Read Online The Body Of Jonah Boyd by David Leavitt - Free Book Online

the reason I myself decided never to have children is because I knew I could never be as selfless as my mother.”

Five
    I T WAS A Saturday morning near the end of October 1969.1 was sitting next to Nancy at the piano when the telephone rang. As
     was her habit, she jumped up to answer it, in case it was Mark, calling collect from Vancouver. But it was not Mark. It was
     Anne Boyd. I could tell, because after the initial “Hello,” Nancy’ voice rose into a girlish squeal that meant pleasure greater
     than anything I could induce. “Annie, An­nie!” she cried—and pulled the phone, which had a long cord, into the study.
    I got up from the piano. The realization that for the moment, at least, my services would not be needed filled me with a giddy
     sense of freedom, as if school had been canceled for the day. So I puttered around the living room, flicking dust off the
     nesting tables and repositioning the cushion that covered Dora’ pee stain on the leather chair, all the while listening in
     on Nancy’ half of the conversation. “Oh, but that’ wonderful! What do you mean? Don’t be ridiculous, of course you can stay
     with us. Now, Anne, I don’t want to hear another word about it. You’ll stay here and that’ final. No, I don’t even want to
     hear the word ‘hotel’. . . Good. When will you get in? We’ll pick you up at the airport. Okay, if you’d rather . . . But how
     will you know how to find the house? I’m hopeless with directions, you’d better have Clifford—I mean Jonah—call back when
     Ernest’ here. Oh, Annie, I’m sorry about that. Will you ever forgive me? I’m just so used to your husband being Clifford!
     Tell Jonah I’m dying to meet him. We all are. Annie, I can’t wait to see you, it’ been so long . . . Yes, have him call tonight.
     Ernest should be back by seven. Right. We’ll be waiting. Bye.”
    She hung up. “Denny, you’ll never believe it,” she said, sweeping back into the living room. “That was Anne Armstrong. I mean,
     Anne Boyd. I haven’t head from her in a year. And now guess what? She and her husband—her new husband—are coming for Thanksgiving.”
    “Really? How wonderful.”
    “Yes, isn’t it?” Nancy’ hands flew to her face. “Oh, but there’ so much to do! I mean, this man she’ married—this Jonah Boyd—he’
     a published writer. We’ve got to put him up in the style to which he’ accustomed.”
    I was tempted to ask why she thought that published writers would be accustomed to any particular kind of style, then thought
     better of it, and followed her into Daphne’ room. It was the first time I’d ever been in there. With a queenly gesture, Nancy
     flung open the curtains, letting through a slant of late morning light that exposed the moss green carpeting, a double bed
     with a rumpled floral coverlet. Along one wall were bracketed bookshelves on one of which Ayn Rand’ Atlas Shrugged elbowed an assortment of high school textbooks. On another was Daphne’ collection of frog figurines. Two posters—a psychedelic
     peace sign and the cover of Bob Dylan’ Blonde on Blonde album—had been thumbtacked to the wall. Below them lay a heap of stuffed animals and dirty clothes. “Oh, well, I suppose it
     will have to do,” Nancy said, putting her hands on her hips and surveying the wreckage. “Of course, Daph will have to clear
     away all of her crap.” She tossed a pink elephant onto the pile, then sat down on the bed. “Oh, but this mattress! Feel it!”
    I sat down next to her. I felt.
    “The springs are shot. And these sheets! I’ll have to buy a new bed, that’ all there is to it. And new bed linens. You know
     the reason they’re coming—he’ supposed to give a lecture up in San Francisco. Someone else was supposed to give it, some very
     famous poet, but the poet went into a drunk tank, and they asked the husband—Jonah Boyd—to take his place. Now why do you
     think she wants to visit? Does she miss me? I hope