Nothing Serious

by Daniel Klein

  Mary is crying in earnest now. She leans back on the rock, her spine against his. In the moment, it feels more intimate than a coital embrace. After a while she manages to say, “I didn’t see it coming.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t.”

  “I should have!” Mary cries. “I didn’t want to see it, so I didn’t. I probably even encouraged it, goddamn it! It happened little by little, you know? I’d pat her belly and say things like, ‘How’s our little guy doing today?’ Our little guy! Before I knew it, she was talking about what we were going to feed him and where our little guy would go to nursery school. It got out of hand, way out of hand, and I didn’t do anything to stop it. I don’t do anything to stop it!”

  They remain silent for a long while. Clearly, Mary made a terrible mistake the moment she elected to borrow June’s womb. Everything that followed germinated from that heedless seed. They both know that. ‘No blame,’ as it says in the I Ching. There is nothing more to say about it. But Digby needs to say something to Mary now, something—anything—that will give her some peace.

  “We’ll find a way to make it work” is what he says.

  “Don’t!” Mary’s back stiffens against his. “I don’t want you to do anything, Digby!”

  “Sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean—” But, of course, Digby did mean exactly what he said, that somehow he could be a part of helping her through this, that somehow he hopes he can be a part of helping her through this.

  They remain seated back to back on the rock. Slowly her spine relaxes into Digby’s again and they stay that way for several minutes. Then they walk back to the church. At the door, she says, “I’m sorry, Digby. I didn’t even say a word about this craziness that you’re going through with Felicia Hastings.”

  “Hey, it’s not that big a deal,” Digby says, and at the moment it really does not feel like one to him.

  Mary gives him a quick peck on the cheek and disappears inside her church.

  CHAPTER 16

  What lingers from Digby’s Bleecker Street game of “Me Too” is the feeling that if becoming someone else is so easily accomplished, being himself is strictly arbitrary—a chance occurrence on the same order as a hummingbird opting for the nectar of Hollyhock ‘A’ instead of Hollyhock ‘B.’ This can be a supremely liberating feeling. Digby does possess an ego, of course, and it seems determined to make something out of him, but he does not really think very highly of his ego. For one thing, not to put too fine a point on it, it is egotistical.

  The entire idea of the individual man with a self and a soul and an idiosyncratic list of personal characteristics and styles turns out to be a relatively recent historical development, and Digby is starting to think humankind took an unwise turn when they forsook group identity for the whole one-man, one-destiny path. For starters, it is altogether lonelier. Like the individual man dies alone. Now that is lonely.

  It sounds to Digby as if Reuben was trying to reach for some kind of transpersonal immortality with his so-called ‘continuum hypothesis,’ to wit, living on through his kid. Never mind that his kid will have no memory of his father, let alone some kind of inborn consciousness of being an extension of him. But maybe Reuben was after bigger game here, something more abstract and spooky, more like immortality through the survival of his tribe, his herd. But why stop there? Why not reach for immortality through the Family of Man, where Han Wing’s son in Taipei or Sven Langstrom’s son in Stockholm would be enough to do the trick for him? Hey, why even stop there? Survival of all God’s creatures, great and small. Throw in the plant kingdom while you’re at it. Or maybe go the whole route—the survival of Being itself!

  Such are Digby’s surprisingly philosophical thoughts as he treads up Brigham Street on his way to the Thursday Morning Club. He has slept in his clothes and badly, emotionally exhausted after returning home from his late night rendezvous with Mary.

  Except for the sherry, broccoli florets, and onion dip, the Thursday Morning Club looks alarmingly like Dr. Epstein’s therapy group: a ring of folding chairs upon which comely ladies sit, albeit comely ladies of a certain age. Digby has arrived rumpled and unprepared. In fact, it is not until Muffy Herker introduces him—“our very own New York literatus”—and announces the topic of the day—“marriage and morals”—that he recalls his assigned duties.

  Standing in the center of their circle, tucking in an errant shirttail, he feels like he is about to partake in an ancient rite, the Ritual Stoning of the Malevolent Male. No doubt, he deserves it. Instinctively, he folds his arms in front of him for protection.

  “The bilateral marriage is a relatively new phenomenon and it is already going out of date. It has outlived its usefulness,” Digby begins, recalling his own state of mind when he and Fanny separated. “Anthropologically, marriage is a corporate institution. Shared dwelling and food, shared childcare. Mutual benefits. Pure economics. So questions of morality are identical to those of any corporation. Do costs outnumber benefits? Is each party fulfilling his or her assigned role? Carrying its load?”

  Digby is on a roll. He is just starting to believe that he actually is a New York litterateur, when he gazes up at his audience. They appear disappointed. Bored, in fact. He can tell that by the way they are playing with their broccoli florets. Part of him doesn’t give a rat’s ass, but another part of him is back at Epstein’s group sessions, wanting more than anything to amuse the ladies.

  “Of course, a fundamental part of this corporate deal has to do with sex,” he goes on, hoping that this segue will garner more interest. “Who gets it and, more importantly, who doesn’t. It’s the ‘who doesn’t’ part that gets dicey. Because the deal is that each party will abstain from diddling anyone else.”

  Attention is paid. Raptly. Florets are stilled. Panty-girdled bottoms edge forward on seats. It is a thrill to be thrilling. Digby can’t help himself.

  “To put it simply, monogamy is unnatural. God forgive us, we aren’t built that way. To quote the philosopher, Lenny Bruce, ‘In certain circumstances, men will fuck mud.’ ”

  Titters. Digby adores titters. He surveys his audience. Faculty wives all, he is sure. They are all elegantly coiffed and impeccably decked out in classic garments—from the local Talbots, if he is not mistaken. Here and there a patch of upper sternum is exposed, but no cleavage in sight. Yet the air is redolent with pheromones. Sex glistens on their painted lips. Digby is now quite certain that the Thursday Morning Club is heavily populated with horny ladies. This, of course, raises the question of what they expect from him. Could this be an ancient ritual involving a different kind of male sacrifice?

  “Women are no different from men in this regard,” he goes on blithely. “It is now accepted fact that women’s sexual appetites exceed those of men, especially as time and marriages go on. Add to this the fact that modern contraception techniques have rendered the old, ‘Who’s your daddy?’ question obsolete, and the corporate sexual model crumbles. The only question that remains is, ‘What difference does a little extramarital hanky-panky make?’ And the answer is, ‘Not much.’ Or possibly, ‘What you don’t know won’t hurt you.’ ”

  Digby blathers on for a few more minutes, the temperature in the room rising perceptibly. Does he see here and there a lascivious tongue protruding from pursed lips? Is the reason he is straining to aspirate his vowels because the air is thick with estrogen? Is he willing to make the ultimate sacrifice? It would take his mind off the rash of mayhem that lately has been spreading over the corpus of his life.

  He finishes up with the old Ten Commandments gag: “Moses comes down from the mountain and says to the multitude, ‘I have good news and bad news. The good news is I got Him down to ten. The bad news is adultery is still in.’ ”

  A standing, heavy-breathing ovation. Muffy signals Digby to remain at the center of the circle. He notes that it was prescient of him to wear rumpled, casual wear—it can simply be tossed in the garbage after they rip it from his trembling torso.

  “I am s
ure Mr. Maxwell will be happy to answer any questions,” Muffy says.

  Mr. Maxwell awaits the onslaught. A hand is raised.

  “Mr. Maxwell, when Jane Austen wrote, ‘Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance,’ what was she implying?”

  Digby is stunned. Chagrined. Stupefied. Jane Austen, for Christ’s sake? He gazes around at the smiling faces. They all suddenly look Stepford-like. He retakes the room’s temperature. It has tumbled way down, now just above chilling. Either they have reverted to type or his imagination has been on a binge again.

  “My most optimistic interpretation of Ms. Austen’s remark is that she thought marriage is what you make of it,” he drones in reply.

  “Thank you, Mr. Maxwell.”

  The next question is—honest to God—“Do you think marriage is a sacrament?”

  At that moment Digby realizes what has been going on here. They came for titillation and titters, a cerebral Chippendales routine, but that is all. His mildly transgressive and gently smutty commentary on marriage and morals will carry them gleefully through their lackluster week until next Thursday morning’s meeting. Who will be their next guest lecturer, the local gynecologist? Digby feels more soiled than if they had torn off his clothes and had their way with him.

  “Yes, definitely a sacrament,” he says. “I’m afraid I have to leave now. Late for a meeting, you know.”

  Digby is jogging by the time he reaches Brigham Street. He does not feel well. He feels nausea of the Sartrean variety and he thinks he knows what the problem is: his Unique Self is trying to make a comeback. It is Mary’s doing. His feelings for her do not want to be spread around among the hollyhocks. It is an ‘I and Thou’ thing: Digby does not want to be anybody else while loving her.

  Without thinking, he has rambled all the way to the rock under the spreading spruce tree upon which Mary and he built their church of intimacy last night. He sits, catching his breath. Then, unbidden, an insight descends from the heavens and it is a whopper: his slippery soul and his inability to take himself seriously are cut from the same piece of cloth. If he does not own his own self, he can keep gliding blithely through life; but he will not love anyone completely and that is a loss of vast proportions.

  I finally get it, Dr. Epstein. I am in serious trouble. I am also seriously in love for the first time in my life.

  Before Digby can fully inspect his epiphany, he is distracted by a twig snap behind him. Twenty feet away, he sees Rosti the logician duck behind a fallen tree trunk. Then, from Digby’s left, he hears a woman’s voice call, “It’s beeping faster! I’m getting warmer.” It takes Digby a moment to identify this as Madeleine’s voice because she has tricked it up with the coy, sing-songy tones of a schoolgirl. Madeleine and Rosti are apparently playing a game of high-tech hide-and-seek. Digby slips off the rock, hides behind a thick spruce, and watches as the pair stumble about giggling and squealing until finally the huntress leaps at the hunted and tackles him to the ground. Digby sneaks away before he has to witness the kill.

  Back on Brigham Street, the air is cool and sweet. Digby breathes deep, again and again. In front of Hastings Towers he gazes at the little flags atop the surveyor’s stakes as they flicker among newly bloomed tulips. It occurs to him that he could see these as flags of distress, but he could just as well see them as banners of renewal. “There are no facts, only interpretations.” Digby seems to be quoting Nietzsche via Mary’s T-shirt regularly these days.

  And then, unexpectedly, the finale of his epiphany descends on him. It is both utterly banal and crystal clear: Love actually is what makes the world go ’round.

  CHAPTER 17

  Digby must have dipped in and out of Uncommon Grounds for double lattes scores of times without noticing the shingle over the shop’s adjacent door. It says, “Robert Baskerton, LLB” and Attorney Baskerton is Digby’s destination this morning.

  Digby opens the door and ascends the stairs. Baskerton shares the second floor with an ophthalmologist and a Reiki master or, in this case, a Reiki mistress, the proprietress being one Lily Spencer. The top half of the lawyer’s door is frosted glass bearing his name in black letters, Spade-and-Archer-like. It is ajar, but Digby knocks anyhow.

  “Come on in,” a voice calls out.

  Digby enters. A portly fellow in his seventies or eighties with a ruddy, heavily lined face is sitting at a Louis XV desk upon which sits a Hammond Multiplex typewriter. He says, “Don’t mind if I don’t get up, I’d only have to sit down again.”

  “Mr. Baskerton?”

  “The only one left,” he says. “What can I do you for?”

  He gestures to the leather wingback across from him and Digby sits. “My name is Digby Maxwell. The new editor of Bonner Hastings’ magazine,” he says.

  Baskerton lets loose a wheezy horse laugh. “So you’re the patsy, eh?” he says.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “The gull. The chump,” he says by way of clarification.

  “Are you referring to me?”

  Baskerton offers Digby an amiable smile. “I wondered how long it would be before you paid me a call.”

  “Was it sooner or later than you expected?”

  “Just about on time,” he says. “Considering you’re a New Yorker.”

  “That would make me some kind of naïf, I suppose.”

  “It’s all relative, as Mr. Einstein said to his grandmother,” says Baskerton.

  Digby is already developing a fondness for this man. He has always had a weakness for grade school humor.

  “May I ask, sir, why you were expecting me?”

  “Because nobody, no matter how tough-skinned, likes to play the fool.”

  “And that’s what I’ve been doing?”

  “Not on purpose, Mr. Maxwell. I hear you are a funny man, but not foolish.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Digby says. After yesterday’s Thursday Morning Club, chatting with Baskerton feels as fresh and droll as lunch at the Algonquin roundtable. “Exactly what kind of fool have I been playing? Does it have anything to do with Felicia Hastings’ relationship to her counselor?”

  “Counselor? That must be the kindest honorific anybody ever stuck on Ronald LeFevre since he moved to town.”

  “He has bad intentions?”

  “ ‘Bad’ is another one of those relatives, like Einstein’s grandma. But LeFevre has intentions all right. They include oceanfront real estate and hot and cold running chambermaids.”

  “So I’ve heard. But where does the fool come in? Me, that is.”

  “Is it too soon before lunch to have an after-dinner drink, Mr. Maxwell?”

  “Possibly too late. You can call me Digby, if you want.”

  Baskerton pulls open a drawer of his desk and removes a bottle of Courvoisier and two snifters. He pours, they clink. “The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself a fool,” he says by way of a toast.

  This country lawyer appears to be the most entertaining man in Louden, Vermont, including the entire faculty of its eponymous college. Digby sniffs, rolls it around in his mouth, and swallows a delicious swig of brandy. “I think I can take it now,” he says.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Mr. Maxwell. It’s on the high end of the mind-boggling scale.”

  “Boggle me.”

  “Okay, you asked for it. Louden College in general and Kim Herker in particular have designs on Hastings Towers,” Baskerton begins. “Everybody knows that, possibly even you.”

  Digby nods in the affirmative.

  “But as long as Cogito lives on, the Towers continue to exist in the Hastings trust.” Baskerton grins. “That sounds like one of those philosophy axioms, doesn’t it? Descartes or somebody.”

  Digby smiles appreciatively and Baskerton continues. “But here’s the tricky part—once the magazine goes belly up, Felicia is not only free to sell the real estate, she gets the trust money that’s been keeping the magazine afloat.”

  Digby sips some more brandy to s
teady himself. He senses the mind-boggling part coming on.

  “So along about the time Bonner had his first stroke, Felicia turned up here with a little codicil to his will to the effect that if annual circulation of the magazine drops below eight hundred and/or ad revenues drop below five hundred dollars, Cogito goes bust. Of course, it didn’t smell right to me, so I paid a private visit to Bonner and he assured me he approved it, and he seemed compos mentis enough to me. He said that if that many people lost interest in philosophy, the magazine should be doomed with them. But he didn’t believe for a minute it would happen. Not one minute. He simply couldn’t imagine losing that many ads or subscribers. He called them part of the Cogito family. Loyal to the end. He even quipped that they’d follow him anywhere. He was right about that—they followed him into the grave. Bonner’s corpse was still warm when your main advertiser snuffed out too—pulled its ads, that is.”

  “Duke Press,” Digby says.

  “Exactly. Duke Press has owned the back page of Cogito since Bonner started the magazine.”

  “For all of seven hundred dollars. That’s hardly a major investment.”

  “It was symbolic to Bonner. People who are born with money get goose bumps from earning seven hundred dollars all by themselves. But mostly he saw it as an affirmation of his magazine. A seven-hundred-dollar vote of confidence.”

  “But apparently Duke took the money seriously. Otherwise they wouldn’t have pulled their page from my heaven issue.”

  “Let’s just say they didn’t have to feel bad about pulling it. And that’s because you, Mr. Maxwell, are not family. I’ve got to give it to that LeFevre, he’s sly as a fox and twice as hairy.”

  “How much is Louden willing to pay for the Towers?”

  “One million dollars.”

  “That seems excessive.”

  “Not when you look at what the idiot parents are willing to pay for a Louden College education. Fifty thousand a year. Two hundred grand for a Bachelor of Arts. As far as I can tell, for that sum their kids still come out of there without the ability to construct a single comprehensible sentence.”