The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2

by Douglas Kennedy

  “When the ambulance arrived, the guys on duty took one look at her and brought her straight to the psychiatric wing at Mass General. She was there for the next four months. What first seemed to be a serious case of postpartum depression was eventually diagnosed as a major bipolar disorder.”

  Since then her mental health had been, at best, patchy. There was at least one major breakdown per year, followed by a period of relative calm. But she could never find the necessary creative energy to write another story, and the years of being medicated had taken their toll on her physical health and her looks.

  “If it’s been that awful,” I asked, “why didn’t you hit the self-preservation button and leave her?”

  “I tried to do that over a decade ago. I’d met this other woman, Anne, a violinist with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. It got serious very fast. Polly—for all her manic moments—still could whiff a lie. When I seemed to be spending several afternoons a week away from the university, she hired a detective . . . who got photographs of me going in and out of the violinist’s apartment in Back Bay and the two of us holding hands in some nearby restaurant. God, clandestine details are so banal.”

  “Was it love with you and the violinist?”

  “I certainly thought so. And so did Anne. But then I came home one evening to discover the detective’s eight-by-tens of me flung around the living room and Polly in the bathtub, her wrists slashed. She barely had a pulse. The medics had to give her over five pints of blood to stabilize her. She spent another three months in the psychiatric wing.

  “Our son, Charlie—who was ten at the time—told me I couldn’t leave. You see, he came home from school around a minute after I had found his mother. I tried to stop him from coming into the bathroom, but he burst in anyway and saw his mother naked, floating in bloody water. After that . . .”

  After that, Charlie closed down for a very long time, becoming withdrawn and gloomy. He crashed and burned at a series of schools. As he stumbled deeper into adolescence, he also discovered hallucinogenic drugs—and was ejected from one school for that perennial “bad trip” stunt: trying to set fire to his bed. They tried a more progressive school, they tried a tough-love military academy, they even tried having him tutored at home (he trashed his room). Eventually, the son of two rather brilliant people ran away on the eve of his seventeenth birthday. He wasn’t found for another two years—during which time David went through over a quarter of a million dollars (“my entire inheritance from my father”) trying to find him. He was eventually discovered living in a hostel for the destitute off Pioneer Square in Seattle.

  “The good news was that he wasn’t HIV positive and hadn’t drifted into anything horrible like prostitution. The bad news was that he was quickly diagnosed as schizophrenic.”

  For the last three years, he’d been living in a managed care facility near Worcester. “It’s depressing, but at least he’s in a place where he can’t harm himself.”

  Meanwhile his mother had somehow managed to find a way back to a reasonably sane place. So much so that—after a fifteen-year silence—a slender book of stories was published by a small university press.

  “They probably sold no more than five hundred copies—but, for her, it was a huge victory. And what was wonderful was the way Polly seemed to rally and become, once again, the smart and beautiful woman I married. But these interludes were just that—momentary respites from the full onslaught of her craziness.”

  The ongoing fragility of his wife and son had a side effect, as David found it difficult to get back to his own books. The first novel had cascaded out of him “like a geyser—once I started I simply couldn’t stop. The story was my story, even though it was all heavily disguised. Every day that I sat down to write, it all came without hesitation, without a moment of doubt. It was as if I was on some sort of autopilot—and it was, without question, a six-month period when I sensed what real happiness is about.”

  “What is it actually about?” I asked.

  “Believing that you have been spirited away—for even just a few short hours every day—from all the crap of life, all that quotidian shit which clogs up everything and sends you hurtling toward despair.”

  “Remind me not to bump into you with a hangover.”

  “You can bump into me anytime.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence after this comment was uttered. I stared down into my martini, my cheeks reddening. David realized that his comment could be interpreted as provocative, and immediately tried to cover his tracks.

  “What I meant by that was . . .” he said.

  I covered his hand with mine.

  “Shut up,” I whispered.

  I left my hand there for the next half hour—as he talked more about “the Gordian Knot” that was his second novel—how it simply wouldn’t flow the way the debut book did; how he knew from the outset it was overwrought and overworked. So he turned his attention to the big Melville biography for which he had received a considerable advance from Knopf. But again, he couldn’t find the mental space he needed to get on with the work.

  I listened to all this with a growing sense of amazement and privilege. After all, this was David Henry confiding in me. Not just confiding in me, but also letting me keep my hand on his. I felt like an idiotic schoolgirl—yet one who didn’t want to pull back and play by the rules of propriety. A wildly cerebral and attractive man in pain is—I was discovering—such an aphrodisiac.

  “Had I been a proper novelist,” he said, “I would have found a way, despite all the domestic chaos, of still writing. Because real writers write. They find a way of somehow shoving aside all the other detritus and getting on with it. Whereas I was always trying to be the great polymath: academic, novelist, biographer, media darling, talk-show bullshit artist, crap husband, crap father . . .”

  “David . . . stop,” I said, now grasping his hand tightly.

  “This is what happens when I drink. I become Pagliacci—the sad, pathetic clown.”

  He suddenly stood up and threw some money on the table and said he had to go. I reached again for his hand, but he pulled it away.

  “Don’t you know there are rules against such things these days?” he hissed. “Don’t you know the trouble you could land me in?”

  He sat down. He put his face in his hands. He said: “I’m so sorry . . .”

  “Let’s get you home.”

  I guided him out of the bar toward the front entrance of the hotel. He was very subdued and said nothing as he got into the cab and muttered his address. When it drove off, I returned to the bar and finished my half-drunk martini and tried to mull over what had just happened. What surprised me was that I wasn’t horrified or offended by the show that David had just put on. If anything I suddenly saw all the contradictions he was living with—the private grief behind the public face—and how it had so changed the contours of his own life. We always admire people from afar, especially those who have accomplished so much with their lives. But listening to David vent his anger and frustration also got me thinking: nobody gets away lightly in life. And the moment you think you’ve arrived is the moment that it all goes wrong.

  As I downed the last drops of the martini, another thought struck me: David was everything I was looking for in a man. Brilliant, original, seductive, vulnerable. I wanted him—even though I also knew I was stupidly smitten and straying into dangerous terrain. But though I was more than willing to give in to intoxication, I was also determined not to create havoc. Just as I also knew that this would not start between us until David let it be known he wanted it to start between us.

  I didn’t have to wait long for that signal. Around nine the next morning, the phone rang at my little apartment in Somerville.

  “This is your shamefaced professor,” he said quietly.

  “You mean you’ve decided I can no longer call you David?”

  “I’ve decided I’m a horse’s ass—and I hope you won’t think I was being—”

  “I thought
you were just being human, David.”

  That comment gave him pause.

  “And I also appreciated the fact that you decided to confide in me.”

  “So you’re not going to approach the head of the department—”

  “And report you for harassment? You didn’t harass me, David. And I was the one who took your hand.”

  “I was thinking more that you might not want to work with me again.”

  “Now you do sound hungover.”

  “Guilty as charged. Could I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  “Why not? But as I’m finishing up some work, could you maybe stop by here?”

  And I gave him the address.

  When he arrived half an hour later, the cup of coffee was quickly forgotten. As soon as he was inside the door we were all over each other.

  Afterward he turned to me and said, “This is dangerous.”

  “Only if we allow it to be dangerous,” I said.

  “If anyone else finds out . . .”

  “Is this your usual style of postcoital conversation . . . ?”

  “I don’t make a habit of—”

  “Sleeping with your students?”

  “That’s right.”

  And that’s when we had our little conversation about his past flings, culminating in him telling me that I asked a lot of questions.

  “There’s one thing you have to know from the outset—that is, if this thing between us is to carry on beyond today. There is no future for this as anything more than an arrangement, a little adventure. So I’m never going to play the clichéd other woman who becomes increasingly possessive and psychotic. But I will demand that you’re always straight with me. If you ever want to hit the escape button, tell me. You’re not to string me along.”

  “You’ve evidently thought this out beforehand,” he said.

  “So have you.”

  “Are you always so rational?”

  “If I was rational I wouldn’t be in this bed right now.”

  “Good point,” he said.

  That’s how it started. And yes, from the outset, I did take an ultrarational approach to our “adventure.” I knew that, by remaining rational, I could insulate myself against any disappointment or heartache that might attend our involvement. The thing was, I knew I’d fallen in love with David Henry, and that elated and scared me. Because the central problem with falling in love with a married man is . . .

  Well, you can fill in the blank.

  Of course I knew I was playing the other woman. Just as we both knew that if word ever got out about our little arrangement, it would be the end of David’s career and would possibly also result in my expulsion from the doctoral program. (“They’d probably see you as the victim,” David once noted, “and would still let you go for getting preferential treatment from your thesis adviser.”) What this meant was that I couldn’t—wouldn’t—tell anybody. Not Sara Crowe—a very patrician, somewhat grand but witty New Englander who was working on a doctorate on American Puritanism. Sara was someone who was massively well connected. She held a salon every Sunday night at her apartment off Brattle Street where a Who’s Who of Harvard (or anyone of importance visiting Cambridge that weekend) always seemed to be in attendance, and after we’d met at an on-campus symposium on Emily Dickinson she decided I was interesting enough to be asked over for dinner occasionally. But she was certainly not someone to whom I would have confided anything.

  Nor did I even say anything to Christy Naylor—and she was the one truly close friend I’d made during my first year at graduate school.

  Christy was from Maine—and had so goofed off in high school that she had ended up at the State University in Orono. While there she suddenly turned into this academic star (“Largely because the men were so boring”), graduating summa cum laude in English and, like me, getting the all-expenses-paid package to Harvard. Her specialty was American modernist poetry, especially Wallace Stevens, whom she considered a near-deity. She herself had also begun to get the occasional poem published in small magazines and journals. A self-proclaimed “backwoods girl” from Lewiston, Maine—“the shithole of New England”—she was someone who thought nothing about smoking forty cigarettes a day and getting drunk on cheap beer. But start her talking about the metric intricacies of one of Pound’s Cantos or the use of pentameter in Williams’s “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,” and she demonstrated an intellectual acuity that was nothing short of dazzling. Her own work also mirrored the high modernism of the poets she so admired.

  “The problem with me,” she said one night when we were out drinking, “is that, when it comes to art and men, I always go after the most complicated, difficult person in the room.”

  The fact that she was somewhat overweight—and that exercise or even the most marginally healthy diet were anathema to her—lent her an added allure: the redneck intellectual who looked as though she’d just walked out of a trailer park, but nevertheless managed to always have some preppy guy named Winthrop Holmes III chasing after her.

  “I think they see me as rough trade, whereas the fact is: I like rough trade. Or crazies. Whereas you—the Patron Saint of Self-Restraint with your damnable inability to put on weight . . .”

  “It’s not for want of trying.”

  “Yeah, you’re just some goddamn ectomorph—and pretty to boot.”

  “I’m hardly pretty.”

  “You would say that, given your talent for self-deprecation. But take it from me, guys find you easy on the eye.”

  David told me the same thing on several occasions, commenting how he often saw me frown when I looked in the mirror, as if I didn’t like what I saw there.

  “I’ve always had a thing against mirrors,” I said.

  “Well, you’re hardly a plain Jane,” he said. “More from the Audrey Hepburn school of—”

  “Oh, please . . .”

  “Even Professor Hawthorden—the chairman of the Harvard English Department—noted the resemblance.”

  “My hair is longer than hers.”

  “And you have the same patrician cheekbones and radiant skin and—”

  “Stop, now,” I said.

  “You can’t take a compliment, can you?” David said with a small smile.

  I don’t trust them, I felt like telling him, but instead said: “You’re simply biased.”

  “That I am. And what’s wrong with that?”

  Take it from me, guys find you easy on the eye.

  I looked back up at Christy and just shook my head.

  “One of these days you’re going to actually start liking yourself,” she continued. “Maybe then you’ll start putting on just a little makeup and stop dressing like some tour guide in the Rockies.”

  “Maybe I don’t care about style.”

  “Maybe you should stop playing the rigid, self-protective card at all times. I mean, shit, Jane . . . it’s graduate school. You’re supposed to drink too much and start dressing like an intellectual slut, and be sleeping with a lot of unappetizing and inappropriate guys.”

  “I wish I had your epicurean attitude to such things,” I said.

  “Epicurean? I’m just a slob and a nympho. But come on, you’ve got to have some guy stashed somewhere.”

  I shook my head.

  “Why don’t I believe you?” she asked.

  “You tell me,” I said.

  “Maybe because—one—I sense you have a secret lover, but—two—you’re so damn controlled and disciplined that you’re keeping his identity secret, because—three—he’s somebody you don’t want anyone to know you’re involved with.”

  I worked hard at putting on my best poker face—and concealing the fact that I was quietly terrified that she might know something about David and myself.

  “You have a very vivid imagination,” I said.

  “You’re seeing someone on the side.”

  “But as I’m not married . . .”

  “You’re the thing on the side, sweetheart.”

&n
bsp; “Again, I admire your ability to conjure up—”

  “Goddamn it, Jane—I am your friend, right? And as your friend, I think I deserve to know all the salacious details . . . just as you know all of mine.”

  “But if there aren’t any salacious details to report . . .”

  “You are impossible.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Told, in fact, by my very own mother on many occasions during adolescence when I wouldn’t share details of my own life with her. As Mom didn’t have much life outside of our own life she was frequently bothered by the way I didn’t tell her things, and seemed to keep so much to myself. Part of this was a reaction to her need to be all-interested in everything about me—to the point where she was downright overbearing. Now, of course, I see the very personal despair—the loneliness and isolation and sense of having been cast-off by my father—that made her turn her energies on to me as her very own Grand Project, who would achieve in life everything that had been denied to her. So, back in high school, every homework assignment, every book I read, every movie I saw, every mark I received on an exam, every guy who ever asked me out on a date (not that there were many of them) became something for her to scrutinize.

  It all became too much. My mother had turned into a micromanager—trying desperately to make certain I sidestepped as many potential pitfalls and mistakes as possible. By the time I reached college, I had become so much more private, so guarded, that the landscape between us had changed irrevocably. She inquired less about my life and checked herself whenever she was about to veer into the meddlesome. On the surface, we were still pleasant enough with each other—and I did let her in on the basic superficial stuff in my life. But she knew that we were no longer close.

  Yes, I felt terrible about this—especially as I knew that, for Mom, it was further proof that she could “do nothing right.”

  But perhaps the most telling exchange we ever had about all this was after the break-up with Tom. It was Christmas. I was back home in Connecticut, and I hadn’t mentioned anything yet to her about the phone call I had received from him before Thanksgiving. Naturally, on my first night back, she asked me if “my future son-in-law” would be arriving on December 26th (as he always had done in the past).