Welcome to the Monkey House: The Special Edition (7 page)

That was where Nancy saw the glint of hope: Mary wouldn’t believe that telegram. Mary knew Nancy had no family in New York. Not one of the 63,000,000 people living there was a relative of Nancy’s.

The gang had deactivated the burglar-alarm system of the museum. They had also cut through a lot of the chains and ropes that were meant to keep visitors from touching anything of value. There was no mystery as to who and what had done the cutting. One of the men was armed with brutal lopping shears.

They marched Nancy into a servant’s bedroom upstairs. The man with the shears cut the ropes that fenced off the
narrow bed. They put Nancy into the bed and two men held Nancy while a woman gave her a knockout shot.

Billy the Poet had disappeared.

As Nancy was going under, the woman who had given her the shot asked her how old she was.

Nancy was determined not to answer, but discovered that the drug had made her powerless not to answer. “Sixty-three,” she murmured.

“How does it feel to be a virgin at sixty-three?”

Nancy heard her own answer through a velvet fog. She was amazed by the answer, wanted to protest that it couldn’t possibly be hers. “Pointless,” she’d said.

Moments later, she asked the woman thickly, “What was in that needle?”

“What was in the needle, honey bunch? Why, honey bunch, they call that ‘truth serum.’ ”

·    ·    ·

The moon was down when Nancy woke up—but the night was still out there. The shades were drawn and there was candlelight. Nancy had never seen a lit candle before.

What awakened Nancy was a dream of mosquitoes and bees. Mosquitoes and bees were extinct. So were birds. But Nancy dreamed that millions of insects were swarming about her from the waist down. They didn’t sting. They fanned her. Nancy was a nothinghead.

She went to sleep again. When she awoke next time, she was being led into a bathroom by three women, still with stockings over their heads. The bathroom was already filled with the steam from somebody else’s bath. There were somebody else’s wet footprints crisscrossing the floor and the air reeked of pine-needle perfume.

Her will and intelligence returned as she was bathed and perfumed and dressed in a white nightgown. When the women stepped back to admire her, she said to them quietly, “I may be
a nothinghead now. But that doesn’t mean I have to think like one or act like one.”

Nobody argued with her.

·    ·    ·

Nancy was taken downstairs and out of the house. She fully expected to be sent down a manhole again. It would be the perfect setting for her violation by Billy, she was thinking—down in a sewer.

But they took her across the green cement, where the grass used to be, and then across the yellow cement, where the beach used to be, and then out onto the blue cement, where the harbor used to be. There were twenty-six yachts that had belonged to various Kennedys, sunk up to their water lines in blue cement. It was to the most ancient of these yachts, the Marlin, once the property of Joseph P. Kennedy, that they delivered Nancy.

It was dawn. Because of the high-rise apartments all around the Kennedy Museum, it would be an hour before any direct sunlight would reach the microcosm under the geodesic dome.

Nancy was escorted as far as the companionway to the forward cabin of the Marlin. The women pantomimed that she was expected to go down the five steps alone.

Nancy froze for the moment and so did the women. And there were two actual statues in the tableau on the bridge. Standing at the wheel was a statue of Frank Wirtanen, once skipper of the Marlin. And next to him was his son and first mate, Carly. They weren’t paying any attention to poor Nancy. They were staring out through the windshield at the blue cement.

Nancy, barefoot and wearing a thin white nightgown, descended bravely into the forward cabin, which was a pool of candlelight and pine-needle perfume. The companionway hatch was closed and locked behind her.

Nancy’s emotions and the antique furnishings of the cabin
were so complex that Nancy could not at first separate Billy the Poet from his surroundings, from all the mahogany and leaded glass. And then she saw him at the far end of the cabin, with his back against the door to the forward cockpit. He was wearing purple silk pajamas with a Russian collar. They were piped in red, and writhing across Billy’s silken breast was a golden dragon. It was belching fire.

Anticlimactically, Billy was wearing glasses. He was holding a book.

Nancy poised herself on the next-to-the-bottom step, took a firm grip on the handholds in the companionway. She bared her teeth, calculated that it would take ten men Billy’s size to dislodge her.

Between them was a great table. Nancy had expected the cabin to be dominated by a bed, possibly in the shape of a swan, but the Marlin was a day boat. The cabin was anything but a seraglio. It was about as voluptuous as a lower-middle-class dining room in Akron, Ohio, around 1910.

A candle was on the table. So were an ice bucket and two glasses and a quart of champagne. Champagne was as illegal as heroin.

Billy took off his glasses, gave her a shy, embarrassed smile, said, “Welcome.”

“This is as far as I come.”

He accepted that. “You’re very beautiful there.”

“And what am I supposed to say—that you’re stunningly handsome? That I feel an overwhelming desire to throw myself into your manly arms?”

“If you wanted to make me happy, that would certainly be the way to do it.” He said that humbly.

“And what about
my
happiness?”

The question seemed to puzzle him. “Nancy—that’s what this is all about.”

“What if my idea of happiness doesn’t coincide with yours?”

“And what do you think my idea of happiness is?”

“I’m not going to throw myself into your arms, and I’m not going to drink that poison, and I’m not going to budge from here unless somebody makes me,” said Nancy. “So I think your idea of happiness is going to turn out to be eight people holding me down on that table, while you bravely hold a cocked pistol to my head—and do what you want. That’s the way it’s going to have to be, so call your friends and get it over with!”

Which he did.

·    ·    ·

He didn’t hurt her. He deflowered her with a clinical skill she found ghastly. When it was all over, he didn’t seem cocky or proud. On the contrary, he was terribly depressed, and he said to Nancy, “Believe me, if there’d been any other way—”

Her reply to this was a face like stone—and silent tears of humiliation.

His helpers let down a folding bunk from the wall. It was scarcely wider than a bookshelf and hung on chains. Nancy allowed herself to be put to bed in it, and she was left alone with Billy the Poet again. Big as she was, like a double bass wedged onto that narrow shelf, she felt like a pitiful little thing. A scratchy, war-surplus blanket had been tucked in around her. It was her own idea to pull up a corner of the blanket to hide her face.

Nancy sensed from sounds what Billy was doing, which wasn’t much. He was sitting at the table, sighing occasionally, sniffing occasionally, turning the pages of a book. He lit a cigar and the stink of it seeped under her blanket. Billy inhaled the cigar, then coughed and coughed and coughed.

When the coughing died down, Nancy said loathingly through the blanket, “You’re so strong, so masterful, so healthy. It must be wonderful to be so manly.”

Billy only sighed at this.

“I’m not a very typical nothinghead,” she said. “I hated it—hated everything about it.”

Billy sniffed, turned a page.

“I suppose all the other women just loved it—couldn’t get enough of it.”

“Nope.”

She uncovered her face. “What do you mean, ‘Nope’?”

“They’ve all been like you.”

This was enough to make Nancy sit up and stare at him. “The women who helped you tonight——”

“What about them?”

“You’ve done to them what you did to me?”

He didn’t look up from his book. “That’s right.”

“Then why don’t they kill you instead of helping you?”

“Because they understand.” And then he added mildly, “They’re
grateful
.”

Nancy got out of bed, came to the table, gripped the edge of the table, leaned close to him. And she said to him tautly, “I am not grateful.”

“You will be.”

“And what could possibly bring about that miracle?”

“Time,” said Billy.

Billy closed his book, stood up. Nancy was confused by his magnetism. Somehow he was very much in charge again.

“What you’ve been through, Nancy,” he said, “is a typical wedding night for a strait-laced girl of a hundred years ago, when everybody was a nothinghead. The groom did without helpers, because the bride wasn’t customarily ready to kill him. Otherwise, the spirit of the occasion was much the same. These are the pajamas my great-great-grandfather wore on his wedding night in Niagara Falls.

“According to his diary, his bride cried all that night, and threw up twice. But, with the passage of time, she became a sexual enthusiast.”

It was Nancy’s turn to reply by not replying. She understood the tale. It frightened her to understand so easily that, from gruesome beginnings, sexual enthusiasm could grow and grow.

“You’re a very typical nothinghead,” said Billy. “If you dare to think about it now, you’ll realize that you’re angry because I’m such a bad lover, and a funny-looking shrimp besides. And what you can’t help dreaming about from now on is a really suitable mate for a Juno like yourself.

“You’ll find him, too—tall and strong and gentle. The nothinghead movement is growing by leaps and bounds.”

“But—” said Nancy, and she stopped there. She looked out a porthole at the rising sun.

“But what?”

“The world is in the mess it is today because of the nothingheadedness of olden times. Don’t you see?” She was pleading weakly. “The world can’t afford sex anymore.”

“Of course it can afford sex,” said Billy. “All it can’t afford anymore is reproduction.”

“Then why the laws?”

“They’re bad laws,” said Billy. “If you go back through history, you’ll find that the people who have been most eager to rule, to make the laws, to enforce the laws and to tell everybody exactly how God Almighty wants things here on Earth—those people have forgiven themselves and their friends for anything and everything. But they have been absolutely disgusted and terrified by the natural sexuality of common men and women.

“Why this is, I do not know. That is one of the many questions I wish somebody would ask the machines. I do know this: The triumph of that sort of disgust and terror is now complete. Almost every man and woman looks and feels like something the cat dragged in. The only sexual beauty that an ordinary human being can see today is in the woman who will kill him. Sex is death. There’s a short and nasty equation for you: ‘Sex is death. Q. E. D.’

“So you see, Nancy,” said Billy, “I have spent this night, and many others like it, attempting to restore a certain amount of innocent pleasure to the world, which is poorer in pleasure than it needs to be.”

Nancy sat down quietly and bowed her head.

“I’ll tell you what my grandfather did on the dawn of his wedding night,” said Billy.

“I don’t think I want to hear it.”

“It isn’t violent. It’s—it’s meant to be tender.”

“Maybe that’s why I don’t want to hear it.”

“He read his bride a poem.” Billy took the book from the table, opened it. “His diary tells which poem it was. While we aren’t bride and groom, and while we may not meet again for many years, I’d like to read this poem to you, to have you know I’ve loved you.”

“Please—no. I couldn’t stand it.”

“All right, I’ll leave the book here, with the place marked, in case you want to read it later. It’s the poem beginning:

Billy put a small bottle on top of the book. “I am also leaving you these pills. If you take one a month, you will never have children. And still you’ll be a nothinghead.”

And he left. And they all left but Nancy.

When Nancy raised her eyes at last to the book and bottle, she saw that there was a label on the bottle. What the label said was this:
WELCOME TO THE MONKEY HOUSE
.

(1968)

T
HEY HAD GROWN UP
next door to each other, on the fringe of a city, near fields and woods and orchards, within sight of a lovely bell tower that belonged to a school for the blind.

Now they were twenty, had not seen each other for nearly a year. There had always been playful, comfortable warmth between them, but never any talk of love.

His name was Newt. Her name was Catharine. In the early afternoon, Newt knocked on Catharine’s front door.

Catharine came to the door. She was carrying a fat, glossy magazine she had been reading. The magazine was devoted entirely to brides. “Newt!” she said. She was surprised to see him.

“Could you come for a walk?” he said. He was a shy person, even with Catharine. He covered his shyness by speaking absently, as though what really concerned him were far away—as though he were a secret agent pausing briefly on a mission between beautiful, distant, and sinister points. This manner of speaking had always been Newt’s style, even in matters that concerned him desperately.

“A walk?” said Catharine.

“One foot in front of the other,” said Newt, “through leaves, over bridges——”

“I had no idea you were in town,” she said.

“Just this minute got in,” he said.

“Still in the Army, I see,” she said.

“Seven more months to go,” he said. He was a private first class in the Artillery. His uniform was rumpled. His shoes were dusty. He needed a shave. He held out his hand for the magazine. “Let’s see the pretty book,” he said.

She gave it to him. “I’m getting married, Newt,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk.”