The Body Of Jonah Boyd - By David Leavitt Page 0,24

with, she hugged them both.

Burdened with luggage, the group made its way into the house, Little Hans picking up the rear.

As for me, I hung back. No one had yet asked me to do anything.

I was introduced. Jonah Boyd appeared to be about forty-five. He had pink cheeks and a carefully groomed, salt-and-pepper mustache. His hair, given his age, was surprisingly luxuriant, his clothes immaculate—dark suit, white shirt, and striped tie. By contrast, Anne was wearing a wool coat that had been torn near the pocket and then clumsily restitched, and she carried an enormous, shapeless handbag. She had shaggy red hair that was graying at the roots, nicotine-stained teeth, a thick middle. Also, her eye makeup was smudged in a way that suggested she had been weeping.

All at once a sensation of misplaced triumph welled up in me. This Anne was a far cry from the willowy creature Nancy had described. Certainly they could never have shared clothes! I admit, my rival’ sordid demeanor—not to mention the expression of concern and disappointment that claimed Nancy’ face as she gave Anne the once-over—sparked in me an unexpected confidence, and I shook Anne’ hand heartily. “I’m Denny, Dr. Wright’ secretary,” I said. “Welcome to California.”

“So you’re the new four-hand partner.”

“Why yes,” I answered with surprise. Until that moment, I’d had no idea that Nancy had even mentioned me to Anne.

“We all rely on Denny,” Nancy said. Then she said, “Let me show you to your room,” and led the Boyds down the hall. Daphne and I followed. “Ernest’ in his office. He has a new office above the garage. He should be down in a few minutes.”

“This is a wonderful house,” Boyd said, in a rich, slightly cracked baritone.

“Oh, thanks. It’ nothing fancy, but we like it. And here’ the guest room.”

Daphne winced.

We crossed the threshold into the newly made room, which indeed looked quite guest roomish. “Very nice,” Boyd said.

“Wait a minute—” Anne stopped in her tracks. “I knew someone was missing. Where’ Mark?”

“Oh, he’ in Vancouver.”

“Vancouver!”

“Yes. He went in July to assert his opposition to the war.”

“You mean he’ a draft dodger?”

Nancy’ smile collapsed into a sort of tremble of the lips.

“Sweetheart, that’ not a very nice way of putting it,” Boyd said, resting a hand on his wife’ shoulder in a gesture that might have been protective and might have been a warning. “Anyway, I, for one, stand completely behind the draft resisters. I fought in Korea, you know. A brutalizing experience. If I were in his shoes, I’d do the same thing.”

“Thank you, Mr. Boyd.”

“Jonah.”

“Jonah. I appreciate that.”

“Oh, Nancy, you must miss him,” Anne said, sitting down on the bed. “And on Thanksgiving!”

Tears rimmed Nancy’ eyes. “I do miss him,” she said. “But I also respect that he’ doing what he feels he has to.” She straightened her back. “Well, you two must want to wash up. I’ve got the turkey to attend to. Whenever you’re ready, just come into the living room, and Ernest will make everyone drinks.”

We left, closing the door behind us. Back in the kitchen, Nancy blotted her eyes, gave Daphne an unwanted hug, and checked to see if the turkey’ thermometer had popped. (It had not.) Then she arranged some crackers around a cheese ball rolled in pecans and a pile of rumaki, and we adjourned to the living room, where Anne was settling herself on the cat-stained leather chair, Boyd on the sofa. By now it was fairly obvious, at least to me, that the Boyds had been fighting, and that this was probably why they had been late. You could tell from the puffiness of Anne’ eyes, the slight rasp in her voice—a weeper’ rasp, as opposed to a smoker’. And Boyd himself was smiling too broadly and talking too loudly, in that way of men who believe in always putting on a brave face, even when the house is falling down around them. Every now and then he shot a glance of irritation at his wife, who was clearly incapable of such emotion-masking niceties.

Soon Ernest came down from his eyrie. He kissed Anne, and shook Boyd’ hand manfully.

“The Boyds would like drinks,” Nancy said. In those days, women did not mix drinks.

“Certainly,” Ernest said. “What’ll it be?”

“Just Coca-Cola for me, thanks,” said Boyd.

“And you, Anne?”

“Gin and tonic. And make it strong. After that trip, I need it.”

“Oh, was there turbulence?” Nancy asked.

“Only in the car on the way from the airport.”

Nancy gave a trill-like laugh. “Anne, always such a