where I belong,’ and you stay. That’ what this house is for me. And yet I was forty-four years old before I even saw it.
I’d lived in six houses already, including my parents’ house. All of which just goes to prove that you should never try to
second-guess the future.”
Perhaps at this point both the house and Nancy ought to be described. The house dated from the early 1920s and had begun life
as a country cottage, back in the days when this part of California was still country. At first it had consisted of a simple
shingled rectangle, a dash, but then each successive owner had added a wing, so that over the course of decades, the dash
became a sideways T, then a lowercase h, then a capital H—the shape it bore when Ernest Wright bought it.
It had some wonderful, odd features. Just to the left stood an old-fashioned garage, a separate building with a weather vane
and its own attic, which Ernest later made over into the office where he saw his patients. In the backyard, near the pool,
there was a sloped, grass-lined depression where an earlier pool had been dug in the twenties and then abandoned, victim of
the stock market crash. Later, an intermediate owner had tried to make a virtue of this strange declivity by building a turreted
barbecue pit at the deep end, and lining the sides with brick benches. Because the chimney smoked, no one used it—yet what
a wonderful place it was to run, and turn somersaults, and imagine yourself the protector of a medieval keep in the midst
of battle! Dame Carcas throwing the pig over the wall of Carcassone . . . I never played such games, only fantasized about
having played them, when I pretended that I had grown up in that house.
What else? The house was shingled, and during most of the years I knew it, painted red. It was one story, but because the
lot sloped down, its rear end rose up over the garden. Although the brick path from Florizona Avenue descended to a veranda
and a rather grand front door inlaid with stained glass, no one in the family ever entered that way.
That
door was used only by party guests and delivery men; the Wrights themselves went in through the back, by means of that rickety
wooden staircase that led from the garage to the kitchen, which was big, with a Saarinen tulip table, a faux-brick vinyl floor
(to replace the old linoleum), and oak cabinets painted robin’ egg blue. The kitchen was really the hub of that house. It
was here that the Wrights ate their weekday dinners, and that the children did their homework, and that Nancy fumed and fretted
as she polished the copper bottoms of her Revere-ware. In that kitchen, on a little television next to the sink, we watched
the kidnapping of Patty Hearst and the impeachment of Nixon, Nancy swearing like a sailor each time Henry Kissinger’ face
appeared and turning down the volume because, she said, that man was the devil incarnate, and she could not bear even the
sound of his voice.
