Nothing Serious

by Daniel Klein

  Soon after Digby returns, Winifred arrives with enough food for a church social. She also has brought along her portable microwave oven to serve up the spanakopita warm and creamy.

  June MacLane is the first guest to arrive, at three o’clock on the button. She is merry and bloomy. She immediately asks for a peek at the proofs and Digby hands them over apprehensively, but June bursts out laughing the minute she scans the cover art with its nutty still shot from What Dreams May Come. Indeed, it appears as if June has not had a negative thought in quite some time; and Digby’s guess is that this has more to do with her new deanship and her renewed relationship with Ada than it does with her most notable feature, her Reuben Jr.-filled belly. No “Baby on Board” T-shirt for June today—rather a stylish, red tunic with a scoop neck, revealing the curvy top of her newly expanded bosom. Digby’s sole interest while eyeing this anatomical feature is atypical for him—indeed, atypical for most men—he only wonders about function and utility, to wit, whether June is going to breast-feed little Reuben. He certainly hopes not.

  “I think it’s a hoot,” June announces after finishing her perusal of the proofs.

  “Terrific,” says Digby. Perhaps Elliot Goldenfield will end up having to write future dissent columns on his own.

  “When I told Ada I was going to see the heaven proofs, she said, ‘Oh, really? How did they prove it?’ ” June says, smiling with a paramour’s pride.

  No lover’s rejection there, thank God.

  Elliot Goldenfield walks in on June’s line, raises one eyebrow sardonically, grabs a carrot, dips it in the bowl of tzatziki, and sits down on one of the settees without uttering a word. He does not ask to see the proofs and Digby certainly does not feel like proffering them. Then the final guests arrive, walking in single file into Digby’s office, Felicia, Madeleine, and—who is this?—none other than Counselor Baskerton. This occasions a flurry of cheek pecks and hugs, plus some warm pats of Reuben Jr.’s vessel.

  The sole exception to this greeting frenzy is, unsurprisingly, Elliot, who remains seated and munching. Digby notices that Elliot does, however, keep shooting inquisitive glances at Felicia Hastings, and it does not take Digby long to divine their meaning: Elliot is wondering if his moment has finally arrived; if Felicia, brought back to her senses, will now do the right thing and return to her late husband’s fondest wishes, namely to name Elliot Goldenfield editor-in-chief of Cogito magazine so that the journal can resume Bonner Hastings’ mission of sober scholarship. In truth, Digby had not seriously entertained that possibility until just this minute, and in this minute it does not seem like a farfetched eventuality at all. Appointing Digby to the job had been part of LeFevre’s grandly schemed con game, but with LeFevre gone, why shouldn’t Digby—aka The Patsy, The Gull, The Chump—be gone too? Digby experiences a throb of insecurity, not his first of the day; they seem to have been coming at him from oblique angles all day now. He is, however, somewhat relieved to observe that Felicia does not answer Elliot’s glances with any of her own.

  Digby feels the need to assert some authority—not too much or too obviously—but he believes he should at least make a gesture that suggests he is still top man at Cogito. He dashes upstairs, withdraws the bottle of faux Champagne from his kitchen fridge, and brings it back to his office party. To Digby’s relief, Baskerton offers to pop the cork, a task that has always reminded Digby all too vividly of his terrifying, short-lived career as a football place-kick holder.

  Plastic cups poured, Digby proposes a toast to Cogito and its hard-working staff, to the late Bonner Hastings and his courageous vision, to Bonner’s intelligent and warmhearted widow, and finally, for no reason that he can determine, to Rostislav Demidov, whose devotion to a priori truth has inspired them all. Digby intones this last bit as if he were delivering a eulogy, and everyone present, even Goldenfield, appear appropriately touched. That is when Felicia Hastings takes a short, aristocratic stroll to her late husband’s oak desk chair, seats herself, planting her Champagne glass on the desk, and says, “So, what do we have in mind for the next issue?”

  Everyone immediately take seats around her. Baskerton brings Madeleine’s desk chair to just inside the doorway and sits there. Digby, his accustomed chair taken, is left to setting himself down on the settee next to Goldenfield.

  “The philosophy of love,” Digby finally replies, his voice less steady than should be that of a man who is attempting to assert his authority.

  “And sex,” chimes in Madeleine.

  Felicia smiles and nods with a display of grace that makes Digby think of a Queen granting a reprieve of execution to a rogue who has just given the right answer to a tricky riddle put to him as his last chance for salvation.

  By God, I still have my job!

  “This is just off the top of my head,” offers June. “But what about a piece about Sappho’s love life? She apparently had a wild old time with Aphrodite on a visit to Olympus.”

  Before Digby can even think of a suitable response, he sees Felicia look over at Baskerton. A silent, lightning fast communication passes between them, and again Felicia gives with the regal nod.

  Or do I still have my job?

  This show is running, but not by Digby. Not by Elliot either, but that is small consolation. Felicia and her attorney are clearly in charge here. Digby has not a clue about what’s up, but he is now convinced this Queen has as many lives as Cleopatra.

  Elliot raises his hand and says, “I’m thinking of something from Nietzsche, the concept of über-love. The form of superior love between superior beings.”

  Again, there is a flash consult between Felicia and Baskerton, this time observed by everyone in the room who now look to her for her reaction. No regal nod comes forth. In spite of himself, Digby is pleased that Elliot has struck out, but there now seems little doubt that although Digby may still be the editor in name, the editor is now the Queen’s pawn. Digby experiences a brief rush of nostalgia for the good old days when LeFevre was calling the shots. At least LeFevre left Digby to his own devices while he was tying a noose around his neck.

  “Let’s take a week or two to think about ideas,” Felicia says. “Then we can have a lively discussion at our next meeting.”

  With perfect timing, Winny enters the office carrying a tray of piping hot spanakopita and goes directly to Felicia, offering her first dibs. Felicia chooses and bites. Digby takes this opportunity to present Felicia with the Cogito proofs. Baskerton rises and now stands behind her as she leafs through the pages. In a matter of seconds, they are both chuckling. All is looking good in Digby’s Heaven Issue.

  Now June rises and says she is sorry that she has to leave such a lovely party, but she has to attend a meeting of the newly inaugurated ‘Questioning’ Club. ‘Questioning’ is the ‘Q’ now appended to LGBT—Lesbian/Gay/Bisexual/Transgendered—and it applies to people questioning their sexual identity. Digby finds this ‘Q’ puzzling; it puts him in mind of the Red Hot Chili Pepper lyric, “If you have to ask/You’ll never know/Funky motherfucker.”

  “I’m sworn to secrecy,” June says gaily at the door. “But one of our new members comes to meetings in a varsity football shirt!”

  A few minutes later Goldenfield leaves glumly, mumbling something that no one hears, Madeleine returns to her office and the personal ads, and then Mrs. Hastings rises and, joined by Baskerton, starts for the door.

  “This was delightful, Maxwell,” she says, offering her hand. For a moment, Digby thinks he is being asked to kiss that hand, possibly on bended knee, but Felicia, sensing his awkwardness, now pats his shoulder with said hand. “Well done,” she says.

  Baskerton follows with another shoulder pat and then, with a nod and an air kiss, they are gone.

  “Well, I thought that went well,” says Winny.

  “I’m not so sure,” Digby replies, busying himself by gathering up the plastic glasses.

  “I wouldn’t bother about Felicia’s taking-charge act,” Winny says. “She just needed to get her
mojo back. It was a dignity thing. Not to worry, Digby.”

  It was only then that Digby noticed that Felicia and Baskerton had taken the page proofs with them.

  “What are you doing here, Digby?” Mary asks, getting out of her car in front of the Unitarian Church. It is just past eight in the evening.

  “Loitering,” Digby says.

  “With intent?” Mary laughs.

  “You don’t know the half of my intent,” Digby replies. It is meant as a witticism, but even as he utters these words he can hear their doloroso overtones. “Need any help with anything?”

  “I’m good,” she says, holding up a canvas bag, apparently the only luggage for her two-day round trip to Rockport.

  “So, have you eaten?” Digby asks.

  Jesus, if I sounded any needier she would hook me up to a leash and bring me to the Humane Society.

  “Actually, I—well, sure, I can always eat something,” Mary says.

  “Couscous?”

  “Sure.”

  ‘Sure’? Not ‘yes-yes’? The magic is definitely gone.

  Their conversation at the Moroccan’s is lively and warm, consisting mostly of Mary’s droll review of her nanny applicants, one of whom she guiltily rejected solely because she was the spitting image of Esme Cullen in the Twilight films. Digby tells her about the page proof party, making it sound more hilarious and far less disquieting than it actually was. They exchange plenty of happy looks, but no hands are extended across the table, not a single digit touches, not even a glancing brush of skin.

  On their way back to the church, after a thirty-plus year absence, the devil once again abruptly takes up residence inside Digby and he instructs him thusly, “Either you kiss this woman now or I will set you on fire,” or words to that effect. Digby tries to reason with him, but his arguments fall flat, not only to the devil, but to himself. Mary has been chatting animatedly about the wooden cradle she purchased for Reuben Jr. and, as they approach the church door, she is describing the hand-carved infinity symbol at the head of said cradle. This is when Digby, lips puckered and aimed, executes the devil’s bidding.

  Mary does not turn away, offering cheek in lieu of lips, but she might as well have. This kiss lacks resonance. In fact, to Digby it feels as responsive as smooching a lamb kabob. Satanic immolation would have been preferable.

  “I’m sorry, Digby,” Mary says. “I’ve got so much on my mind these days.”

  The devil is not forthcoming with any possible responses to this. Digby simply gazes at Mary looking far more forlorn than any self-respecting man in his forties should.

  “Please try to understand,” Mary says, then after a moment adds, “Hey, you’re my friend who doesn’t take everything so damned seriously, remember? I count on you for that. You’re the yang to my yin. My perspective.” With that, she gives Digby a quick hug and disappears inside the Universalist Unitarian Church of Louden.

  On his way home to Hastings Towers—betwixt parsing and reparsing every word Mary said, dwelling obsessively on her use of the word ‘friend’—Digby breaks into a bitter laugh. He has just remembered that in the back of his mind was the idea to ask Mary to join him on his trip to California for his daughter’s wedding.

  Ha, ha.

  CHAPTER 22

  “De Beauvoir notes that women may view physical love as a debasement of their feelings of self-worth and dignity, thus many resort to frigidity, while others will give in to their carnal instincts only after being reassured of their lover’s love for them. Yet, as De Beauvoir writes, 'in giving her pleasure, the man increases her attachment—he does not liberate her.’ ”

  Digby is reading his third consecutive critique of Simone de Beauvoir’s essay, “The Woman in Love,” in a window seat somewhere over Buffalo. De Beauvoir, considered by many the mother of modern feminist philosophy, apparently had affairs with fellow existentialist, Jean-Paul Sartre, he who frowned upon turning oneself into an 'object,’ and with Nelson Algren, he who frowned upon sleeping with anyone in possession of troubles worse than one’s own. Simone also indulged in some à trois action with J-P and various Parisian cuties. Quoth Jean-Paul to Simone early in their relationship, “What we have is an essential love; but it is a good idea for us also to experience contingent love affairs.”

  These are philosophers? To Digby, Sartre’s line sounds like a scumbag justifying his pigatude with some existential bafflegab.

  Digby’s in-flight library was assembled to coach him in the key concepts of the philosophy of love and sex so that he will be able to say something moderately knowledgeable at the upcoming staff meeting of Cogito. This seems like a particularly good idea because Felicia Hastings will be in attendance, and it may have inadvertently slipped her mind that in large part she originally chose Digby to be editor on the basis of his stunning ignorance of philosophy. But during Digby’s final California wedding pack-up, when he found that there was only room for so many books in his carryon, his selection narrowed down to philosophical texts on women’s love—or often, lack thereof—for men. Digby’s need for education on this subject is only partially job-related.

  The essays and reviews that Digby has read so far—most of them hybrids of moral philosophy and depth psychology—are gloomy bordering on grim. If the writers were not decrying the way men objectify women, they were crowing that the entire male enterprise is juvenile, dumb, and doomed to extinction. And in one article in Hypatia: The Journal of Feminist Philosophy, a learned professor pointed out that statistically women are more sexually excited by men who treat them roughly than by men who treat them with respect, so for the majority of women the concepts of love and sex are “distantly related at best.” Digby had to stop reading the article soon after that 'distantly related’ part. After a few minutes of heartfelt dread, he finally calmed himself by observing that Hypatia had even fewer ads than the old Cogito.

  Mary is on Digby’s mind. Relentlessly. The soundtrack for these thoughts is taken in its entirety from his father’s Magic of Love boxed set, most often from Nat King Cole’s rendition of “When I Fall in Love”—“When I fall in love, it will be forever/Or I’ll never fall in love.” Aristotle’s Law of the Excluded Middle in song.

  Digby is met at the door of his room at the Creekside Inn in Palo Alto by none other than the former Phil Winston and his wife, Digby’s former wife, Mrs. Fanny Weinstein. Someone, possibly the statistically minded groom, has assigned rooms by kinship connections, so Phil and Fanny have chambers across from Digby’s and they happen to be exiting theirs as he is about to enter his.

  “What a mitzvah!” Phil says, pumping Digby’s hand. Apparently along with his new old name, Phil has replaced his hipster-speak with Long Island Yiddish.

  “A mitzvah that certainly raises the bar,” Digby responds, hoping there is a Jewish joke hidden somewhere in his rejoinder. He has his magnetic key card in his other hand and is turning it about trying to figure which end is up.

  “Hello, Digby,” Fanny says with considerably less enthusiasm than her current husband evinced.

  “Hi,” Digby says brightly. “Congratulations!”

  “We got them to break the glass,” Phil says.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “The wineglass,” Phil says. “At the end of the service. Just as a gesture, you know. A recognition.”

  Considering that Sylvia, if anything, is half-Episcopalian and half-Catholic and that Ahmed is Muslim, Digby is not sure who is being recognized or why, although, come to think of it, it does seem likely that the gestured-to is the man who is footing the wedding bill.

  At the prenuptials dinner on the Creekside patio, Digby is seated next to the groom’s father, Dil Shad, a handsome fellow in his sixties with a full head of silky white hair. Not only does Dil Shad already know Digby’s name, but where he went to college and his current position as editor of a philosophy magazine in Vermont. Digby cannot help but wonder if Dil sprang for two hundred bucks to run his name through Sentry Link.

  “In Tehr
an, in-laws traditionally fight with each other,” Dil Shad says, smiling as he fills Digby’s wineglass with some Château Lafite. Dil then fills his own glass with a non-alcoholic beverage.

  “Well, I’m warning you—I fight dirty,” Digby says, clinking his glass with Dil Shad’s.

  Dil apparently finds Digby’s remark utterly hilarious; the Persian issues a full-body laugh that leaves him wiping away tears from his eyes. It would seem that the fathers-in-law-to-be have bonded.

  Later in the evening, after Digby has not only consumed several glasses of the Lafite, but a few of the second course wine, a Sauvignon Viognier, he leans over to Dil Shad and says, “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but we’re doing an issue of our magazine about the philosophy of love and sex, and I’m wondering what you can tell me about the relationship between the two in Persian philosophy.”

  Dil Shad appears affronted. “It is not our custom,” he says cryptically.

  Digby wisely decides to drop the subject.

  It is not until the break before dessert that Digby is finally able to spend a few relatively private moments with his daughter and her betrothed. They both appear aglow with love, possibly also aglow with sex. Sylvia has never looked so unguarded and content. Ahmed has his father’s handsome head, except with blue-black hair. Digby wonders if the family is some kind of Persian royalty.

  “We are so honored you could come,” Ahmed says, shaking Digby’s hand.

  Digby is so overcome with a strain of gratitude previously unfamiliar to him—thankfulness that this handsome young man has appeared in his daughter’s life—that he pulls Ahmed close and wraps his arms around him.

  “Dad!” Sylvie laughs. “You are something else.”

  Indeed, Digby does feel like something else: a normal, happy man thrilled to be at his only child’s wedding.