The Body of Jonah Boyd

by David Leavitt

  It didn’t matter. No sooner was I down to my underwear than shame overtook me, and I bundled myself into Daphne’ nightgown, which was flannel, patterned with teddy bears in nightcaps, and much too small. I opened the sofa bed, which was already made, switched off the lamp, and snuggled under the covers. But from outside moonlight penetrated through the windows, over which, as it happened, I had neglected to draw the curtains, and I could not sleep. Nor could I muster the energy to climb out of bed and make the room dark; or take the battery out of the wall clock, the persistent ticking of which I felt as a steady thud just beneath my diaphragm. And so I lay awake, listening for noises, and hearing some—several knocks, a not very loud crash, as of something being dropped. A toilet flushed. What time was it? One? Two? I had no idea.

  The darkness settled. I thought about the first Thanksgiving I’d spent with the Wrights, the long night afterward during which I’d actually convinced myself that they’d invited me only to make me the subject of some strange social experiment. Now I understood that their motives for embracing me were not only more complex than I had suspected, but individual: Nancy needed me to be a failure, Ernest needed me as an alternative to Nancy . . . and now Daphne seemed to need me to be her confidante. She was a difficult girl to read, her expression as opaque as her flat, bland hair. I had no idea if she liked me. Come to think of it, I had no idea if she liked anybody. Most of the time she projected a facade of indifference to the rest of the world—and then there would be those occasional flashes of rebelliousness, or rage, or even tenderness. Also a certain hardness: The implacability to which Nancy could merely aspire, Daphne, at seventeen, had already mastered. There was no question as to who would win that war. Nor did it surprise me that Glenn loved her: The challenge was getting through the carapace, reaching the pearl of sweetness within—and to that quest, I have discovered, some men are more than willing to devote their lives.

  Well, she was gone now—presumably off at Glenn’ apartment, which, as it happened, was in the complex next to mine: Springwell, locus of all fulfillments the necessity of which Florizona Avenue proscribed. As I lay on the sofa bed, the faces of the Wrights seemed to float above me, like the winged, disembodied heads of seraphim. Despite my wakefulness, I felt extraordinarily content; and indeed, at some point I must have dropped off, because when, just before dawn, Daphne came in, I did scream, despite my promise not to. No one woke, though—or at least, I heard no one wake. All night the walls and the window frames had been creaking, as if to protest the extra weight the house was being forced to bear, all these bodies shifting in sleep. Now Daphne stripped down to her bra and panties and climbed in next to me. Her hair smelled of smoke.

  “Oh, Denny, what a night it’ been,” she said.

  “Has it?”

  Her lips were as close to mine as a lover’. “Glenn was furious that I told you about us. He’ terribly worried that you’ll tell my father. I tried to reassure him, but you know how men are. They won’t listen.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh, but after that . . . May I tell you? I’ve got to tell someone. You see, tonight Glenn asked me . . . Well, he didn’t exactly ask me, but he broached the subject... I mean, getting married.”

  “Married! But you’re only seventeen!”

  “Oh, not now! In the future, after I’ve graduated . . . because, you see, it looks very likely—don’t tell anyone this, because it isn’t official yet—it looks like the department’ going to offer Glenn a job. Dad doesn’t want word to get around because he’ afraid it will upset Phil—you know, that Glenn is getting an offer and he isn’t. And if Glenn gets the job, and he gets tenure—well, that means that down the road, we can have the house.”

  “What house?”

  “This house, of course! It’ always been Mother’ hope that one of us could keep it after she and Dad—you know—pass away. You know how she feels about the place, how important it is to her that it stay in the family. But this way—if Glenn gets the job—the problem’ solved.”

  “But all that’ so far in the future! Twenty, thirty years. Are you really thinking that far ahead, at your age?”

  “It’ not that far ahead! Besides, soon enough, Dad will want to retire. They’ll want a smaller place.” Daphne lay back, besotted by her own vision. “There’ so much I’d do if this house were ours! For a start, paint the kitchen. And fill in that stupid barbecue pit.” She propped herself up on one elbow. “Oh, Denny, I don’t know how well you know Glenn, but he’ really the most wonderful... so smart and insightful. And an amazing lover. I mean, he really knows how to fuck—oh, have I shocked you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good.” Daphne sounded disappointed. “Tonight was the most marvelous night. May I tell you about it?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Tell me everything.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  And then, for almost an hour, until the sun coming through the windows roused Dora to yowl for her breakfast, she did.

  Eight

  THAT MORNING NANCY hustled me out of bed early. As it turned out, she had already called a tow truck for my car, and it was on its way. I only had time to guzzle down a cup of coffee and ask that she give the Boyds, who were still in bed, my regards, before the truck arrived; with great speed and dexterity, the driver hooked my poor car to its tail, like some enormous fish. At last I climbed into the cab, and he gazed at me in frank bemusement: a woman wearing last night’ makeup, in a wrinkled blouse and too formal skirt. He gave me his phone number, though, and proposed that I call him if I had any free time over the weekend.

  For the rest of the day the logistics of auto repair consumed me. The world shrunk to a narrow island consisting of my apartment at one end and at the other the local Dodge dealership, with only a stretch of freeway I had no means of navigating in between. Gaskets, oil filters, and catalytic converters became the stuff not only of my conscious life but of my dreams. I had trouble sleeping; even wearing earplugs I could not block out the noise of the freeway—an invasive noise, so different from the soothing hum of Florizona Avenue. The dishwasher was noisy too; everything in that apartment was gimcrack, assaultive, and I woke up in the morning with a headache. I wanted breakfast, and had no food. I wanted to get out, and couldn’t, which was probably why, when Nancy phoned around ten-thirty, I could barely contain my delight. “I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, “I know you’re busy with your car, but I need some help. Can you come over? I’ll pay for a taxi.”

  “Of course,” I said, trying not to sound too overjoyed. “But what’ wrong?”

  Something crunched in background. “It’ better if I explain once you’re here. It’ really quite—oops, I’d better go. Oh, and Denny—thanks.’’

  I arrived half an hour later. Nancy was on her knees at the foot of the staircase that climbed to the kitchen, rifling through the contents of an overturned garbage can.

  “I got here as fast as I could,” I said. “But what are you doing?”

  “Oh, hi.” She was inserting a rubber-gloved hand into the morass of turkey parts and soiled paper towels. “I’m really so glad you’re here, Denny. I’m afraid there’ been some trouble.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jonah Boyd’ lost his notebooks.”

  “But I thought they were leaving this morning.”

  “They did leave. Two hours ago. But then about an hour after that, I got this frantic phone call from Anne. They were on the interstate, and they’d pulled over at a rest plaza. It seems that once again Jonah had one of his feelings, just like on the way from the airport, and so they pulled over to make sure the notebooks were still in his briefcase. And they weren’t.”

  “Oh, no. Where could he have left them?”

  “That’ just it, no one knows. They might be here in the house, or they might not. Because yesterday he took Ben down to the arroyo, and he definitely had the notebooks with him then. And then we all met up at a Chinese restaurant—they came in the rental car, Er
nest and I drove Anne from the house—and he might have had them there, too. The problem is, he can’t remember when he last saw them. It’ so exasperating! Oh, what’ this?” She fished out a box that had contained some frozen Parker House rolls. “No, nothing here.”

  “But they shouldn’t be that hard to find. I mean, there are four of them, and they’re not small. Have you called the Chinese restaurant?”

  “They don’t open until five.”

  “What can I do?”

  “If you could just help Ernest out in the study . . . Daphne’ doing her room, and Ben his. The Boyds have turned around and are going to do the arroyo. I’ve told everyone to adopt this system I saw on television, where you divide each area into quadrants and go quadrant by quadrant. A woman found a lost diamond earring that way.”

  Having put the garbage can to rights, we went inside, where I found Ernest in the study, removing the cushions from the daybed. A piece of popcorn, I saw, had lodged in one of the corners.

  “Nancy told me what happened,” I said. “Any luck so far?”

  “No, and there’ not going to be,” Ernest said. “And you know why? Because they’re not here.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? They’re in some Dumpster, or burned up in the incinerator behind the Chinese restaurant. Who cares? The point is, if he’ lost them, it’ because he wanted to lose them. Textbook parapraxis.”

  From typing Ernest’ correspondence, I was familiar with the term, if not this particular usage. “But I thought parapraxis meant letting something slip that you didn’t mean to say,” I said.

  “Yes, but it can also mean answering a question wrong on a test because you secretly want to fail. Or losing something"— he formed his fingers into quotation marks—” ‘accidentally on purpose.’”

  “And you think that’ what happened with Boyd?”

  “There’ no question. Consider that twice already—that we know of—he’ been saved just in the nick of time ‘thanks to the intervention of the muse,’ or some such nonsense. I mean, you don’t just keep losing things, and losing them, and never take any precautions, unless on some level you’re really hoping to lose them. Or because you get your kicks from the risk, the danger.”

  “But a novel—something he’ been working on for years—”

  “For all we know, the bit he read us is all there is, the rest of the notebooks are blank. Or think about it this way: You’re betting everything you’ve got on one book, and one day you wake up and realize it’ just not very good. Then what do you do? If it’ lost, no one will ever be able to criticize it. It will never be a failure. It’ll exist in some sort of ideal state for all eternity, as a ‘lost masterpiece.’ Of course, that’ a pretty desperate tactic, and not one, I suspect, that any normal person would opt for consciously—but from the point of view of the subconscious, it makes perfect sense.”

  Nancy came in. “What are you two doing just standing there and gabbing?” she said. “We’ve still got the living room to do.”

  “Relax. There’ no need. They’re not going to turn up.” Ernest replaced the cushions on the daybed. “As head of this household, I hereby declare this search over.”

  “But if we haven’t looked—”

  “There’ no point. Give it up.”

  Ernest went outside, to his office.

  “He doesn’t like Boyd,” Nancy said, getting down on her knees to peer under a table.

  “Why not?”

  “All that talk about the muse got on his nerves. Also, he didn’t appreciate what Boyd read. He said it was pornographic.”

  Ben slunk through the door. “Nothing in my room. Daphne’ still looking in hers.”

  The bell rang. “Oh no,” Nancy said. “Who on earth could that be? I hope it’ not—”

  But it was. Opening the kitchen door, Nancy admitted the Boyds. Anne looked—if this was possible—even more rumpled than she had upon her arrival from the airport. As for Jonah Boyd, he wore on his pallid face an expression of mute resignation—as if he had fast-forwarded through panic, false hope, and anger, and now stood on the brink of a premature acceptance.

  Anne was not in anywhere near so calm a state. “Any luck?” she asked, shimmying out of her ratty coat.

  “Oh, Annie, I’m sorry, not yet. How about on your end?”

  “None.” She sat heavily at the tulip table. “Although we left a description with the police, and they’ve promised to keep an eye open down at the arroyo. We went by the Chinese restaurant, too. They weren’t open. I tried to get into their Dumpster but it was locked.”

  “My wife is indefatigable,” Boyd said with great fatigue. “She would climb into Dumpsters on my behalf.”

  “Jonah, why don’t you sit down, too? Would you like some coffee?”

  “Thank you.” He eased himself into a chair. “And thank you—all of you—for helping out. It’ rather embarrassing, what’ happened.”

  “Now there’ nothing to be embarrassed about. Anyway, all we’ve done is what any friend would do. We’ve looked. I’m just sorry nothing’ shown up—yet.”

  “Well, don’t trouble yourselves too much. This is no one’ fault but my own. Oh, hello,” he said to Ben, who had just wandered into the kitchen. “And how is your new poem coming along, young man? The one about the sea elephants—”

  Anne hit herself on the forehead. “Are you completely mad? Do you live in a dream world?”

  “No, I do not. Thank you, Nancy.” (She had just handed him a mug of coffee.) “I simply fail to see, lady wife, why ordinary life has to stop completely just because there’ been a slight setback.”

  Anne buried her face in her hands. “This is the end,” she said. “And what are you supposed to do now? Return the advance to the publisher? In that case, we’ll be broke. We’ll have to sell the house.”

  “Oh, Anne,” Nancy said, “I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

  “And you’re coming up for tenure. Without a book, what are you going to tell the chair? This is supposed to be your breakthrough novel, remember, the one that’ going to make us rich. Good God, it’ the end of everything.”

  “Now look,” Nancy said, “there’ no need to be so negative. We’ve hardly begun to look. We just have to be calm and methodical, and Jonah, maybe you need to try to retrace your steps. To work at remembering—to the best of your ability—the last time you were sure you had the notebooks.”

  “You had them at the arroyo,” Ben said. “I remember seeing them on the bench.”

  “But did I have them when we got up to leave? That’ the question.”

  “I think you did.”

  “Or at the Chinese restaurant. Does anyone remember seeing them at the Chinese restaurant?”

  A vague shaking of heads greeted this question. No one could remember.

  “What about yesterday morning, when you were out in the backyard with Ben?”

  “That’ right. We sat down in that very odd barbecue pit.”

  “But that was before we went to the arroyo,” Ben reminded, “and you had them at the arroyo.”

  “Oh, so I did,” Boyd said. “So I did.”

  A silence fell. “Well, the police here are very good,” Nancy said after a moment. “I’m sure you can count on them.”

  “And when does the Chinese restaurant open?”

  “Five, I think.”

  She looked at the clock. It was half past noon.

  I could tell from her expression that the prospect of having the Boyds on her hands until five, watching the clock, was more than she could stomach. So I said, “Maybe at this point we’d do best to head back over to the arroyo ourselves, and do a more careful search.”

  “I don’t know how much ground is left to cover,” Boyd said. “We checked all around the bench where Ben and I sat, not to mention in the garbage cans, and there was nothing.”

  “Still, it couldn’t hurt to have a fresh pair of eyes. I don’t have anything. I’m waiting for my car. I’d
be glad to help. And I’m sure Ben would too—wouldn’t you, Ben?”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, well, if you think that’ a good idea,” said Nancy, the relief in her voice audible, at least to me. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer just to wait here, in which case I could make some lunch . . .”

  “No, no,” Anne said. “I think the last thing we want to be doing is just sitting around. I, for one, would rather be on my hands and knees in the bushes, digging.”

  I stood. “Well, shall we go, then?”

  “We can take the rental car,” Boyd said, standing too. And then the four of us shuffled out the back door.

  Nothing turned up at the arroyo. We spent about two hours scouring the bushes around and behind the bench on which Boyd and Ben had sat, and also around several other benches, in case they had gotten the benches mixed up. Anne sifted through every trash can, while Boyd and Ben dug through the carpet of fallen leaves that blanketed the ground. They seemed to work happily together, and not for the last time, I wondered what kind of bond could have united this pair, a successful novelist of middle age and the teenage author of some pretentious verse. Perhaps Boyd really had seen in Ben’ writing a germ of raw talent that he thought worth cultivating. Or perhaps the connection was sentimental, the fruit of a longing, on Boyd’ part, for a son, and Ben’ for a father—understandable, given that at this stage Ernest paid practically no attention at all to Ben, while Boyd hardly ever had the chance to see his children, who lived with their mother in Dallas. In any case, they had spent the better part of the weekend sequestered together, first in Ben’ room, and then in the barbecue pit, and then here at the arroyo, caught up in an orgy of reading and talking at some point during which (maybe) Boyd had stood up and walked away without his notebooks. They remained pregnantly behind, covers opening to reveal gold-edged, cream-colored tongues that called out in inaudible voices not to be abandoned, as the little tin soldier had called out as he went down the drain: au secours . . . And meanwhile Anne Boyd patiently made her way through the contents of yet another trash can: crumpled paper bags, banana peels, used rubbers, sheets of newspaper smeared with dog shit, a dirty sock . . .