The Body Of Jonah Boyd - By David Leavitt Page 0,38

this stage Ernest paid practically no attention at all to Ben, while Boyd hardly ever had the chance to see his children, who lived with their mother in Dallas. In any case, they had spent the better part of the weekend sequestered together, first in Ben’ room, and then in the barbecue pit, and then here at the arroyo, caught up in an orgy of reading and talking at some point during which (maybe) Boyd had stood up and walked away without his notebooks. They remained pregnantly behind, covers opening to reveal gold-edged, cream-colored tongues that called out in inaudible voices not to be abandoned, as the little tin soldier had called out as he went down the drain: au secours . . . And meanwhile Anne Boyd patiently made her way through the contents of yet another trash can: crumpled paper bags, banana peels, used rubbers, sheets of newspaper smeared with dog shit, a dirty sock . . .

After about two hours we gave up. We had a rather late and unhappy lunch at the Pie ‘n Burger, during which Anne said almost nothing and ate with surprising animation, while Boyd ate almost nothing and spent practically the whole time talking with Ben about poetry. I paid the bill, confident that Nancy would want me to, and offer to reimburse me. Then we headed over to the Chinese restaurant, where as luck would have it, the cook was just opening the front door. Because he spoke almost no English, explaining to him what had happened proved to be a frustratingly protracted enterprise, in the course of which Boyd was forced to resort to the tired device of drawing out his misadventures as a kind of comic strip. Fortunately the hostess soon arrived, a snappy and efficient woman who remembered Boyd from the night before and assured him almost before he had asked that he had left nothing behind. Nothing was in the cloak room, or the kitchen. Nor would she and her staff have ever allowed any items so obviously left by customers to be thrown in the trash. It took all the calming influence that Boyd and I could muster to dissuade Anne from forcing the poor woman to unlock the Dumpster so that she could climb into it. Eventually, however, she must have been convinced that there was nothing further to be learned at the Chinese restaurant, for she thanked the hostess, and drifted out the door. Boyd thanked the hostess as well, and tried to give her a tip, which she refused. He left his phone number and asked that she call him if anything should turn up. Then we all turned around and followed Anne to the parking lot.

We drove in silence back to the Wrights’ house. “Any luck?” Nancy asked eagerly as she opened the kitchen door for us, then—seeing the answer in our faces—tightened her smile into a line and went to make coffee. The Boyds stayed another half hour before heading off to Big Sur in their rented red Chevrolet. Anne was no longer frantic. Waving goodbye, we promised to call if we heard anything from the police, or if anything showed up at the house. But I think at this point we all felt fairly certain that the notebooks were gone for good.

It was nearly dinnertime. Rather gloomily, Nancy set out bread, mustard, mayonnaise, and lettuce. Ernest sliced leftover turkey. We made sandwiches for ourselves—Ben, to my surprise, did not toast his bread—and then Ernest, Ben, Daphne, and I sat down at the tulip table and watched the evening news, which seemed oddly comforting under the circumstances. Only Nancy could not rest. While we ate, she ricocheted around the kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers and peering inside them, until Ernest shouted, “Will you stop that? You’re not going to find his goddamn novel in the cutlery drawer.”

“I’m not looking for his novel,” Nancy replied. “I’m looking for the blue bowl I use for potato salad.”

“But we’re not having any potato salad.”

She turned to the television. More news of the war. “I wonder where the Boyds are now,” she said, as if to herself. “Do you think anyone will ever find the notebooks?”

“No.”

“Ernest, don’t be such a pessimist! Anne seemed so sad. To be perfectly honest, I’m worried about her.”

“If you ask me, she’ been hysterical from the get-go. Leaving Clifford Armstrong like that—not the behavior of a well-adjusted adult woman.”

“But Ben and Jonah Boyd certainly hit it off. Didn’t you, Ben?”

“I