Letters (79 page)

The short notice to me? To give herself ample time to chicken out before Going Public, and no time to do so having Gone; also to give me less time to talk her out of her resolve, which she hoped I cared enough for her not to try, lest I succeed. On the Tuesday they would fly from Baltimore down to Tampa for a “honeymoon” of real-estate prospecting and trying each other out as living-companions; assuming all went well, they’d be back in Maryland in August to wind up their affairs here and move south for keeps.

I didn’t try to dissuade her, Dad. Was too entirely stunned to. After 35 years, half a day’s notice! Yet she was quite right: Ms. Pond (dear God, God, have You no shame?) had all the skills, knew the office pretty well, was not disagreeable to work with; the rest there was no replacing, however long the notice. But (I wondered silently, terrifically) what about 11 R?

Good as her word, she came in on the Monday. Bon voyage gifts were laid on, jokes made about Florida, about septuagenarian lovers. Embraces, tears, laughter. Polly looked fine. Her friend was in good health, a gentleman, well enough off; they would be all right. How I envied them! She wished me the best; half her life was in that office; we’d done remarkable things together. She paused. She didn’t believe history really repeated itself. There were echoes, of course, if you listened for them, but the future—what there was of it for people our age—was new, and lay ahead, not behind us. All very well, I thought; yet what about…

But as if by tacit agreement, no allusion whatever was made to…

And so Tuesday the 17th came and went in thunderous silence, as if Polly’s flight laid an antisonic boom along the Eastern Shore. From 9 to 5, whenever Ms. Pond was in the office, I managed to drop things: my pen, my iced-coffee spoon; she must think me senile. But they were gracefully and soundlessly retrieved, a young woman picking up after an old codger with a sudden unquenchable thirst for iced coffee and a queer predilection for staring out the window at a certain oyster-shell pile.

Nothing—unless indeed opposites, negatives, count, in which case perhaps the entire absence of Polly Lake, and
a fortiori
of her etc., might betoken at the least my
loss
of the pending contest over Harrison’s will, and at the worst… Nonsense: 11 R
didn’t happen,
not on PLF Day or the next, or the next, by when in my frustration I was not fit society. For if time is not circling ’round, then 8 and 10 R, Jane’s return to me in the evening of our lives, that wondrous
O
out by Red Nun 20… portend
nothing.
My inchoate vision on the New Bridge was a delusion, and Now
will
be Tomorrow and Tomorrow: empty.

I missed Polly. There was no Jane. I was a fool.

At half past three yesterday I left the office, saying truly I felt ill and meant to rest up in the country till Monday. The afternoon was airless; I’d left my car back at the cottage: I motored
O.J.
out from Slip #2 and downriver to its Todds Point dock. As I left the Howell Point day beacon to starboard, I saw the
Original Floating Theatre II
chugging out of the Tred Avon into the Choptank, en route from Oxford to Cambridge for the weekend (unlike the original
Original,
the replica is self-propelled). I kept my eyes on it, not to glimpse a certain red buoy to port, the sight of which just then would have undone me. Docked, I took a swim (no sea nettles yet) and lingered on deck for cocktails; even made dinner aboard, to put off entering this cottage too crowded with ghosts. Over the last of the wine, by the light of citronella candles in the cockpit (but there are no mosquitoes yet either, to speak of), I read the
Evening Sun
and wondered how the prospecting was in Florida.

The phone fetched me in just after dusk, when the swifts had given way to the swallows and the swallows to the bats. It’s me, she said: Jane.

I replied: I resist the obvious reply.

What? O.

Say that again, please.

What? She was in Dorset Heights. Might she stop by at the office tomorrow?

She didn’t sound
entirely
official. I took a breath, and a chance. Here I am at the cottage, I said: why not make Tomorrow Now?

She couldn’t, possibly, much as she’d like to see the place again. She had a dozen things to do before bedtime. Didn’t I have a minute tomorrow?

Another chance: I’m in Baltimore tomorrow till three, I lied; then I plan to drive straight back here for the weekend. Will you meet me here at six for dinner, or shall I pick you up and fetch you out? Grilled rockfish with fennel and rémoulade, a house specialty.

She hesitated; my heart and history likewise.

Well… okay. She’d drive out. Make it six-thirty? Bye.

No matter that her hesitation, I was quite confident, had to do with the logistics of her business day and not the implications of revisiting me
in situ
where the world began. She was coming!

Is
coming, Dad, and your antique son is going bananas in anticipation. Since breakfast I’ve been at it, a superannuated Jay Gatsby awaiting his Daisy’s visit: the maid fetched in to reclean the place she cleaned only Tuesday, the gardener to trim the beds he wasn’t to bother with till Thursday next and prune every dead blossom from the tea roses and climbers.
Osborn Jones
cleaned out, swabbed down, and Bristol fashion, just in case. Anchovy paste, chervil, and capers at the ready for the sauce, fennel and lemon and brandy for the fish. No Pouilly-Fuissé available, alas, but a perfectly okay little Chablis from of all places western Maryland, and champagne in the fridge just in case. Roses mixed with cuttings from the last of the azaleas on the screened porch, in the living room, in the bedroom. Fresh sheets, of course, just etc. Everybody out by four; an anxious eye on the thunderheads piling up across the Bay, where I’m supposed to be returning from Baltimore; nothing further to be done but wait and keep some hold on my heart. Hence this letter.

But the telephone! Haifa dozen times it’s rung already, the last two since the maid left (who loyally reported me not at home), and I can’t answer lest I betray my childish fib. It’s Jane, canceling our date at Lord Tarzan’s jealous insistence. It’s the Muse of History, calling to explain what happened to 11 R. It’s Jane, wondering whether I’m bespoken for the
rest
of the weekend. It’s you, suggesting I just phone you instead of writing these asinine letters. It’s Jane.

If it rings again, I’ll not be able not to answer. How goes it with you, Dad? And did you ever, even at
twenty-nine,
have these Scott Fitzgerald moments, these—

Excuse me: the phone.

6/19/69

To Pier Angeli, Charles Coburn, Edgar Degas, James I, Wallis Warfield Simpson Windsor: happy birthday. Emperor Maximilian of Mexico has been executed by the Juarez party. Israeli warplanes used napalm today on Jordanian-Iraqi artillery positions while police battled students in Ann Arbor. Representatives of seven northeastern American colonies are meeting in Albany with sachems of the Six Nations to plan campaigns against New France. Ethel and Julius Rosenberg have been electrocuted at Sing Sing, and Texas has been annexed by the Union. The U.S.S.
Kearsarge
has defeated the C.S.S.
Alabama
off Cherbourg. The Duke of Wellington and Benjamin Constant are dining in Paris with Mme de Staël in celebration of yesterday’s Allied victory at Waterloo: it is Day 97 of the Hundred Days.

And your Drama,
Der Wiedertraum,
is under way. Starring “Saint Joseph” as Joe Morgan, “Bibi” as Rennie Morgan, and “yourself,” in a sense, as the Interloping Jacob Horner. Reluctant cameo appearances by the Doctor as Himself. Also featuring “Pocahontas” as the Sexually Exploited High School English Teacher Peggy Rankin (a bit of miscasting) and “M. Casteene” as President Schott of Wicomico Teachers College. With a supporting cast of dozens: draft refugees and their girl friends—those willing to regroom themselves—in the role of Wicomico College freshmen of 1953; the patients as the Patients. Still wanting are actresses for the bit parts of Mrs. Dockey, the Mannish Head Nurse, and Shirley Stickles, Dr. Schott’s Waspish Secretary, who misinformed you as to the date of your Job Interview in 1953 and would not acknowledge her error when you Presented yourself in her office on July 20, Petrarch’s birthday and a day early. Ideal roles, either of those, for Pocahontas; but she demands a bigger piece of the action. Produced by Saint Joe. Directed, more or less, by Casteene. Increasingly frowned upon by the Doctor, who fears things will get out of hand. Followed with intermittent interest and filmed in part by Mr. Reg Prinz for possible incorporation into his film in progress, which, it turns out, is not entirely about the War of 1812. Script adapted from the novel adapted from your Scriptotherapeutic narrative adapted from the events leading to Rennie Morgan’s death from aspiration of vomitus in course of illicit surgical abortion October 25, 1953. Road not to end that way this time, on Producer’s orders, or else.

There is no rush to fill the vacant roles, inasmuch as your Drama, like soap opera, is being reenacted in real time. Hence Prinz’s and Ambrose Mensch’s interest, depite the cast’s including Mensch’s ex-mistress and ex-wife and Prinz’s current mistress. On June 1, Trinity Sunday, as the Fenians began their invasion of Ontario from Black Rock and Captain Lawrence aboard the
Chesapeake
enjoined his crew not to give up the ship and President Madison read his 2nd War Message to the U.S. Congress, the Doctor once again prescribed in the Progress and Advice Room that you Enter the Teaching Profession as therapy for your Seizures of Immobility.

“There must be a rigid discipline,”
he quoted himself from the script,
“or else it will be merely an occupation, not an occupational therapy. There must be a body of laws… Tell them you will teach grammar. English grammar… You will teach prescriptive grammar.
Now really, Horner: is that your Idea of Plausible Dialogue?”

The next scene will not occur until July 19, a full month hence, when Generalissimo Franco will take Cadiz, Cordova, Granada, Huelva, and Seville while the German army begins its retreat from Belgium and you Leave Baltimore for the Eastern Shore to Look for a Room in Wicomico and Prepare yourself for the Interview which you Innocently Believe to be scheduled for the following day.

Meanwhile, things have not been standing still at the Remobilization Farm. How Drive from Baltimore next month across the Chesapeake to Wicomico without leaving Ontario? Why, by magicking the P & A Room from the one into the other, as the wizards of Stratford magic a bare arena stage into Windsor Castle or Prospero’s Island. And how Reenter the Teaching Profession while in residential therapy? Why, by mobilizing the Farm into the Niagara Frontier Underground University! The dropouts—a touch homesick, it may be—had proposed to Saint Joe a free school: he is obliging them, in his capacity as U.U.‘s unofficial chancellor and history department, with seminars in U.S. Hawkery from 1812 to the present; in the 19th-century American Counterexpansionists; in the Role of Upper Canada as a Haven for Loyalists, Escaped Slaves, Secessionists, Indians, Conscientious Objectors, and Other Refugees from U.S. Violence. Casteene is conducting private tutorials in something called the Game of Governments. Tombo X is teaching karate. And to mollify the geriatrics, who have pressed for straightforward continuing education in the manner of their beloved Chautauqua Institution, you yourself are Offering “far-in” counter-countercultural drills in Prescriptive Grammar, or Repressive English. Restrictive clauses. Close punctuation. The Wave of the Past.

And “Rennie Morgan”—as Bibi/Bea Golden/Jeannine Mack now calls herself even offstage, as it were—in her new capacity as U.U.’s faculty of drama, is producing a small theatrical of her own, a replay-within-the-replay: some sort of “radical minstrel show” inspired by her tidewater Maryland connections, by Mr. Prinz’s unexplained wish to include some showboat footage in his film, and by her desire to demonstrate to her lover that she is possessed of an awakening social consciousness. You and Morgan are to play in blackface Bones and Tambo, respectively, the End Men. The Doctor
(pace
Jean Genet) is to be coaxed into whiteface to take the part of Mister Interlocutor. Tombo X will perform poorly on both the tambourine and the bones, to demonstrate that he has no sense of rhythm whatever, either natural or acquired. Casteene will do a series of impersonations. Pocahontas, you Suppose, will sing “Indian Love Call.” And “Rennie” will play “Bea Golden” playing “the Mary Pickford of the Chesapeake” as on Captain James Adams’s old floating theater. Performance scheduled for tomorrow night, or the one after, to coincide with the Sun’s entry into Cancer (and the birthdays of Errol Flynn and Jacques Offenbach, and the Black Hole of Calcutta atrocity, and Lord Byron’s first meeting Mme de Staël at Lady Jersey’s salon in London, and the Tennis Court Oath, and the U.S.A.’s adoption of the Great Seal, and West Virginia’s admission into the Union). You have Suggested it be called
A Midsummer Night’s Mare.

You Do Not Quite Understand what’s going on. You Suspect that in a sense you Are its Focus—read Target—yet at the same time but a Minor Figure in some larger design. You Are Not At All Sure what Reg Prinz is up to, or Casteene—who, it now seems certain, arranged Morgan’s coming here, and possibly prompted his challenge to you. Did Casteene also arrange the appearance last Friday—from Maryland, on the arm of Ambrose Mensch!—of “Lady Amherst,” who as “Lady Russex” came here two years ago for an abortion? Why did that same lady seem both astonished to see him and not quite convinced that she
was
seeing him? Did Mensch really not know that his ex-wife is a patient here? He seems to suspect Prinz of what you Suspect Casteene of!