Peter arrived at the bookstore late. It was larger and more commercial than the venues where Jonathan had read in the past. The crowd was larger too, although its composition was the same: mostly postgraduate women who were mostly willowy, mostly with their dark hair loosely pulled back. One or two of them may have primped for this evening, which meant wearing new sandals and a discreet application of paint. It was June, so they were wearing filmy skirts or short skirts with tops that showed off their slender, downy arms; those who wore jeans looked really good in jeans and wore the same kinds of tops. There were also some older women in modish clothes but with heads of gray hair, coloring it being anathema to them. They kept up with the new books. A smattering of skinny, unkempt, unshaven young men lurked in the back, their sullen faces registering both envy and disgust. Later, at the bar downtown, they would snigger about how Speedwell truly did suck. There were no older males. Only Peter was wearing a suit.
At first glance, Jonathan himself might have seemed not very distinguishable from his rivals. His dark brown curls fell to his collar without discipline. He too had stubble. He wore a checked shirt over a T-shirt, just as they did. But there were differences. While Jonathan was on the tall side and certainly remained romantically thin, his outline was drawn with a thicker nib than that used for the others, for, unlike them, he had both been partaking of lobster ravioli at restaurants and spending hours each week at the gym. Jonathan’s hair, while tousled, was clean. His jeans were clean. He had clean hands and clean, trimmed fingernails. Indeed, he was certainly the only person in the room who ever received a manicure at the Waldorf-Astoria barbershop. His black shoes, seemingly unremarkable, were custom-made five-hole derbies, which of course he never wore two days in a row.
More than anything, though, what set Jonathan apart from the other young men in the room was his glorious beauty and the sweet light that surrounded him. Standing before the audience, Jonathan seemed like the most innocent creature of heaven, favoring this base world with a sojourn. His untended curls and blue eyes and fair skin with hints of pink all suggested a person of pure goodness. No snigger passed those delicate, crimson lips. What was most beautiful was that although he possessed such physical charms he appeared to have no knowledge of them. Artless and free! How painful it was then, considering all this, to realize that his work registered so acutely the harshness with which we so often repay love, the cruel deceptions that greet those who trust. Jonathan Speedwell, his readers knew, must feel all that very deeply. And yet, and yet, how much humor and strength were in his work! And in the man himself!
As Peter arrived, Jonathan was just finishing a story. Here is what he read:
It was cold. The sky was clear. Dogs growled and barked. The man next door kept three, tied up. A breeze, out of the south now, carried a faint, acrid odor from the plant. The rusty frame of a swing set, with no swings, stood near the fence. Typical Jake, to scavenge the frame and never find swings. At this time of year it was hard to believe that in a few months wildflowers would grow up around it. Dana tried to picture them, and to remember their names: pussytoes, Venus’s looking-glass, cocklebur. The sun rose higher in the bright azure sky. All of a sudden, Dana saw the crystals of frost on the grass glitter with reds and purples and yellows. It was as if the entire yard had been scattered with gemstones.
Dana shivered. She lit a cigarette. On the sofa in the double-wide, Jen was still asleep. Dana should wake her. Jen would say, “Mom, you’ve been smoking!” Dana would wait. She would finish her cigarette and she would wait awhile. This was something Jen didn’t have to know. There were so many things that she did.
Here Jonathan fell silent. He kept his head down, still staring at the book on the lectern. He tightened his lips. Then he looked up with a distracted, vulnerable expression. The inside tips of his eyebrows were raised, creating an ankh-shaped wrinkle in his brow. When the audience began to applaud, Jonathan lowered and raised his head again. Startled, pleased, humbled, embarrassed. Then he nodded his thanks, as a gray-haired woman stepped up to the lectern.
“Thank you, Jonathan. Thank you. That was just marvelous.” After a new crescendo, the applause died down. The woman spoke. “I’m sure many of you have questions for Jonathan. And goodness, the hour is drawing nigh, isn’t it? So I think, now, if Jonathan wouldn’t mind, we’ll open up the floor.”
“Certainly, Martha, thank you,” said Jonathan. A willowy young woman, but they were all willowy young women, raised her hand.
“Yes, right there,” said Jonathan.
“Hi, Jonathan,” she said. “Thanks. I’d just like to ask, what do you think about the environment?”
A question like this, both very heavy and inane, didn’t faze Jonathan for a second. “It’s incredibly important,” he replied in a solemn tone. “I get so angry when I think about what we’re doing to it. I wish my publisher would use recycled paper. There’s no reason that a tree should die for this.” He held up his book, prompting gentle, sympathetic laughter. “Well, they say that trees are one thing that are renewable. I try to do what I can. What I think is very important is … mindfulness … to have mindfulness about how we are treating our world. You know, there are poets who are known as nature poets, but to my mind, all writers are nature poets, and so have a special interest in protecting nature, and a special duty.” Applause.
There were a few more questions. “In your first novel, when Sam drowns in the drinking game, did that really happen?” “Where do you get the names for your characters?”
Jonathan called on another young woman. “Hi,” she said. She was dark-skinned and slight, and she wore a thin, peasanty blouse. “I just wanted to ask, you seem to be able to write about women so well, from their point of view. I wonder if you would tell us something about that?”
“Oh, that’s kind of you, very kind.” Jonathan smiled thoughtfully. “Let me think. I don’t really know what to say.” In truth, Jonathan had been asked this question at every reading he had ever given and in every interview. “If I’m able to get into the heads of women I guess it’s because women have always seemed so much more interesting to me than men, frankly. Women are more powerful, and I’m interested in power. So maybe I’ve watched women more carefully.” Jonathan paused. He looked down and swallowed. He seemed to be collecting himself. Then he spoke.
“But … but I guess there’s a simple explanation. It’s not something I usually mention, but something about tonight …” The heads of loosely gathered hair canted forward. “You see … my mother died when I was quite young.” Jonathan paused again, remembering. “In the last memory I have of her, we were at the shore and we were playing in the waves, and she was holding me.” He fell silent. The room was silent. The salt water, the sun, the smell of his mother’s suntan lotion, the feel of her body against his, the thrilling surf—everyone in the room believed that they were sharing Jonathan’s recollected sensations. “So of course I’ve spent my whole life trying to get her back and a lot of time trying to get close to women, studying them, trying to figure them out.” He laughed. “Trying to get them to love me!” The audience laughed, then sighed, then applauded.
Jonathan signed books for a while, chatting with members of his public. They said things to him that they had obviously been rehearsing in their minds. “Thank you for telling the truth.” Bashful Jonathan would reply, “Please—no. Well … thanks.” Peter hovered outside the eddy of admirers. Finally Jonathan had given his last humble smile, the smile of a servant unworthy of his mistress’s praise, and turned so that his eyes lit upon Peter, which prompted a different kind of smile. He signaled Peter over with a nod. Jonathan stood up and they shook hands.
“Hello, my friend,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”
Peter looked at him for a second.
“When did you get so green?”
“Me?” Jonathan said. “Why, I’ve always been that way! You remember—I drove that guy’s hybrid once.” Then he began to chuckle. His eyes narrowed and he grinned, pleased with himself.
“How did you like the thing about my mother?”
“I thought it was