And Sons. David Gilbert
led me upstairs to my room. What with the late hour and with A. N. Dyer locked away in his study, my gothic mind imagined her ascending those steps with a torch in hand. I recalled the second-floor hallway as being chockablock with family photos, thanks to Isabel and her ever-present camera: Richard and Jamie hung salon-style, babies, teenagers, toddlers, on vacation, during holidays, the summers on the beach, the winters on the slopes, Andrew and Isabel making their rare appearance, Andrew always posing like his author’s photo, as if he had only one look to give. I even had a place up there, posing with Jamie at our Exeter graduation, the two of us buddied together without conviction. Between the tremor of my smile, the fire of my acne, the tidal wave of my hair, I resembled the Lisbon earthquake, whereas Jamie was Candide. But I was touched to be included. Or once included. Only their silhouettes remained. Isabel must’ve taken them.
I asked if Andy was here.
“No,” Gerd said, sounding pained, “he’s met a girl.”
“I think I’ve met this girl. Jeanie Something,” though I knew Spokes.
“She’s older,” Gerd mentioned.
“I know.”
“Not sure if I trust her.”
“Luckily Andy’s not looking to invest money with her.”
Gerd stopped in front of Richard’s old room. “I hope this is all right.”
It was scrubbed of all things Richard except for the bureau, which was almost entirely spackled in Wacky Pack stickers. I gently recalled the era of Crust Tooth Paste and Rinkled Wrap Aluminum Fool. It was like a piece of folk art.
“This used to be my room,” Gerd told me, “before Andy got older. He had terrible night terrors as a boy. Wake up shrieking and I’d have to run in and try to settle him down. He also sleepwalked, or crawled, like he was looking for something, something tiny but important, like a screw. He still does that, rarely now, thank goodness, but if you see him on his hands and knees just guide him back toward his room.” As she talked, Gerd struck me as someone too accustomed to the whims of man, like Eve if she had arrived in Eden first and formed Adam from her own rib, but after a few weeks Adam abandoned her, and so she offered up another rib, without condition, and soon enough this second Adam disappeared as well, and so another rib was plucked and she stooped a little bit further hoping this one might take. She asked if I needed help unpacking.
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Well, good night then,” she said, tugging at her fingers.
I know some biographers—actually just one in particular and hardly a biographer but rather an opportunist who has spun herself intimate with this tale, which, while technically true, is true in the way the evidence of wind can be gathered by its effect on trees without ever stepping outside and feeling its force against your cheek, yet this person, watching from her closed window, wants you to imagine Gerd Sanning and A. N. Dyer intertwined in storm and stress, all because they lived under the same roof for all those years. But Gerd Sanning was no concubine. Her part in this tale is a hundred times more interesting.
After squaring away my clothes, I washed up and peeked into Jamie’s old room. Most of the furniture was gone, replaced by cardboard file boxes piled high and arranged with an almost Stonehengean precision, as if on certain days the afternoon sunlight explained their meaning. While I was curious what was inside—there must have been fifty of them—I refrained from looking, but I did notice a specific year written on the side of each, the years stretching over six decades. I turned off the lights. I noticed that those glow-in-the-dark stars were still stuck to the ceiling, its Milky Way spelling FUCK YOU.
I went downstairs under the guise of a drink of water. The kitchen was one of those New York kitchens that predate the use of stainless steel and marble, and seem, in their lapsed luxury, almost quaint, as if a butter churn could have been in the corner. I opened a cabinet and found a glass, opened the fridge and found a pitcher, poured, and as I performed this basic task I suffered a brief but intense moment of crisis, puzzling over what I was doing here and what I had done, panging for my wife and kids, mourning for my father and his long-drawn-out death, missing my mother, cringing over Bea, absurd Bea, my huge screw-up, in general indulging in a wave of hopelessness and helplessness, the everythinglessness of my current existence. I thought about calling a friend, but it was late and being separated from my wife I suddenly realized my woeful lack of social connections. It was a pitiful drink of water.
As I stepped back into the vestibule an inevitable force drew me down the short hall toward the closed door. I could hear the typewriter going, the keys never pausing, like how writers write in the movies, typing and typing, never napping between sentences, or staring at their own faces in the mirror, or picking up random books and reading random passages, feeling briefly inspired and then mortally defeated. The temptation to knock was undone when I touched the door and sensed the heat of my own infatuation. Step away, Philip, the great man knows you’re here, and obviously he has no desire to greet you. Either way I had no problem being the eavesdropper, imagining in that persistent clatter the opening lines to Ampersand:
An alarm sounded, shrill and insistent, and we boys of Moulder rushed from our rooms for the nearest exit and once outside lined up as a rank shadow of our dormed self. Some had smudged burnt cork on their faces though they didn’t extend the theatrics by coughing. Absolute silence was the rule. Others, athletes mostly, imagined themselves caught mid-shower and emerged fully lathered and covered in just a towel. Newbies were forced to brave the outdoors in skivvies alone. As always, a few glum students recused themselves from all comedy. I myself wore my father’s WWII gasmask, a prized possession rarely employed for its original use. Then there were Stimpson, Harfield, Matthews, and Rogin, our prefects, their names already incorporated into Shearing legend. They stood at attention in front of their command with smoke billowing from their blazers. They were men on fire if fire were the most casual of elements. I remember thinking those smoke bombs in their pockets would ruin their clothes, and I think that’s what impressed us most, their absolute dedication. Willetts the dorm master called roll. He refused to acknowledge the joke, as he did every year, a sign of his high good humor, and with all present and accounted for, he dismissed us with a limp salute. Thus ended the first fire drill of the school year.
I heard my name and for a moment wondered if A. N. Dyer had set an elaborate trap to catch me spying. I turned. It was just Andy home for the night. “I didn’t know if I should interrupt,” I tried to explain.
“He wouldn’t hear you anyway,” he said, grabbing at his pants like an overgrown toddler.
“Oh.”
“So you’re actually staying?”
“Not for long.”
“Like upstairs?”
“You’ll hardly know I’m there.”
I followed him back into the main entry. His shirttail was untucked in a sort of a preppy mullet, and I wanted to reach forward and give his shoulders an affectionate squeeze, like any old teacher or family friend, to break through the distance and reconfirm our shared past. But his posture did not invite easy companionship. He seemed a veteran of—I don’t know, adolescence, I suppose, which like all wars is particular to the combatant. I was closest with Andy when he was in my class, a sincere boy filled with nervous tics, always fiddling his fingers, always squinting even though he had perfect vision. Can you see this? I was always asking him. For most of fifth grade his number-one priority was learning how to juggle, which he did to stunning effect, thanks in part to my encouragement (I bought him these special beanbag balls). His blend of awkward grace and extroverted shyness led you to believe he might have a career in mime. As a teacher I was perhaps guilty of favoring him over the others. I gave him extra help and provided him with those spiral notebooks made for lefties and in general took on the role of father figure, since I knew his own father was not in tune with normal boyhood concerns. In some ways I was his best friend. Then he moved on to sixth grade and fell in love with Mrs. Hawes. They all fall in love with Mrs. Hawes.
“Did you really get fired from Buckley? I mean that’s what I heard tonight.”