Happyland

by J. Robert Lennon

  That’s what she would tell you, anyway, if you asked. In truth, Happy’s control over her sleeping mind was less absolute than she might have liked, and there were nights when she was incapable of restraining it. To be sure, she fought it, and sometimes she was able to tamp her dreams down into a perpetually incipient, constipatory state. But if they wanted, needed to come, they came.

  And on Thanksgiving night, her pillow still wet with tears, her face aching, her husband snoring on the sofa downstairs, her assistant sprawled alone on her dormitory bed, her architect and designer awake and whispering in the guest room, Happy had a dream. It opened in a bright and spiffy future Equinox, where every pink house brimmed with red-cheeked admirers, and every black streetlamp burned with a little blue flame, and every trellis bloomed with hundreds of fragrant yellow roses. And Happyland was complete, a village unto itself where the college once stood, castles and cottages in gleaming white stone nestled in a field of undulating green. And beaming tourists of all nations, hand-in-hand with their beribboned girl children, paced among the gravel paths and in and out of galleries and shops and the Museum of Dolls: and Happy herself stood watching it all from the bell tower, divine master of her domain.

  Enter Aunt Missy, staggering in on broken legs, labored breaths hissing out of a ravaged face, the eyes a child’s, bright and full of pain. Her arms, scabbed and spotted and hung with heavy flesh, held a doll, a Happy Girl. And Happy saw that this room was in fact a nursery, tastelessly baubled and frilled and wallpapered, an empty crib at its center, and Happy’s aunt wanted her to take the doll.

  “Sign it!” the old woman sobbed. “Sign it!”

  The doll’s belly was exposed and bloated, poking out from under its dress like a slick stone from the lake. In her hand Happy held a pen.

  “Why yes, certainly!” she said cheerfully, and she took the doll and tried to get the pen to write on the slimy body. “Dammit!” she growled, and jabbed the doll with her pen, but of course it was not a doll at all, but a living child, and its glass eyes were wet with tears, and it was naked now, the tiny ribs visible beneath the skin.

  “You have to nurse her,” Aunt Missy cried, her black mourning dress wet with milk.

  And now Happy realized: all of the dolls were real, all of them were babies, and she had never fed them, never held them to her breast. She had forgotten. She dropped the wailing doll and pushed her aunt aside. Down the spiral stairs she ran, and along the graveled path to the doll shop and museum, its turrets flying blood-red flags—but it was too late. They were all dying. Her employees, sick and miserable, ministered to the dying dolls, artificial smiles smeared across their filthy faces. But it was hopeless; the dolls were doomed. Happy tore open her blouse and her breasts tumbled out, sore and leaden, and she tried, horribly, to feed her children, but their tiny smiling mouths would not open, and no milk would come. Even as they perished, they smiled; their living eyes turned to glass and their china skin went gray and flaccid, sinking into their boneless faces, rotting away; and still they smiled. Happy collapsed, naked, to the floor of the doll museum, sobbing—and was sobbing still, with no idea why, when she woke.

  30. Sob sister

  When the students came back from Thanksgiving break, some of their friends were missing. What had happened to Lulu from Long Island, whose perpetual innocence, gravelly voice, and big behind had been a source of constant delight to her world-weary peers? And where was freckled Ginny, lean and large-eyed and recently out of the closet, whose thirst for long-delayed sexual experimentation had earned her a fanatical following, even among people who hadn’t met her? And what had become of stocky Sam, heir to a u-pick blueberry glen three counties over, with her painter pants and tie-dyes and dreamy smile?

  There was no mystery, really. The buzz had begun over Thanksgiving break, in a flurry of instant messages, e-mails, and cell calls that asked the same raft of whispered questions—did you see the video? Are you in the video? Did your mom, your dad, your brother, your sister see the video? Your grandmother, your caseworker, your shrink? A few students had to be filled in on what was going on—these were the ones whose parents hadn’t gotten around to opening the package, or had opened it but hadn’t watched it, or had opened it and thrown it out, not wanting to interfere (or, perhaps, care), or had opened it and not yet reached consensus with their spouses on what to do about it. But for most, the DVD was the first thing they confronted at the airport or bus station or front door: Your mother and I want to talk to you about this. Do you care to explain this? We certainly hope you’re not involved in this. Is this real? Is this the kind of thing that goes on? Is this what we’re paying for? Is this what you call an education?

  There had been a lot of late-night talks, fueled by a lot of coffee, or, alternately, by a lot of booze. There had been confrontations, confessions, accusations, explanations. Rooms had been run out of and into, doors had been slammed, voices had been raised. Tears, countless tears, had been shed. Thanksgiving dinners had been ruined. The result was that most students wanted to return immediately to Equinox College, the place where, for better or worse, their real lives were led; they wanted their true families, the ones that they had chosen, the ones that contained their lovers and confidants and trusted pals. They wanted to be with the people to whom they never had to explain anything, in the place where nobody ever told them what to do. They wanted to go home.

  Most of them were permitted to do so. Drastic change, after all, was no picnic. There would have had to be financial rejiggering, and job searching, and college reapplying. There would have been a fog of resentment hanging over the house, and a hole in the resume, and a spike in the grocery bill. And so parents returned their children to Equinox College, with reservations, and with formal complaints. Most of these complaints went to Reeve Tennyson’s office—he was, after all, the president—but more than a few knew what was what and went directly to the trustees. Many of these complainants sent along a copy of the DVD. As a result, a special meeting was scheduled among the five grande dames—an evening affair, with beer and popcorn and a wide-screen television. The location was Mrs. Jensen’s house—the trustee known, to Reeve Tennyson, as Fatty—and the mood was one of grim curiosity.

  We will never be privy to what went on in that converted farmhouse, at the end of a graveled lane, behind a copse of pines; perhaps the ladies merely gaped in horror, or drank themselves numb, or screamed. Or maybe there were giggles, snorts, knowing glances. Or perhaps only stunned silence reigned. In any event, they would later tell Reeve that they had in fact watched the entire thing, right to the bitter end. They would tell him a lot of other things as well.

  But it wasn’t Reeve to whom the trustees would go first. Rather, it was to Happy Masters.

  They could hardly be blamed for going over his head—as conferees went, Reeve was a cold fish. Invariably he met them in the conference room—never off-site, where the trustees might possibly have a chance to enjoy themselves—and invariably he slouched, squirmed, and fidgeted like a child. He took his lumps in pathetic silence, as if he deserved them (and certainly he did, though he might at least have pretended not to), and when it was all over, he never got up from his chair to see them out.

  In contrast, Happy Masters had hosted a catered get-to-know-ya dinner in her house on the lake, which two of the trustees had actually seen before, having peripherally known the Framdsens while students at E.C. The general opinion was that the place had been significantly improved. And the food, of course, was delicious, and Happy herself had been a delightful hostess, charming and intelligent and respectful and at the height of her personal and professional powers.

  And—let’s face it—the trustees enjoyed the company of women. They all were, or had been, married, and they all had borne children, but it was to one another, and their fellow classmates of yore, that they felt the greatest devotion. Furthermore, Equinox College itself meant a great deal to them, and one sensed that, in Reeve Tennyson, there was little affinity for the job or the
institution, and that he was, at any given time, in the process of formulating an escape plan. Happy Masters, on the other hand, had devoted her life to girls, and it was girls whom Equinox College was founded to transform into women. And she had expressed such delightful enthusiasm for the college’s mission, and had pledged to one day make a significant donation. And while the trustees hardly wished to put pressure on Ms. Masters to make good on her promises, the time had come to act, as the college was in danger of corruption, fragmentation, and, just possibly, dissolution. Did Ms. Masters, they wanted to know, wish to assist in the rehabilitation of the college on the hill?

  Indeed she did, and she invited them all over for dinner to discuss it. It was Friday, and the Sally Streit debacle had been unfolding for more than a week. Eight more students had been withdrawn from the school, three promised donations from alumnae had been rescinded, two professors and one staffer had quit in protest, and Reeve Tennyson had stopped answering his phone. The trustees sat around Happy’s table, indulging themselves first in prawn bisque, then tossed hothouse greens, then sage-infused lamb chops, new potatoes, and roasted asparagus, and between bites (and copious swigs of Bordeaux) they floated, ever-so-gently, the possibility that Happy Masters might know someone who would make a good replacement for Reeve Tennyson, and that if she didn’t then perhaps that person might conceivably be Happy Masters herself.

  The offer did not surprise Happy. Indeed, she had anticipated it months before, at the first dinner she held for these women. She liked them, the trustees, or liked the idea of them: a motley collection, none of them looking or behaving even remotely like one another, each dedicated to an abstract ideal of a special lovely place far from the dangers and distractions of the male-dominated world. The entire project had an appealing quaintness, of a sort not far removed from that upon which Happy herself had capitalized so skillfully—the idea that there was such a thing as innocence, and that it could be protected from corruption. They had asked her to join them, officially, after the library “disintegration,” and she had declined—official power, she did not explain, is far more difficult to wield than the kind of power she preferred. And, far from being offended, these ladies had admired her integrity—another quaint concept that they held dear, and which endeared them to her.

  But she was not about to accept a job as president of Equinox College, either. “Sharon,” she said, raising her glass. “Emily, Jean, Flora, Betsy. I have never been so flattered in my life.”

  A series of grateful coos bubbled around the room.

  “But I must tell you, with great regret, that I cannot accept your offer.”

  A gentle groan of disappointment and protest. Ah, these poor sweet ladies!

  “At least,” she went on, “not at this time. Frankly, ladies, I think that we should give Reeve a chance to redeem himself. At least in the eyes of the Mid-Atlantic States Academic Association.”

  Faces blanched. Glances were exchanged.

  “You haven’t been on the level with me, ladies!” Her tone was one of scolding jocularity, her expression calculated to simultaneously frighten and soothe.

  It was Ms. Chast who came clean, sitting a bit straighter in her chair and adjusting her dress, which was more like a heavy embroidered robe of many colors, around her broad shoulders. She said, “It is true that we have been having accreditation problems, above and beyond this current debacle. There had been issues with faculty credentials. Though I can’t imagine, Ms. Masters, how you know this.”

  Happy tapped her head and winked.

  Mrs. Jensen spoke up, turning her jowly face toward Happy with hopeful confidence. “The professors in question were quietly removed.”

  “Temporarily,” added Ms. Peterson, in her rich and sarcastic baritone. “With full pay. Thanks to the union.”

  “My Carl was a union buster!” Mrs. Pearl piped in. “And I’m proud of it!”

  “Oh, it’s all ridiculous,” said Mrs. Kenilworth, throwing down her napkin and turning her giant ears toward Happy. “So they lied on their resumes. Everybody lies on their resumes!”

  “Not I,” Ms. Chast intoned.

  “Well, Betsy, goody for you,” snapped Mrs. Jensen.

  “It is unclear,” Ms. Chast went on, “how this matter even came to the attention of the Academic Association. But I suppose that, officially, I am delighted to have these pretenders off the faculty.”

  “Well,” Happy said, clapping her hands together much as she had, many hundreds of times, while wrapping up a bookstore appearance before a crowd of little children, “it goes without saying, of course, that I’ll be withholding my promised donation until your accreditation review is complete. I’m sure, however, that, since you acted so swiftly to rectify this problem, the college’s legitimacy will be swiftly confirmed, and its solvency will be entirely out of danger. Unless, of course, the Mid-Atlantic States Academic Association learns about what happened here last week.”

  The ladies’ faces bore expressions of growing horror.

  “But I cannot see,” Happy went on, “how that will come to their attention.”

  “Oh, no,” Ms. Chast said, leveling a gaze of hostile reconsideration at her hostess, “surely nobody will tell them that.”

  * * *

  Later that night, Happy closed her e-mail, switched off the notebook, and looked out the window. The December sky was black and clear, the moon bright. The days had been shortening for months, and still she wasn’t used to this, the desolation outside, the void. People in small towns, it seemed, stayed home at night. They did the things that girls impelled their dolls to do—walk around the house, have arguments, change clothes, go to bed. The Klams were gone, awaiting Happy’s next conquest; Jims had been banished and by now was in Johannesburg. He hadn’t called: she’d told him not to bother. There was Louisa, the housekeeper, in her bedroom on the ground floor, but her English was poor (when she wanted it to be, which in Happy’s presence was usually) and she was not friendly. This was why Happy had hired her six years ago, for the apartment in the city.

  What Happy wished she had was a friend to call. A confidant. She’d had one in college once—a wispy little drama queen named Heather Lipsky, whose confidence and drive—with men anyway—Happy had then regarded as impressive, or at least empirically interesting. Heather would call up Happy and just…tell her things. What people said to her (do you believe it?) or failed to say (who does she think she is?), who had fucked her (about time) or the way in which they fucked (what am I, some hooker?). When Happy found Jims, she discarded Heather Lipsky and never looked back. Probably the girl had moved on, asking her latest pal who the hell that Happy Masters thought she was—but that was Happy’s only experience with that sort of friendship: the confidant, the sob sister. Sheila, of course, would be embarrassed to be approached in such a manner. That left her aunt, whose words on Thanksgiving night had stung and humiliated her, and whom she wished she’d never called.

  Anyway, even if she had a confidant, what would Happy confide? Everything that was important to her was a trade secret. She could complain about Jims, but there wasn’t much to say. He cheated. Big whoop. She could talk about Janet Ping, but knew even less what to say about that. Janet hadn’t come in this week. Presumably she had considered herself fired. And had Happy possessed the capacity to speak that night, she might indeed have fired her. Instead she had actually cried, in front of other people, and run out of the room. She had never before run out of a room. Thus, the situation with Janet seemed to require further thought, but not the kind that Happy was interested in thinking. The issue remained to be resolved.

  Happy sighed and switched off the light. She lay on the bed. A few minutes later, she reached out and picked up the phone. The pushbuttons glowed, inviting touch. She dialed the only number she had called with any regularity in the past couple of months, and reached the only person who seemed to have understood her in that time.

  “It’s late,” came his voice. No hello.

  “Not for you
it isn’t,” she said.

  He chuckled. “I’m different now. I got a schedule. I need my beauty sleep.”

  “But you’re awake.”

  “Yeah,” Kevin said, after a moment.

  “Same here,” she offered, trying to sound casual.

  His response was measured, wary. “What’ve you got for me?”

  She hesitated. Opened her mouth, closed it.

  “Oh, I get it,” he said quietly.

  “Do you? Good,” she said. “Come to the kitchen door.”

  But he didn’t answer straight away. He cleared his throat. Eventually, he said, “The usual fee?”

  She might have said yes. What was it to her? Everything was business. But a woman had to have standards. She bit her lip and hung up.

  Five minutes later, she walked out the kitchen door.

  31. As if nothing unusual were happening

  He was awake, watching the orchard: the trees, denuded of leaves, cast perfect moon-edged shadows onto the hardened snow. There was nothing more lovely to Archie than this, the intersection of man and nature: his grafts and snips of decades past had given way, over years, to an unsymmetry as beautifully balanced as any architecture. The even rows he had planted grew ragged as they plunged toward the lake, unfolding through history to the descendents of Crim’s trees, their seeds nourished by blood, their crooked arms bent and broken by time. Historians stopped by often—professors, students doing papers—but it surprised him every winter when the artists failed to show up, mufflered and scarved, with their sketchbooks to record the tableau. A clump of snow fell from a branch. A deer browsed the border. It was past eleven. He wasn’t tired.