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Authors: Joanna Rakoff
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my God
, I thought.
Really?
“
She?”
Kristina scrunched up her face in contemplation. “No. Look at her. She’s so beautiful.” She gave Don a stern look. “You play joke. Stop.”
“So, we were wondering how to turn on the heat in here,” I interjected, before this line of discussion could go any further. “We noticed that there’s a thermostat in the hallway, but turning it up didn’t seem to have any effect.”
Kristina was shaking her head vehemently. “That is from when this was one-family house. It does not work now. We disconnect.”
“Oh, great,” I said. I was still standing by the door, unsure if I should sit down. “So how do we turn on the heat?”
Kristina’s blond head began shaking again, even more frenetically. “Heat? What you need heat for? It small apartment. It’s warm in here.
Hot
.” She gestured to the round folds of her body. “Look at what I am wearing. And I’m hot. No heat. You don’t need heat.”
Don began laughing nervously. “Right, that’s because the oven’s on. We couldn’t figure out how to turn on the heat, so we turned on the oven and opened the door.”
Kristina’s eyes narrowed in her fleshy face. She crossed her arms over her bosom and sighed, pursing her lips again into a forbidding line. We were no longer her friends, no longer her dream tenants.
“I’m gonna check for you. But what you need heat for?” She smiled broadly. “You have oven. Oven is fine. Oven issame as heater.” She picked up a nylon track jacket, also red, with white stripes down the sleeves, slipped it on, and zipped it to her chin. “Jewish?” she said, looking at me and smiling. “You think I am stupid.”
Salinger hadn’t called since the day he’d requested the royalty statements—we still didn’t know why he wanted them; James and Hugh chalked it up to yet another of his eccentricities—but others began to call
for
him, just as my boss had told me they would.
Some of the callers were simply old—Salinger’s peers—and perhaps didn’t understand the extent of Salinger’s self-enforced isolation from the world. When last they’d checked, he’d been a tortured young writer, on the cover of
Time
magazine, the future of American literature writ large. These callers felt an enormous kinship with Salinger, for they, too, had served during World War II, or grown up on the Upper West Side in the 1930s. Often, they had a personal matter to discuss with Salinger: They thought a character in one of his stories was based on their cousin. Or they thought their cousin had done basic training with Salinger. Or they’d lived down the street from him in Westport in 1950. Now, at the dawn of their dotages, they wanted to be in touch with this man whose work had been so significant to them in their youth. Or they’d reread
Catcher
and only now realized the extent to which it was about Salinger’s experiences during the war. Or they’d just turned back to “A Perfect Day for Bananafish” and found themselves sobbing with recognition, for they, too, had been suicidal after the Battle of the Bulge. No man should ever see what they saw.
Equally harmless were editors of textbooks and anthologies, guilelessly hoping to include “Teddy” in their collection of stories on marriage and divorce or an excerpt from
Catcher
in the new edition of
The Norton Anthology of American Literature.
“We can grant permission for
Catcher
to appear in the Norton anthology, right?” I’d asked Hugh.
“No!” Hugh cried. “We can’t. You didn’t tell them yes, did you?” His face was turning red with panic.
“No, of course not,” I said. “But, we shouldn’t ask him if he wants to be included?” This was, after all, the
Norton
. The anthology used on every campus in America.
“No.” Hugh shook his head and sucked in his upper lip. “No anthologies. No excerpts. If you want to read Salinger, you have to buy his books.”
I thought of the last category simply as the Crazies.
, I thought.
Really?
“
She?”
Kristina scrunched up her face in contemplation. “No. Look at her. She’s so beautiful.” She gave Don a stern look. “You play joke. Stop.”
“So, we were wondering how to turn on the heat in here,” I interjected, before this line of discussion could go any further. “We noticed that there’s a thermostat in the hallway, but turning it up didn’t seem to have any effect.”
Kristina was shaking her head vehemently. “That is from when this was one-family house. It does not work now. We disconnect.”
“Oh, great,” I said. I was still standing by the door, unsure if I should sit down. “So how do we turn on the heat?”
Kristina’s blond head began shaking again, even more frenetically. “Heat? What you need heat for? It small apartment. It’s warm in here.
Hot
.” She gestured to the round folds of her body. “Look at what I am wearing. And I’m hot. No heat. You don’t need heat.”
Don began laughing nervously. “Right, that’s because the oven’s on. We couldn’t figure out how to turn on the heat, so we turned on the oven and opened the door.”
Kristina’s eyes narrowed in her fleshy face. She crossed her arms over her bosom and sighed, pursing her lips again into a forbidding line. We were no longer her friends, no longer her dream tenants.
“I’m gonna check for you. But what you need heat for?” She smiled broadly. “You have oven. Oven is fine. Oven issame as heater.” She picked up a nylon track jacket, also red, with white stripes down the sleeves, slipped it on, and zipped it to her chin. “Jewish?” she said, looking at me and smiling. “You think I am stupid.”
Salinger hadn’t called since the day he’d requested the royalty statements—we still didn’t know why he wanted them; James and Hugh chalked it up to yet another of his eccentricities—but others began to call
for
him, just as my boss had told me they would.
Some of the callers were simply old—Salinger’s peers—and perhaps didn’t understand the extent of Salinger’s self-enforced isolation from the world. When last they’d checked, he’d been a tortured young writer, on the cover of
Time
magazine, the future of American literature writ large. These callers felt an enormous kinship with Salinger, for they, too, had served during World War II, or grown up on the Upper West Side in the 1930s. Often, they had a personal matter to discuss with Salinger: They thought a character in one of his stories was based on their cousin. Or they thought their cousin had done basic training with Salinger. Or they’d lived down the street from him in Westport in 1950. Now, at the dawn of their dotages, they wanted to be in touch with this man whose work had been so significant to them in their youth. Or they’d reread
Catcher
and only now realized the extent to which it was about Salinger’s experiences during the war. Or they’d just turned back to “A Perfect Day for Bananafish” and found themselves sobbing with recognition, for they, too, had been suicidal after the Battle of the Bulge. No man should ever see what they saw.
Equally harmless were editors of textbooks and anthologies, guilelessly hoping to include “Teddy” in their collection of stories on marriage and divorce or an excerpt from
Catcher
in the new edition of
The Norton Anthology of American Literature.
“We can grant permission for
Catcher
to appear in the Norton anthology, right?” I’d asked Hugh.
“No!” Hugh cried. “We can’t. You didn’t tell them yes, did you?” His face was turning red with panic.
“No, of course not,” I said. “But, we shouldn’t ask him if he wants to be included?” This was, after all, the
Norton
. The anthology used on every campus in America.
“No.” Hugh shook his head and sucked in his upper lip. “No anthologies. No excerpts. If you want to read Salinger, you have to buy his books.”
I thought of the last category simply as the Crazies.
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