The Body Of Jonah Boyd Read Free Page B

shared her obsession. Right
     out of college, Daphne had married Glenn Turner—principally, I think, because Glenn now had a position as an assistant professor
     at Wellspring, and therefore a shot at being able to buy the house. But then Glenn was turned down for tenure, and Daphne
     left him, landing on her mother’ doorstep with two small children in tow. Likewise Ben, for somewhat more obscure reasons,
     decided to return from New York to the family fold. The three of them, along with the two grandchildren, were living together
     in the house (only Mark—married now, and a lawyer in Toronto—had achieved any degree of independence) when Nancy arranged
     her famous meeting with the provost, the meeting at which he tried to explain to her, as calmly as possible, the university’
     position, the consensus that, were the rule in question ever to be changed, or an exception made, within a matter of years,
     nearly every house on Florizona Avenue would belong to the child of a professor, and there would be nowhere for the professors
     themselves to live. Worse, some of those children might decide to try to profit from the situation by selling their houses
     to “outsiders” of the sort who were even then colonizing the rest of the community. Prices would rise to such a level that
     no faculty member could afford to live on Florizona Avenue—an argument against which, like all the others, she stopped her ears. Her opinion was fixed and
     passionate: That house, for her, was more than a house; it was a spiritual inheritance, her children’ birthright. As she left
     the provost’ office, she swore that she would never give up. If need be, she would die fighting.
    After that she really got going. First she organized a petition drive, soliciting all her neighbors for support. Then she
     barraged the board of trustees with letters. Then she persuaded a reporter from the Wellspring Sentinel to do a story “exposing” a rule little known outside the university. Lastly, she threatened the administration with a lawsuit—all
     without success. The petition drive yielded only a few dozen signatures, the board of trustees rejected her arguments, the
     article in the Sentinel was buried near the back page, the lawsuit never got off the ground. By the time Nancy died, all her efforts had been exhausted—and
     yet, even in her final delirium, she could speak of little else besides the house. To comfort her, Ben lied. He told her that
     at the eleventh hour, the provost had given in, agreeing that the Wright children could take over the land lease. And she
     accepted what he told her, or at least pretended to, and seemed to die in peace. Teary-eyed yet stoic, Ben and Daphne now
     organized the estate sale during which much of their parents’ worldly chattel was sold and hauled off, including the Danish
     modern leather chair with the cat pee on it, and the piano, and the stuffed piranha. Dora was dead. I took Little Hans, who
     lived with me until his own death a few years later. Two law professors—a married couple—bought the house, and Ben and Daphne,
     each bearing a third of the considerable profits, went their separate ways. For years I didn’t hear from them. I didn’t know
     that they were still plotting. I didn’t know that, especially for Ben, the reclaiming of that house, the fulfillment of that
     final lie at his mother’ deathbed, had become the driving ambition of a frustrated and unhappy life.

Two
    N ANCY WRIGHT “FOUND” me, as she found so many of her friends, at the hairdresser’. This was in November 1967.1 suppose I should
     say something more about what I was like at that time. I was twenty-eight, and had been working at Wellspring for just over
     a year. I was fat, with freckled, vigorous cheeks, and most of the time I wore men’ Oxford shirts and denim skirts with elasticized
     waistbands. I still do. Perhaps because of this, most people assume me to be a sexless spinster, or short of that a