Bodies and Souls

by Nancy Thayer

  “I don’t think your father would think so,” Judy snapped; there, she had him. It only remained for her to remind him at a later point in their discussion that Ron had gone out looking for Johnny the night he died. If he had not had to go out in his car on that rainy night …

  So her son was hers again. He behaved civilly. He took a job at a local men’s clothing shop, an exclusive shop that catered to wealthy clientele, and he spent the summer selling cotton slacks with whales or ducks on them to potbellied men from Connecticut. He gave his mother half his salary for rent and food, and put the other half in the bank. Or so he said. It seemed to Judy recently that he was spending a good bit of his money on alcohol. He always smelled like gin these days, or like the mints he sucked to hide the gin. He did not go out to drink. He did not go out at all. He stayed home watching television with his mother, or playing card games with her, or simply sitting outside on a summer night, staring. She knew he was not happy, and she was afraid that he was becoming an alcoholic, and she was not sure, after all, just what kind of victory she had won.

  Carlos was a phony, Judy thought now, seeing him enter the church with Ursula. He could no more read palms than fly to the moon. He had promised her that nothing bad would happen to her again, and instead her entire life had been ruined. She had lost her husband, she had lost her son, and if her daughter was going to turn out like this, so unappealing and obsessed with books, then she might as well lose her daughter, too.

  It made her feel very cold inside to know this. She thought if she did not have her Valium and her alcohol to act as buffers, the coldness of all this knowledge would sear through her body like dry ice.

  But she did have her drugs, and she did have Gary. Because of his efforts, the rec center had been named after Ron, and, in a way, that honor publicly canceled out the dishonor of Johnny’s sordid episode. Because of Gary, she would soon have a center to her life again. She thought it was stupid of Johnny to scorn Gary, to hold the man in contempt because he was divorcing his wife to marry her. Couldn’t the boy see that Gary was giving him his freedom? Gary was handling the dissolution of Ron’s contracting firm; Johnny would never have the interest to carry on his father’s business. When Gary and Judy married, she would no longer need Johnny for an escort, for company, or for financial reasons, and perhaps then she could let him go off again to be whatever it was he wanted, even if that thing was a bum, a playboy, a man who lived off a woman.

  One day late in May she had casually looked out her bedroom window, and there Johnny had been, below, in the garden. Thinking he was completely unobserved, he had stood near a grouping of bearded iris. Tall-stemmed, elegant, delicately petaled, with a strip of fur at their mouths, the flowers stood, dazzling in their full bloom. As Judy watched, Johnny knelt down so that both knees were pressed firmly into the dirt, and he leaned forward and gently took a ruffled, flaring, peach-colored iris in both his hands, as a man might cradle a lover’s face. He bent down and kissed the long fragile petals; he slowly licked his tongue down into the flower’s core. Judy had shivered, watching him. She had never seen such reverence expressed before. Then her son let go of the flower and bent even further forward, so that his head was pushed onto his knees. He wrapped his arms around his head and his back shook. He was crying.

  Judy turned away, unable to see any more. Could he love that terrible woman so much? In this case, love must surely mean only lust. She had spent her life protecting him from tempting dangers, from touching fire, from walking off high places into air; it is a mother’s job to say no. When he was a little boy, he had sobbed because she would not let him play with a strange and to her mind dangerous-looking dog. Surely this fierce sorrow of his was no deeper or more serious than that childish grief. He had never liked to be deprived.

  And she had never meant to cause him such pain. He was her son.

  But what would it look like to the town if she let him go off again? Good Lord, what if they came back together, the two of them, and lived in the Howard house? Surely they would not disgrace her so. She felt very strongly the need for Johnny to remain in her house, at her side, as if his presence were proof that he had not meant to run away, to disgrace her, that he really did love his mother and meant to live by the values she had worked to instill in him. And if this were all only superficially true, perhaps with time it would become wholly so; these things did happen. Surely with time this bizarre passion of Johnny’s would fade, and she would be proven right.

  Now Leigh Findly came down the aisle on the arm of an usher and was seated in the front row with people whom Judy assumed were Leigh’s parents and relatives. Judy wondered if Leigh had any idea how she did not deserve her good fortune. She had not even tried to keep her marriage together. She had not tried to please her husband, and she had not tried to live a moral, normal life. Everyone in Londonton knew that Leigh had had many lovers; over the past ten years at least six different men had lived with Leigh for several months. What an environment for a girl to grow up in! And yet here they all were, and Mandy was getting married to a minister’s son, and Leigh sat in the front pew, an object of admiration. You do not deserve this! Judy wanted to yell. She wanted to stand up, to explode upward into a giant fiery message: You do not deserve this, and I do!

  But she would not explode, she never had before, and she would not now. She would sit here, in this church, with her unsatisfactory children at her side, and she would look serene. Perhaps people admired Leigh, but surely they must also admire Judy, for carrying on so well in the face of adversity. Judy admired herself. She had spent more time in introspection this past year than ever, and she still liked herself. She was tired of self-analysis, though. She wanted just to get on with life. She wished she could thin her daughter down and dress her up and plan a wedding for her. She wished Johnny would settle down and find a decent girl and marry her and have children. But at the very least she had Gary, who would soon be her husband, and who would soon give her a normal life again. She thought she had weathered circumstances very well, and so she held her head high, and looked around her. The wedding was about to begin. From where she sat, she could see Patricia Taylor, dressed in flowered silk, a rich peach color. Such a frilly dress makes Patricia look her age, Judy thought.

  Johnny Bennett had a letter in the breast pocket of his suit. He brought his hand up to his breast now and then to touch the letter, because it comforted him. But he could not touch it too often, for he might arouse his mother’s suspicions; she was sitting next to him, and he felt her vigilance.

  He had received the letter only yesterday, but he had read it over so many times that he had the words committed to heart. Still, he could not be parted from the letter, because it was from Liza, and carried with it her fragrance, her touch … and because he was not sure what this letter meant. People gathered in the church around him, but he was unaware of them. He was as inwardly focused on the letter as a man straining to hear a sweet and perplexing sound. The letter said:

  Darling Johnny,

  I just returned today from a marvelous long cruise around the Caribbean islands with the Martins and the LaVeques and some other people, and I found your pile of letters waiting for me at the hotel. I’m sorry to have made you so angry by not answering all your letters—but you see, I wasn’t receiving them, because I was out at sea. We had such a beautiful cruise. The nights were warm and gentle, you remember how they can be, so soft, moist, aromatic … It seemed the moon was always full, and it shone down on the water in such a long enchanting stripe that I yearned to dive overboard into the water so that I could come up with my skin dripping with phosphorescence. But I was always too lazy and dazed to try. I spent most of the time just lying in the sun. We were all wicked and casual and went around naked, so I have the loveliest tan; I’m golden brown all over, every inch of me. The crew spoiled us. We didn’t have to lift a finger, we were kept in constant supply of those exotic rum and fruit drinks you love so much. I think I was slightly drunk the entire time—so it�
��s a good thing I didn’t dive overboard at night.

  We found ourselves “discovering” tiny unspoiled islands as we sailed. I think that from the sky this part of the world must resemble a case in Tiffany’s, for the islands are so green and lush, bordered by smooth golden beaches, they must look like rough-cut emeralds set in 14-carat gold, nestled in a glittering display on rippling blue waves of silk. Every time we found one of these islands, we had to dock and explore. We were like children on a fantasy treasure hunt. At night we built huge bonfires on the beach and ate fresh lobster or casseroles of red snapper cooked in tomatoes, peppers, onions, and wine—the chef on the yacht was an artist. Now and then we would stop at a large island—Montserrat, Antigua—where the Martins or the LaVeques had friends with large houses, and we would stay ashore for a while, playing tennis all day and dancing all night.

  So you see, my love, I have been too busy to miss you. Johnny, I would be a fool to waste a moment in missing you. I’m a fool to waste the time it’s taking me to write you this letter. But for the sake of whatever we had together, whatever in the world it was (and it was sweet, I admit), I will take the time to answer all your letters. And with this, darling, our correspondence must stop. You made a choice when you boarded that plane to go home to Mother, and no, I’m not angry with you for it, though I don’t admire you, either, but I have a right to my choices, too. Still, I will answer your questions.

  No, I am not “being faithful” to you. Why do you even bother to ask? I never promised you that I would be and I can’t imagine why I should be—Johnny, honey, you are gone. Yes, I do think we “had something special”: we had eight months together of luxury and ease and splendid sex and pleasure. We had eight months together of happiness, and that is rare. But I’d rather spend the night with a live man than with the warmest of memories, and no matter what we had, all we have now is memories. And oh, no, Johnny, I won’t come back to Londonton, and I won’t marry you. My God, you can be silly sometimes. Oh, Johnny, you don’t understand a thing. You assume that because Londonton welcomed you back with open arms they’ll do the same for me. You don’t understand the nature of that place. You were accepted back in the fold because you belong. You were born and raised in Londonton, your mother still lives there, your father built houses there, they know you. No matter what you do, no matter how far you stray, you will always remain one of them. But no matter what I do, darling—if I were anointed a saint—I couldn’t become one of them, thank God. I will never be accepted there. Probably you’ll never understand this, because you are an insider, and I am an outsider, and insiders rarely have the ability to see the whole picture clearly. And part of the power of the prejudice you are immersed in is its subtlety. And no, Johnny, it has nothing to do with time, or even birth. If I had been born and raised in Londonton, I would still be an outsider. I do not fit there, and I do not want to. I have fought all my life and will continue to fight against living a life in such busy, blind complacency.

  It touched me that you said in your last letter that you’d leave Londonton if I wished, that we would marry and live anywhere I chose. But that wouldn’t work, either, would it? For your mother would always be able to lure you home—no, really, think seriously about this a moment. What would you do, for example, if your sister had some sort of crisis? Or if your mother had another one? You are the man in the family now. You’d have to go home, you know you would. No place we could move to would be far enough away from Londonton, no place in the world.

  You wrote so many sweet, sad, romantic letters—my wastebasket here in the hotel is full of them. And you should throw this letter away when you’ve finished it, and go on to other things, for it is over between us, my love. Oh, Johnny, all the things you said were so foolish: of course you’ll fall in love again. Open your eyes, look around you. Londonton is full of pretty women and girls, and they’d all get in bed with you in an instant. You will forget me sooner than you can imagine.

  One last question I should answer before I close. You ask me repeatedly in your letters if I love you, if I ever loved you. Why, Johnny, how can you ask? Of course I loved you. I loved your body, your laugh, your skin, your tongue—but oh, I remember that in one of your letters you asked if I loved you instead of just your body. I thought only silly women asked questions like that. I would never have noticed you if it were not for your body, your gorgeous smile, your long slim legs. Let’s not get into a discussion of whether or not I’d love you if you were crippled, deformed, ill, and maimed, that’s for kids in high school. I cannot separate who you are from how you look and you can decide for yourself if the fault lies in my imagination or your personality. I do think you are generous, kind, gentle, sometimes clever and witty. You have a marvelous tantalizing charm, oh, sweetie, sweetie, of course I loved you. You are a truly beautiful boy.

  But you aren’t very interesting, you know. You haven’t really gone anywhere or done anything. You don’t have any power or competence, that is, without your beauty. You are generous only to those from whom you want something, and oblivious to everyone else in the world. Your vision is limited—a Londonton inheritance, I assume. You are spoiled. When the shell of your body which has protected you so completely begins to wither, I cannot imagine how you will weather the world—but then you don’t have to worry about that for years. You have the kind of looks that will keep you appearing twenty until you’re almost fifty.

  Have I said enough? Have I made myself clear? Would you like it summarized? Yes, I did love you, but no, I don’t now. No, I won’t marry you, or ever return to Londonton. No, I am not being faithful. When I finish this letter, I’ll shower, put on my white silk dress, and meet a new lover in the hotel bar. You and I are finished, Johnny, just like in the song. It was great fun, but it was just one of those things.

  Am I being cruel? Perhaps—so here’s a weapon for you. Remember that I am eleven years older than you are, and that women age faster than men. When you are thirty-five, I’ll be forty-six. Johnny, when you say you love me, you mean you love my body. We can never pretend that our relationship was built on intellectual compatibility, or “mutual interests.” Let’s not kid ourselves. Let’s say good-bye for good while it’s still all so fresh and sweet. I swear I’ll never write another letter to you in Londonton, and I’ll never read another that you send me here. It’s really over for us, darling.

  On the other hand, if you were to walk into the hotel someday soon, I’m not sure what I might do.…

  Love, Liza

  Johnny kept feeling in the breast pocket of his suit to be sure the letter was still there. The organ music had begun, but he didn’t hear it, he was so involved with his own thoughts. Was she insulting him, trying to get rid of him, teasing him with this letter? Or was she luring him? After all those months of living with her, he still found her mysterious, he still could not figure her out. And never mind what she intended; what did he want? He could hardly leave his mother and this town again. He had had his fling, and now it was time to settle down, wasn’t it? He loved this town and the people in it, and he had a duty to his mother.… Still, he sat mesmerized by Liza’s final words. She had conjured up for him a vision: he would walk into the hotel unannounced, unexpected. Liza would be standing there with her back to him, her arms lifted as she slid a hibiscus into her hair, and she would slowly turn, arms still upraised, and see him. They would both smile. This illusion was so enchanting that as Johnny sat in the church next to his mother, surrounded by his community, he was really a million miles away.

  Reynolds had spent the past eight months in Seattle. He had returned home only three days ago, and found the invitation to Michael and Mandy’s wedding in his mail. So he had put on a good suit and silk tie and come. Now he sat in the sanctuary, looking around him with admiration. He had missed this building, and he was glad to be back, and glad for the wedding which caused him to return to the church when it was in a state of such adornment. The very air seemed opulent with promise.

  In Seattle, Re
ynolds had become acquainted with a couple whom Peter Taylor had suggested he look up if he wanted company. Mark Frazier was a history professor at Seattle University. He was a handsome young man with an impeccable memory and a love for debate, and he and Reynolds enjoyed each other immensely. They spent hours in sportive argument. Mark’s wife, Lilia, was just as attractive. She taught physics at the same university and was obviously an intelligent woman. And she was beautiful, in a lithe and clever way. She was sixteen years older than her husband, however, and this was obvious: she looked sixteen years older than Mark. But Mark seemed absolutely entranced by his wife, and as much as Reynolds enjoyed his intellectual discussions with Mark, he also enjoyed just watching the Fraziers, observing them, trying to see just how she worked her spell, for it seemed to him an unusual thing that a man should love a woman so much older than himself.

  One evening when he arrived at the Fraziers’, he noticed a tension in the air. Not wishing to be intrusive, he said nothing, though the atmosphere grew blacker as the evening progressed.

  Suddenly Lilia said, “Mark. We’re being awfully inhospitable to Reynolds. If you won’t tell him why you’re such a grouch tonight, I will.”

  It turned out that Mark was in a snit because a mutual friend had asked Lilia how she liked a new and expensive restaurant. Lilia had not told Mark that she had been to that restaurant, and she still refused to tell him whom she dined with, even whether she had been with a man or a woman. As Reynolds sat sipping his martini, the Fraziers argued. Mark thought Lilia should tell him whom she had been with, and why; Lilia refused. Mark accused Lilia of being unfaithful; Lilia said that was ridiculous, she had only had dinner with someone. Then why wouldn’t she tell him about it? Mark asked. Because she didn’t want to, she replied.