by Daniel Klein
“Your boyfriend?”
“One of them. We alternate chapters.”
“Well, how about that!” Digby says, as if he knows what he is feeling. Fatherly pride? Wonder? Inconsolable alienation from his only child?
“It’s a hoot, all right.”
“Terrific, hon. So Mom sends you money?”
There is a soft rap at Digby’s open office door. Goldenfield and MacLane stand just outside it, whispering to each other.
“I don’t need money,” Sylvia is saying. “We have a sponsor.”
Digby raises a finger in Goldenfield and MacLane’s direction, signaling that he will be with them in a minute.
“A sponsor for this, uh . . . for The Unmade Bed?”
“Tyler’s dad fixed it up. We carry an ad for Durex. You know, condoms. Very cute. I’ll email you the site.”
For the first time in over a year, Digby finds himself fully appreciating Scott Kravitz’s verdict that his aptitude for spotting the very next thing plopped toiletward some time ago. An online novel that sounds vaguely smutty? And one that makes money? Not in Digby’s wildest prognostications.
Abruptly and without fully realizing it, Digby momentarily slips into the head of an aging curmudgeon from which he sees nothing but rampant idiocy in the coming generation’s modem operandi. But in a beat he returns to his aspiring-to-remain-youthful self and says, “That’s just terrific, Sylvie. I can’t wait to see it.”
“You want to hang up now, am I right?” Sylvie says.
Obviously, her aptitude for pressing her father’s guilt button has continued to flourish.
“Not really,” Digby replies.
“Whatever. I know your wind-up voice,” Sylvia says. “Bye, Digby.”
Although Digby’s curmudgeonly lapse was silent, Sylvia immediately picked up on it, ‘rampant idiocy’ and all. She has her own version of her father’s talent for empathy: she hears personal criticisms where others hear nothing at all. And she hears them often. Her reflexive brashness, even her dirty mouth, fools few of her friends and only rarely herself. When she hangs up the phone in her Berkeley apartment, she tries to find and assume the exact position in which she had been sleeping when her father called, but it eludes her. “God damn him,” she says out loud.
“Bye, Sylvia,” Digby says, although he already hears the drone of the dial tone, a sound that fleetingly reminds him of the monotony of parental failure.
Goldenfield and MacLane take these parting words as a cue to enter his office and stand directly in front of his desk.
“My daughter,” Digby says to them. For some reason, these words come out of his mouth sounding like a pathetic excuse, possibly even a lie, but in any event neither of the duo looking down at him seems to take an interest. They appear to have weightier matters on their minds. “What’s up?” Digby says.
“We’re running into a little—” Goldenfield begins.
“Reticence,” MacLane finishes.
Digby cannot suppress a grin. The pair seems like comic strip twins who scheme with a single diabolical mind, except that it is hard to imagine these two having shared anybody’s womb.
“From whom?” Digby asks.
“Our regular contributors, for starters,” Goldenfield manages to say all on his own.
“Not up for heaven, are they?” Digby says, gratefully back in full ironic mode.
“More than that, they feel that the subject is, well, undignified,” MacLane says.
“Oh, the dignity thing,” Digby goes on raffishly. His inner child is hooting, “Nah, nah, Mommy Felicia likes my idea, so there!” He hadn’t realized until now how very much Mrs. Hastings’ reported approval has bucked him up, and Digby tends toward raffishness when bucked up.
“Maybe we should consider some kind of compromise,” Goldenfield says.
“Please do sit down,” Digby says. “My neck isn’t what it used to be.”
They sit on the Victorian settee. For a fleeting moment, Digby thinks they look kind of adorable there.
“There are a lot of interesting ideas in the literature about the soul,” Goldenfield goes on. “As in, ‘the immortal soul.’ Aristotle’s ‘psyche’ is a good place to start.”
“And then we could insert the biblical soul that supposedly goes to heaven in one of our articles, if you see what I mean,” MacLane says.
“Just for fun,” Digby says.
“Well, yes, for a little bit of fun,” Goldenfield says tentatively.
“But not too much fun,” Digby says.
The two of them eye Digby warily. It is very astute of them to do so.
“I imagine that for the two of you, fun is the opposite of serious,” Digby says with all the seeming seriousness he can muster. “You can’t hold both concepts in your mind at the same time.”
All traces of adorableness have evaporated from their faces.
“Actually I do think you two are on to something,” Digby goes on. “We definitely should do a piece about souls, especially of the immortal variety. And if Aristotle is a good springboard, hey, go for it. But get that soul to heaven, you hear? The Great Hereafter. Sweet Beulah Land. Because that’s what our next issue is about!”
No response. No movement to leave either. Finally MacLane says, “There’s something else. Duke University Press.”
This, Digby recalls, is the publisher who rents the back page of Cogito to promote philosophy books with inscrutable titles.
“What about them?” Digby asks. He sniffs that foul, gassy odor again.
“They are not happy with the topic,” Goldenfield says.
Digby is on his feet in an instant. He shouts, “And who the fuck told them what our topic is? They’re advertisers, not contributors! It’s none of their fucking business!”
Goldenfield and MacLane appear frightened. Digby finds this encouraging.
“I simply happened to be on the phone with Raymond Bates—” Goldenfield begins, but Digby has had enough.
“Get the hell out of here!” he shouts, and they do.
Digby feels both energized and shaky. Actually, he could use a quick toke, but to his credit, he merely sits down and tries to calm himself, not an easy task considering that he doesn’t know what his options are—for example, is he allowed to fire these two for insubordination? Or, on the other hand, can they fuck him over with just a few well-placed phone calls?
Digby’s management skills are not what they used to be—and they never were, as Fanny used to quip. He reaches back to his months in front of Asim’s television set and asks himself, what would Donald Trump do? But before an answer comes, Madeleine calls to him from the door, “Have you seen Rostislav?”
“No.”
“He seems to be missing,” Madeleine says anxiously.
“Missing? From where?”
“I don’t know. Everywhere, I guess. He didn’t show up for his seminar. He’s not in his room. He’s not here either.”
“That doesn’t seem like an awful lot of places not to be,” Digby says. “Not enough to qualify as missing. He’s a grown man. Maybe he’s sleeping in at a girlfriend’s house.”
“He doesn’t have a girlfriend,” Madeleine replies peevishly.
Fishbowl that Louden, Vermont is, minnows of Madeleine’s past have swum into Digby’s view these past few days. She is the daughter of a deceased classics professor and a logger’s widow to whom he may or may not have been married. Madeleine has a daughter of her own; although no one seems to know for sure who the father is, several past and present humanities instructors are the prime suspects. Nonetheless, Madeleine seems the very opposite of a desperate woman. In New York, she would be deemed a ‘highly centered’ person, the highest compliment of the New Age set.
“I see,” Digby says. He needs to get back to more pressing matters, like the guerilla rebellion of fifty percent of his staff.
“Rosti is terribly absentminded,” Madeleine goes on. “I’m afraid it can be a problem for him.”
“Yes, well
, I’m sure it will work out,” Digby says, deliberately booting up his computer in a way that is supposed to communicate: Please go away. But it does not so communicate. Madeleine continues: “Sometimes, working on a computation in his head, Rosti can forget—”
“Madeleine, I need to make a call now,” Digby says. This is a verbal tactic he learned watching the characters on General Hospital passive-aggressively manipulate one another. He wonders how many people pick up tips for efficient social maneuvers by watching the soaps—there is probably an article in there somewhere.
Indeed, Madeleine withdraws just as Digby’s Mac flashes on with the message that he has email from Sylvia. He clicks. “Check it out, Dad” is Sylvie’s message. Digby is encouraged by the fact that she has addressed him as ‘Dad’ and not ‘Biological Father,’ the appellation she assigned him for several months following his divorce from her mother. He clicks on the link. Up pops the home page of The Unmade Bed—an interactive novel in progress, by Sylvia Maxwell and Tyler Flynn.
The graphics are dazzling. First, an establishment shot of a tasteful brass double bed that would have made the Hastings’ decorator proud. Then, in live motion, a young man approaches the bed in his underwear. Suddenly, everything accelerates to Keystone Cops speed as a young woman in bra and panties appears on the other side of the bed, they both slip out of their undies, dive into bed, engage in athletic sex, and then the guy jumps out of bed only to be immediately replaced by another guy who sheds his underwear.
It is at this point that Digby abruptly clicks to the next page. Not only does he get the concept, but he has the excruciating suspicion that in slower motion he might identify the young woman as his daughter. Yet the next page brings little solace: it is the sponsor’s ad page. An animated inflated condom bearing a smiley face is poised on two spindly legs that end in outsized sneakers. He stands on the sidewalk in a pleasant urban neighborhood, peering around and scratching his head. He then dives into a sewer pipe, but quickly emerges, shaking his head. No, that’s not what I wanted to get into. He then dives into a mail slot, but once again emerges disappointed. Now he spots a sexy, miniskirted woman coming toward him. Yup, now I’m in business.
Digby quickly clicks again, and The Unmade Bed begins in earnest:
Chapter One:
Sex is like food—if you are served the same meal every day, after a while you become anorexic. That meal, no matter how well prepared, is missing that spice known as variety . . .
Digby sighs—Oh dear, my daughter, the writer. He does not feel good about his parenting. He has a sudden, nightmarish suspicion: he is her role model. The phone rings and he snaps up the receiver, eager for distraction.
“We need to talk,” Felicia Hastings says curtly by way of greeting.
“My thought exactly,” Digby replies.
“Louden Clear in fifteen minutes,” she says and hangs up.
It could have been the terse dialogue of a pair of illicit lovers, only decidedly more ominous. By tone of voice alone, Digby is convinced that his days at Cogito are already dwindling down to a precious few. He sees his featherbed taking flight without him. He feels a tingle of nostalgia for his three days in Louden, Vermont. How sweet they were! How fresh and enchanting! Those were the good old days.
He rises from his leather-cushioned chair and is off, passing through Goldenfield’s and MacLane’s unoccupied offices—no doubt they took off for Felicia’s manse directly after his colloquy with them. He flies past Madeleine, deep in a tense telephone conversation about the missing logician, and on to sunny Brigham Street.
Oh yes, bethinks Digby, I am going to miss this colonial village and its gaggles of pastel sweater-wearing coeds. Pink, tangerine, tawny—tones that on a cashmere sweater worn by a young woman seem another delicious layer of skin.
But these pastel thoughts are abruptly arrested as someone taps Digby on the shoulder from behind. He turns. It is none other than last night’s bedmate sporting a sexy smile, or at least Digby guesses that Winny intends her smile to be sexy, but to his eye it looks a bit loopy. That the layer of foundation on her face absorbs the bright morning sunlight like a black hole does not help the effect.
“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” Digby says. “Big meeting with the boss.”
“Kiss for luck,” Winny replies, and before Digby can reply she is planting a moist smooch on his lips, complete with some tricky tongue work. He backs away as soon as he politely can, making little bows like an altar boy respectfully fleeing the embrace of a priest.
“Gotta run,” he says.
“Encore tonight?” Winny calls after him.
Although last night’s coupling had been extremely gratifying—earthy and bouncy with both growls and giggles aplenty—Digby is apprehensive about scheduling a repeat performance so soon. For starters, he just arrived here and he knows how easily he falls into regular habits. He makes a sound somewhere between “uh, huh” and “uh, uh” and breaks into a trot all the way to the restaurant.
Felicia Hastings is waiting for Digby at the same table at which he made new friends last night. She is wearing a surprisingly stylish, robin’s-egg blue blazer and a long black skirt, perhaps a transitional get-up from the widow’s weeds she had been sporting since he first met her at the Harvard Club. She says, “Sit down, Mr. Maxwell.”
Digby does as told.
“Is it too early for a drink?” she asks.
Digby winces. Jesus, it’s going to be that bad, eh?
“Not too early for me,” Digby replies. “A Bloody Mary—just for the vitamins, of course.”
Felicia calls to the barman for two Bloody Marys, then waits silently for them to be served. Digby takes this opportunity to study her face for clues to his fate. Remarkably, he had not noticed before that she has bright green eyes that at this moment seem to sparkle like a woman still in her sexual prime. Or is it that between The Unmade Bed and the bevy of pastel sweaters on Brigham Street—not to mention Winny’s tongue work—he sees sexual innuendo in everything? The drinks arrive. Felicia raises her glass to Digby’s.
“To heaven,” she says, winking.
“My favorite destination,” he replies, clinking her glass. By God, maybe it isn’t time for Louden nostalgia yet, after all.
Felicia takes a dainty sip of her drink and says, “Excuse my language, but Elliot Goldenfield has his head up his rectum.”
Digby giggles. It is an involuntary reaction.
“And that MacLane woman or man or whatever she thinks she is this week, she is no more a philosopher than Rush Limbaugh,” Felicia goes on. “The fact is Bonner only brought her on board under pressure from the department head. Bonner always said that gender studies is the last refuge of women who cannot fathom linear thought.”
Digby’s head is spinning. Clearly, he has underestimated Felicia Hastings’ intellectual sparkle too.
“They certainly aren’t happy with the new direction we’re taking,” he says.
“No, no, they made that very clear to me,” Felicia says, more seriously now. “I’d like to just cut them loose, but that might be more trouble than it’s worth. Too much fuss. Too much campus chatter. But I have an idea for how to deal with them.”
“I’m all ears.”
“You assign them a dissent column. Let them rail all they want about how dumb it is to discuss heaven in a philosophy magazine. How undignified, blah, blah. That should keep them satisfied. It’ll also give them ample opportunity to look like the stodgy idiots they are.”
“I do like the way you think, Mrs. Hastings,” he responds.
“Thank you, Digby. But it’s not my idea, it’s Bonner’s.”
“Beg pardon?”
“I spoke with him right after those two left the house,” Felicia says, smiling merrily. “He was angry, and when Bonner is angry he comes up with his best ideas.”
At this point, Digby is far from considering himself anything even close to a philosopher, but nonetheless he generally comes down on the side of rational thoug
ht, so Felicia’s blithe reference to chatting with her late husband gives him pause. Why this should give him pause while an issue of an academic philosophy journal devoted to Divine Lalaland does not, he is unready to consider.
“I’ll give them the assignment as soon as I see them,” he replies, but Felicia is no longer looking at him. She has halfrisen from her chair and is waving enthusiastically to a woman who has just stepped into the entrance of Louden Clear. This woman, shortish and mid-thirtyish, with close-cut dirty blonde hair, immediately heads for their table. She has an elegant smile and appears uncommonly grounded.
“Mary, you’re right on time,” Felicia says. “This is Mr. Maxwell, our new editor. Digby, this is Mary Bonavitacola—Reverend Mary Bonavitacola of our Unitarian Church.”
Hands are shaken and Mary sits down next to Digby, the same seat in which Winny sat last night. Perhaps that is why he has the passing urge to pat the good reverend’s thigh under the table.
“I told Mary about your heaven issue,” Felicia is saying. “And I don’t want to overstep here—you are the editor-in-chief, Digby—but Mary does have some interesting ideas about paradise. She’s Swarthmore too, you know.”
“I guess this is the moment when we do our secret handshake,” Mary says, looking at Digby with extraordinarily radiant deep blue eyes.
Digby observes that she is not wearing a wedding ring. He asks her to marry him.
No, he doesn’t, but it seems like a perfectly rational thing to do. Not only does he feel a powerful attraction to this woman, but he also senses some kind of preternatural connection to her, as if the two of them had been deep in intimate conversation untold lifetimes ago. This is total nonsense, of course; nonetheless, in the moment it seems as real to Digby as Bonner’s ghost must appear to Mrs. Hastings. Perhaps it is the rarified air up here in Vermont’s soaring Green Mountains.
“Paul Tillich had some interesting ideas about eternity,” Mary says. “Eternal life in the here and now. ‘The eternal now,’ he called it.”
“But no trumpets and golden temples, I gather,” Digby says, trying to look thoughtful and smart.
“Not unless you happen to be at a Wynton Marsalis concert at the Taj Mahal at that eternal moment,” Mary quips.
