by Seth Lerer
SETH LERER is dean of arts and humanities at the University of California, San Diego. He is the author of many books, including the National Book Critics Circle Award–winning Children’s Literature: A Reader’s History, from Aesop to Harry Potter, also published by the University of Chicago Press.
The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637
The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London
© 2013 by The University of Chicago
All rights reserved. Published 2013.
Printed in the United States of America
22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 1 2 3 4 5
ISBN-13: 978-0-226-01441-8 (cloth)
ISBN-13: 978-0-226-01455-5 (e-book)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lerer, Seth, 1955–
Prospero’s son : life, books, love, and theater / Seth Lerer.
pages. cm.
ISBN 978-0-226-01441-8 (cloth : alk. paper)
ISBN 978-0-226-01455-5 (e-book)
1. Lerer, Seth, 1955– —Family. 2. English teachers—United States—Biography. I. Title.
PR55.L47A3 2013
801'.95092—dc23
[B]
2012045004
This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).
PROSPERO’S SON
Life, Books, Love, and Theater
Seth Lerer
THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS
Chicago & London
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE. First Love
ONE. Rough Magic
TWO. The Abduction from the Seraglio
THREE. Enter Tubal
FOUR. Blithe Spirits
FIVE. Vaseline University
SIX. Iceland
SEVEN. Upriver
EIGHT. Kaddish
NINE. Lithium Dreams
TEN. Beauty and the Beast
EPILOGUE. The Soldier’s Tale
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
First Love
The autumn I turned fourteen, I came down with whooping cough. Like everybody of my generation, I was vaccinated as a child, and by the late 1960s incidences of the illness had been reduced to one in a hundred thousand. But as ninth grade began, I found myself uncontrollably wheezing after what seemed like a mild cold. Half a dozen deep coughs would come, followed by a grip across my chest that stopped my breathing. I’d stand up, gasping for breath, the air coming in through my tightened throat with a high-pitched whoop. And then I breathed again.
It’s not as if I’d been a sickly child: no chronic illnesses, no months in bed, no frail, fantasy-ridden birthdays. All I remember is that from about the age of six till the time I was twelve, I always had a cold. Days would go by when I would sniffle, blow, and watch packs of handkerchiefs fill with sticky green snot. “If you sniffle one more time I’ll cut your nose off,” I remember my father blurting out once in the car. When I was seven, I was taken to a doctor who drained my sinuses with a pneumatic syringe, and I sat in his office chair, watching a glass jar fill with bubbling mucus. I read and sniffled my way into adolescence. Propped up in bed, I’d reach for a tissue as often as I’d turn a page. Finally, at twelve, I had my adenoids removed, an awful hospital procedure that left me bleeding from the throat for days and eating only Jell-O for a week. One day after my operation, when we were in a store, I coughed up some blood. A blob of dark, congealing goo stared up from the store’s carpet, and as we hustled out the door my mother said, “Well, that’s the last time I can go to Loehmann’s.”
Mom took her anger out on me, but she may have been angrier with my father. Just a year before, he had uprooted us to follow his ambition. Some men dream of being firemen or doctors or air aces. My Dad dreamed of being a high school principal. A dozen years of New York City classroom history teaching and low-level junior high administration weren’t paying off, and so at thirty-nine he had applied and, miraculously, been accepted into Harvard’s Graduate School of Education. Now, he could be “Dr. Lerer” and lead one of the great high schools that made Brooklyn famous: Midwood, or even Erasmus.
In 1965, when I was ten, we moved from Brooklyn into a little house near Cambridge, where I grew strawberries in the backyard and read science fiction in my room. The first day of school, Dad was sent home because he wore a sports shirt to class. “Mr. Lerer, all my students wear jackets and ties,” he reported his professor saying. The Harvard Club was serving horse meat in mushroom sauce on Fridays. Radcliffe girls wore tartan skirts with their hair in buns. And I was reading Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, Yevgeny Zamyatin’s We, and George Orwell’s 1984, imagining myself a hero in the future, with clean sinuses, while Dad went out and bought a dozen white shirts and a clutch of skinny dark ties. He smoked, I sniffled, and I watched him read and study all the books that would define the social science of the 1960s: Daniel Moynihan and Gunnar Myrdal on race, Staughton Lynd on class. I scanned his bookshelf: H. R. Hays, From Ape to Angel; Edgar Friedenberg, The Dignity of Youth and Other Atavisms. I had no idea what an atavism was, but I knew I had little dignity. And though I never dared open From Ape to Angel, I imagined it a book of evolutionary science fiction on a par with Huxley—creatures captured by ambitious scientists, placed in some marvelous machine, and transformed into ethereal beauties.
Two years later, despite his Harvard EdD, Dad had still not been transformed from ape to angel. There we were at graduation, with the mayor coming in on horseback and everyone in caps and gowns, looking like characters out of a medieval missal. Commencement 1967: Leonard Bernstein and William F. Buckley received honorary doctorates; ancient alumni strode by with straw boaters, each festooned with a crimson ribbon giving the wearer’s class year. One such alumnus, nearly blind, came up to Dad after the ceremony and said, “Excuse me, young man, but can you tell me how to get to Adams House, where I used to take my meals.” He had 1887 on his ribbon.
That day I decided I would spend my life in college. I read everything I could that summer, opened and closed the local public library, started the new school year charged with a desire to excel. But no white shirts could change my Dad, and eighteen months after receiving his degree, he came home to announce that we were moving. No school would have him as a principal, no system as a superintendent. Desperate, he had taken a job as a management consultant in Pittsburgh at a firm that, he told us years later, then existed only in the briefcase of the man who interviewed him. He had bought a seven-bedroom stone house in the suburbs, and we were all going to drive there after Christmas. Almost overnight, we disappeared—everything packed, the house sold, friends gone. It was as if we had entered the witness protection program. All I managed to keep were my books and a pair of paisley hip-hugger bell-bottoms I’d bought at Truc on Brattle Street—a shop that opened shortly after Yellow Submarine debuted at the movies.
And so, in the fall of ninth grade, when my nose and throat flared up, it was the big stone house in Pittsburgh that rattled with my whooping. I missed forty days of school. Friends would bring homework over to the house, and I would dutifully keep up with classes, anxious to return. There was a group of three or four girls whom I liked, and before I got sick we would spend our afternoons in the school library, flirting and talking about books, friends, and teachers. During my time at home, one or more of them would show up with the assignments and papers, coyly chatting with my mother at the door, never daring to come into the house and see how I was doing.
One day, I got a stack of readings from one of those girls. Her name was Anne, and she had brilliant red hair, which she kept in place with an Indian headband. With that, her granny glasses, and her b
oots, she looked like a sweeter version of the girl with Richard Brautigan on the cover of his novel Trout Fishing in America, which we all were reading at the time.
Anne left a stack of books along with copies of the student newspaper, and I went downstairs, after she had left, to pick them up. As I read through the newspapers, I noticed that along the margins, between the lines, and in the large indents for paragraphs, Anne had written, in a tiny, mechanical-penciled hand, “I love you.”
I love you was everywhere. It filled the pages up and down until hardly a white space was visible. I sat there in bed, poring over her scribbles, again and again. Just seeing those words had a magical, incantatory effect. Reading them over and over was like a talking cure, a formula, as if she were truly wishing me well.
It’s hard to remember a time before cell phones, e-mail, and text messaging. We had one phone in the house, and it would never have occurred to me to come downstairs and call her, even if I had had her number. What if her parents answered? What if my parents heard me calling? Instead, I pulled the big white pages out of the closet, found her last name in a column of adults, initials, and numbers, and tore it out. At night, I’d pull the page out from under the mattress, where I hid it, and just read down the initials and the numbers, trying to imagine which one she belonged to, where she lived, and what her parents did.
Weeks later, when I was better, I returned to school, and on an early afternoon in November I found her waiting for the bus. I got on with her and we talked all the way to her stop, where she got out and walked home, and I stayed on until the bus made its entire loop and took me back to school, where I got out and then walked home, an hour late for dinner.
We soon became inseparable. We held hands in the cafeteria, walked to classes, kissed in stairwells. I finally went over to her house to meet her parents, a dour couple, older than my own. Her father worked for US Steel and wore rimless glasses and a dark green hat. Sitting in their living room, still in his suit jacket from the day’s work, he looked like John Foster Dulles, presiding over some domestic détente, a relic of the Eisenhower years trapped in the autumn of Abbey Road. My only memory of her mother is of the time she turned to me, almost out of nowhere, repeated my name twice, as if it were a Martian’s, and said, “What kind of name is that?”
Anne made me chocolate cakes in her mother’s kitchen. She knitted me scarves and gloves. Some afternoons, we sat together on the couch, an afghan covering us, while her father read aloud from The Education of Henry Adams, and she touched my crotch. Some nights, I’d stay for dinner, and we’d watch the war on television, her father silently fuming. I knew better than to say anything, having already been sent home once from school for wearing a black armband in protest (I was sent home two other times: once, for wearing my Cambridge bell-bottoms, deemed inappropriate attire by the homeroom teacher; the other time, for bringing a copy of Portnoy’s Complaint to read in study hall). I passed the fall of 1969 at another family’s dinner table, letting my hair grow to my collar, watching Walter Cronkite and listening to Henry Adams.
By March, Henry Adams had left for England with his father. Prince Sihanouk had been deposed in a Cambodian coup. My hair grew as long as Anne’s. And when I showed up after school one day, there was her older sister, sitting at the piano, playing Bach’s Prelude in D Major from the first book of The Well-Tempered Clavier, and smoking a cigarette. I didn’t even know there was a sister. Twenty, tall, she was as strikingly beautiful as Anne was sweetly plain. The house was electric with anger, John Foster Dulles on the phone, talking as if he were renegotiating the Suez treaty. Sister was back, dropped out of college, ready to marry her boyfriend and expecting the family to cover it.
The wedding was in April, and for the occasion I went out and bought a blue blazer with lapels wide as 1950s car fins, red-and-white-striped bell-bottoms, and a blue knit tie so fat I hardly had to worry about buttoning my shirt. The groom showed up with blond hair down his back and a collection of college buddies strangely reticent to mingle. His own parents were Ohio people—“We’re Ohio people,” they said, in a way that was supposed to sound meaningfully self-explanatory, like saying, “We’re vegetarians.” The hippies and the homespun mingled in the Methodist church, and Anne’s father gave her sister away with a look on his face like he was passing a stone.
I was the youngest person there, and as I sat in the pew with Anne all I could think of was her father reading Henry Adams. “As far as outward bearing went,” wrote Adams in an early chapter, “such a family of turbulent children, given free rein by their parents, or indifferent to check, should have come to more or less grief.” Anne’s father must have read these words, must have recited them to us, convinced that, in the end, his own would grow up much like Henry’s family, “to be decent citizens.”
But they did not. The sister and her husband were escaping to Canada, his ushers standing at the ready to drive them all night along the highway to the border. He was avoiding the draft. She was three months pregnant. But at the wedding, we all danced to Let It Be on the hi-fi, hugged during “Two of Us,” kissed during “Across the Universe.” I looked at Anne, listening to the words “nothing’s gonna change my world,” and thought that everything would stay just like it was. And then, when “The Long and Winding Road” came on, I could see in her sister’s eyes a sadness of such depth as I’d never seen in anyone. “The profoundest lessons,” Henry Adams wrote, “are not the lessons of reason; they are sudden strains that permanently warp the mind.”
That night, we sat on the unswept rice. Sister and new husband were gone; parents had returned home. We looked up at the stars and I saw them all as messages in bottles, washing up on our illicit shore. Anne took my hand and whispered in my ear, although no one else was there.
“I know what to do, now. She told me all about it, told me it would be fine.”
“Told you what?”
“You know,” Anne said, splaying her fingers on my lap.
Two days later, we went out to an open field after school. Even though it was May, the ground was still stubbly with the broken stalks of last fall’s grasses, and the new growth hadn’t come up far enough to soften the ground. She brought a blanket, and we made our bed over the stubble, lying side by side for nearly half an hour before we touched. Her eyes were closed the whole time, and I looked at her red hair as it crinkled and crept into the grasses by the blanket’s edge. I touched her, and before I could turn that touch to a caress, she had her jeans off and her arms around me, pushing me into her. Everything then came off, I found her, and almost before we started it was over.
I looked down and we both were covered in blood. At first I thought it was mine, but then I realized that maybe this is what happened to a girl the first time. Then I realized that my mother would see blood on my underwear when she washed it. What was it, what had happened? She would sit me down under the kitchen lights like a prisoner of war and grill me till I broke. She’d beat her open palm against her forehead, as if I had violated her.
Anne shook me out of this rictus of remorse, bunched up my underwear, cleaned all of the blood off my legs, then hers, and threw the evidence into a ditch.
“Just go home in your jeans, walk in like nothing happened, and, if it’s that important to you, get another pair of underwear on as soon as you can.”
By this point, I was running only on my autonomic nervous system. Henry Adams and the Beatles had passed far out of my mind, and I was living in Portnoy’s Complaint. All the titillations of Philip Roth’s book had now morphed into terror. “Tell me please,” I heard my mother saying, just like Alex Portnoy’s, “what horrible things we have done to you all our lives that this should be our reward?” It’s nothing, Mom. Just a little blood. “Nothing? Nothing?” she would repeat over and over again, and I sat there in the grass imagining her fit and remembering how I had coughed up blood at Loehmann’s. And then, before I knew it, I was back home sitting in my dirty jeans at the dinner table, eating iceberg lettuce with Gr
een Goddess dressing.
A week or so later, my parents announced that the whole family, including my eleven-year-old brother, was going to Europe for the summer. Dad had a friend when he was teaching in New York who had a ritual when he returned from vacation. “What did you see?” you were supposed to ask, and he would say, “Everything.” “How did you go?” And he would pronounce, “First class.” We flew to Paris, coach, from New York and arrived after midnight, Paris time. My mother had a little high school French, and when we got into the taxi at the airport, she announced the address of our hotel in a perfect, high school accent: soixante-huit Rue des Martyrs. The cabbie turned around and looked this middle-class American family up and down in disbelief. Thinking she had not said the address correctly, she gave him the letter from the Pittsburgh travel agent who had arranged our hotel stay. He shrugged his shoulders and drove us on.
Our hotel was just off the Place Pigalle, the heart of the hooker district. Even in 1970, there were prostitutes everywhere. Rouged and high-heeled, they patrolled the streets as if they had just reclaimed Paris from the German occupation. We lugged our bags up to the room and, without unpacking, fell asleep.
“The world,” wrote Henry Adams, “contains no other spot than Paris where education can be pursued from every side.” Would I be farmed out to a hooker, returning home to Anne with newfound skills? I couldn’t get her father’s voice out of my ears. It drowned out the street sounds, and I fell asleep hearing his drone. “The amusements of youth had to be abandoned,” he would read, transforming Adams’s easy irony into an injunction. But even the half-dream of Henry Adams couldn’t keep me from the hotel window when a violent crash pulled us from sleep. I saw two cars, crumpled like concertinas, their windshields splattered across their hoods, and the two drivers, seemingly unhurt, screaming at each other. They yelled in something far beyond my mother’s high school French for almost half an hour. Then, anger spent, they climbed back into their cars and drove away, each crumpled chassis creaking back and forth like a circus prop.