was a moment of silence, and then they both laughed at the same time, as if to cover the accidental moment of truth-telling.
Dennis left the party early, saying he had a touch football game in Central Park at the crack of dawn. None of the others could imagine getting up so early on a weekend, and especially not for something athletic. “A bunch of guys get together in the Sheep Meadow,” he’d explained. He turned to Robert Takahashi and said, “I hope your friend feels better soon.” Then, with a quick smile that was either general or, possibly, directed especially at Jules, he retreated downstairs to his own apartment.
As soon as he exited, Isadora began to talk about him. “‘A bunch of guys,’ isn’t that great?” she said. “I know he seems like he’s built out of simple parts—I don’t mean dumb parts, I just mean less fucked-up parts than we’re built out of. But the truth is more complicated. Yes, he’s totally regular, he plays touch football, he isn’t so needy all the time like we are.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Robert Takahashi.
“But actually he’s a depressive. He told me he fell into a real depression in the middle of his junior year at Rutgers, and basically had a breakdown. He stopped going to class and didn’t hand in any of his papers. By the time he got to Health Services he’d barely been to the dining hall in weeks—I mean, his card had gone unscanned—and he only ate ramen, without cooking it.”
“How can you eat ramen without cooking it?” asked Janine. “Do you even use water?”
“I have no idea, Janine,” Isadora said impatiently. “Health Services saw what shape he was in, and they called his parents. And then they arranged for him to take a medical leave and be put into a hospital.”
“A mental hospital?” Robert Takahashi asked. “Jesus.” A reverent, worried silence moved across the table, wavy like the air above the candles.
“Yes,” said Isadora. “It’s that same one where those poets used to go. Not that Dennis Boyd is a poet. Hardly,” she added, a little unnecessarily, Jules thought. “But they sent him all the way up there to New England because the Rutgers psychiatrist told his family that it had an unusually good adolescent unit. Plus, insurance covered it. After he recovered he went back to college and finished up, going to summer school and also taking extra classes. He didn’t do that well, but they let him graduate.”
“What hospital where those poets used to go?” Jules asked.
“You know. That famous one in the Berkshires,” said Isadora.
“Langton Hull?” Jules said with surprise. Dennis had actually lived at the Langton Hull Psychiatric Hospital, in Belknap, the same small town where Spirit-in-the-Woods was located.
Near the end of the evening, Isadora served espresso from a machine her parents had bought her, and which she had not figured out how to use very well. Finally she brandished the promised spliff, saying, “Here you go,
mon
,” in a so-called Jamaican accent, thrusting her head forward in chicken bobs as if to some inaudible reggae, and the thing was passed around the room. “Picture me in one of those weird knit Rasta hats with all my hair tucked inside,” Isadora said. “Picture me black
.”
Jules had done most of her pot smoking as a teenager, a lifetime’s worth. All that pot smoking in the 1970s had exhausted her, and the idea of getting high was unappealing now. She imagined herself talking too much, being loud and outgoing and almost a little obnoxious, and it all made her feel unclean and unhappy, so she barely breathed the smoke in, suspecting that neither did Robert Takahashi, who seemed to like the idea of staying lucid too. Only Janine and Isadora sucked at the big joint like it was a teat, laughing and making incomprehensible in-jokes about their shared burger-flipping past.
As she left the apartment, Jules ran into Dennis Boyd on the stairs, on his way to take his garbage out,
Dennis left the party early, saying he had a touch football game in Central Park at the crack of dawn. None of the others could imagine getting up so early on a weekend, and especially not for something athletic. “A bunch of guys get together in the Sheep Meadow,” he’d explained. He turned to Robert Takahashi and said, “I hope your friend feels better soon.” Then, with a quick smile that was either general or, possibly, directed especially at Jules, he retreated downstairs to his own apartment.
As soon as he exited, Isadora began to talk about him. “‘A bunch of guys,’ isn’t that great?” she said. “I know he seems like he’s built out of simple parts—I don’t mean dumb parts, I just mean less fucked-up parts than we’re built out of. But the truth is more complicated. Yes, he’s totally regular, he plays touch football, he isn’t so needy all the time like we are.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Robert Takahashi.
“But actually he’s a depressive. He told me he fell into a real depression in the middle of his junior year at Rutgers, and basically had a breakdown. He stopped going to class and didn’t hand in any of his papers. By the time he got to Health Services he’d barely been to the dining hall in weeks—I mean, his card had gone unscanned—and he only ate ramen, without cooking it.”
“How can you eat ramen without cooking it?” asked Janine. “Do you even use water?”
“I have no idea, Janine,” Isadora said impatiently. “Health Services saw what shape he was in, and they called his parents. And then they arranged for him to take a medical leave and be put into a hospital.”
“A mental hospital?” Robert Takahashi asked. “Jesus.” A reverent, worried silence moved across the table, wavy like the air above the candles.
“Yes,” said Isadora. “It’s that same one where those poets used to go. Not that Dennis Boyd is a poet. Hardly,” she added, a little unnecessarily, Jules thought. “But they sent him all the way up there to New England because the Rutgers psychiatrist told his family that it had an unusually good adolescent unit. Plus, insurance covered it. After he recovered he went back to college and finished up, going to summer school and also taking extra classes. He didn’t do that well, but they let him graduate.”
“What hospital where those poets used to go?” Jules asked.
“You know. That famous one in the Berkshires,” said Isadora.
“Langton Hull?” Jules said with surprise. Dennis had actually lived at the Langton Hull Psychiatric Hospital, in Belknap, the same small town where Spirit-in-the-Woods was located.
Near the end of the evening, Isadora served espresso from a machine her parents had bought her, and which she had not figured out how to use very well. Finally she brandished the promised spliff, saying, “Here you go,
mon
,” in a so-called Jamaican accent, thrusting her head forward in chicken bobs as if to some inaudible reggae, and the thing was passed around the room. “Picture me in one of those weird knit Rasta hats with all my hair tucked inside,” Isadora said. “Picture me black
.”
Jules had done most of her pot smoking as a teenager, a lifetime’s worth. All that pot smoking in the 1970s had exhausted her, and the idea of getting high was unappealing now. She imagined herself talking too much, being loud and outgoing and almost a little obnoxious, and it all made her feel unclean and unhappy, so she barely breathed the smoke in, suspecting that neither did Robert Takahashi, who seemed to like the idea of staying lucid too. Only Janine and Isadora sucked at the big joint like it was a teat, laughing and making incomprehensible in-jokes about their shared burger-flipping past.
As she left the apartment, Jules ran into Dennis Boyd on the stairs, on his way to take his garbage out,
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