The Body Of Jonah Boyd - By David Leavitt Page 0,33

have to admit, the drinking worries me . . . Well, no need to think about that now. Try and get a good night’ sleep.”

She left, closing the door softly.

I sat on the daybed. “So,” I said to Daphne, “I’ll bet you weren’t expecting to have a roommate tonight, were you?”

Daphne had resumed her makeup. “I wasn’t, actually.”

I took off one shoe. “Going out?”

She turned to face me. “Can I trust you? You’re younger than my parents. I hope I can trust you.”

“Of course you can.”

She leaned closer. “The fact is, I do have plans tonight—only they’re ones I don’t want anyone to find out about. You see, for some time now—a few months—I’ve been involved with someone, and for all sorts of reasons, for the time being at least, we need to keep it quiet—”

“You mean Glenn.”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You mean you knew?”

“Well, if you’ll pardon my saying so, it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist—”

“Oh, but do you think that means my parents have guessed? Because if my dad found out, it could be awful for Glenn. Dad wouldn’t approve. The age difference and all, and the fact that Glenn’ his sort of, you know, protege.”

“I don’t think your father knows. You mother, on the other hand—well, you may have noticed that she didn’t even ask you why you were putting on makeup at eleven o’clock at night.”

“Dear mother. She can be so—well, you know, difficult sometimes, and then sometimes she can sense something, and be totally cool without even saying a word.” Suddenly Daphne jumped up and sat next to me on the daybed. “Oh, Denny, I had no idea you were so cool! Do you have a boyfriend? I hope you don’t mind my asking.”

“I’ve had several. At the moment . . . No, not at the moment.”

“That’ too bad. But here’ the thing. Your having to stay here tonight—it’ put me in sort of an awkward position.”

“Why? Is Glenn coming over?”

“God, no! I couldn’t ever—you know—right here in the house, with Mother and Father on the other side of the wall. Yuck! No, the plan is, he’ going to pick me up at midnight, across the street. And we’re going back to his apartment. And then at five, before anyone’ up, he’ll drop me off, and I’ll get into bed. Oh, you will help us out, won’t you, and not say anything?”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “The last thing I’d want to do is interrupt the course of young love.” I patted her hand. “Go. Have fun. I won’t say a word.”

Relief filled Daphne’ eyes. “Oh, Denny, you really are wonderful. I never would have thought you could be that cool!” She removed my hand from hers. “Listen, I’d better scoot. And when I get back, don’t scream or anything. I’ll be as quiet as I can.”

“No problem.”

She opened the door. “Oh, and you can borrow my nightgown if you want. It’ clean. Bye.”

She tiptoed out, shutting the door behind her so slowly that it groaned—a louder noise by far than the click of quick closure. From the kitchen where he was sleeping, Little Hans gave a yelp. There was a whispered curse. Another door opened, and shut again.

I took off my other shoe. I listened for—and thought I heard, very far off—the sound of a car turning the curve.

Then I was alone.

I looked around. Never before in the years I’d known them had I slept in the Wrights’ house. Now, rubbing my stocking feet into the carpet, I marveled at a certain quality of cushioned silence that it radiated, a warm, dozing purr, as if somewhere in the midst of that rich layering of rugs and books and paintings and mirrors a cat lay hidden, and was taking pleasure in cleaning itself. This was the sound—the protective, lulling melody—of affluence, and perhaps only those, like me, whom affluence admits only as visitors can name it. It was hard to believe that just a few feet away, just on the other side of a none-too-thick wall, Nancy and Ernest were going through their bedtime rituals. And what did those rituals consist of? Did Nancy wear curlers? Did Ernest stuff his ears with cotton? Did they make love? The last seemed unlikely. Even so, as I took off my clothes, I made a little striptease out of my disrobing, swinging my stockings in the air, imagining as my audience . . . who? Ernest? Nancy?

It didn’t matter. No sooner was I down to my underwear