Howard Norman - Next Life Might Be Kinder

“There’s no movie writing like that anymore,” I said. I sat on the end of the bed. “Do you wish you had a girlfriend like Myrna Loy to talk things over with?”

“Are you worried about me, Sam?”

“No, of course I’m not worried about you, Lizzy.”

“Do you think I need a best girlfriend? Are you worried I’m lonely for friends or something?”

“Not at all.”

“Probably you are, which is sweet. I’ve got Marie Ligget. But if I can’t have Myrna Loy, I’ll go it mainly alone.”

FOR SOME REASON, this morning I woke thinking about what a serious scholar Elizabeth had become. Introspective, funny and teasing, and naturally elegant, my wife. She could not always say why The Victorian Chaise-Longue struck such deep chords, and kept striking them with every new reading. She knew the book wasn’t great literature (“Marghanita’s no George Eliot, I know that”), but it filled her imagination like great literature, and that was enough. And Elizabeth didn’t suffer any illusions. “In some ways, writing a dissertation is like making a point that doesn’t really have to be made,” she said. “But it’s required just to move on in the academic world I’m wanting to be part of. It’s pretty straightforward. In this thing I’m writing, I guess I’m trying to say something about the provocative nature of certain so-called minor writers, Marghanita Laski in particular. I’m really into literary obsession. So this dissertation, it’s trying to include stuff about what it’s like to read a single book over and over and over again. Like the zillion times I’ve read The Victorian Chaise-Longue. And in the end I have no idea if my professors are going to accept it. Yesterday I had a kind of panic attack about this. Today it’s better. Seesaw. Seesaw. Seesaw. And I guess there’s nothing to be done about it except finish the goddamn thing and see what happens.”

“What might most please Marghanita Laski? You said you keep asking yourself that.”

“But my point is, I can’t expect special dispensation just because I have this personal way of writing. Just because I’m demonstrating my passion for The Victorian Chaise-Longue. I’ve pretty much lied to my professors—”

“Come on, not really.”

“Yes, Samuel, I’ve pretty much lied to them. My proposal implies I’m writing about Marghanita Laski in a way that people write a traditional dissertation, but I’m really not. On top of that, I used some of my stipend for intermediate lindy lessons, for goodness sake!”

“Don’t forget crème brûlée two times last week for dessert in restaurants.”

“I don’t keep a secret crème brûlée bank account at the ready. Dessert comes out of petty cash, eh?”

So there were pressures. Elizabeth often felt, as she said, “put under the gun” (unfortunate phrase, painful to write). Every doctoral candidate in her program was required to do a fifteen-minute presentation, designed to be a kind of in-progress report, and to some extent was supposed to demonstrate a sense of discovery, as if to prove that scholarship was by definition full of surprises. There again, when Elizabeth’s turn came around, she felt she had to fake it somewhat, because the surprises she experienced in writing about Marghanita Laski and The Victorian Chaise-Longue were more of a personal rather than an academic nature: how, through the writing, she was coming to a knowledge of herself, just as someone living a life. “But you know what?” she said. “Here’s the reward I’m giving myself when this is over and done with. We’re going to Hay-on-Wye and let my mum feed us for a week. We can walk to all the castle ruins in the area, just like tourists. I can show you my favorite makeout spots. I had potential makeout spots all mapped out at age fourteen. Some of them were quite near castles. It was more dramatic that way. I wanted my makeout sessions to be historical. Too bad I never got to use my map. Oh, except that one time.”

Two or three days ago, as I neared completion in the organizing of her papers, I discovered Elizabeth’s presentation. It was titled “Marghanita Laski as a Third Person in My House,” and I read it straight through. I remember she had asked me to sit in the back row of the lecture hall. She started off with great confidence. After a two-paragraph summary of the plot of The Victorian Chaise-Longue, Elizabeth did a close reading of three passages. Then, after glancing nervously at Professor Auchard, and losing her place in her neatly typed pages, but quickly gaining it back, she delved into the more subjective (her word) aspects of working on her dissertation. At one point she provided an anecdote that illustrated what it was like to live in a small apartment with a husband and an outsize cat. Elizabeth said our cat was plump, that Maximus Minimum “practiced accusatory stares.” She went on to say, “For months and months I’ve been in this intellectual but also erotic conversation among three women. Me, Marghanita, and the fictional character Melanie.” When she uttered the word “erotic,” laughter could be heard here and there in the audience. Marie Ligget, who sat at the end of the front row, turned and looked back at me, smiling a tight, knowing smile and nodding her head in an exaggerated fashion. When Elizabeth’s presentation had ended, Marie, on her way out of the lecture hall, stopped, leaned down, and whispered, “No wonder Lizzy reads that book all the time.”

It was dark out when Elizabeth and I left the hall. On the street, she said, “That went pretty well, I think. But I definitely noticed a puzzled look on Professor Auchard’s face. Except that’s his natural look all the time, so it’s probably okay. Maybe.” Pub-hopping, we both got very drunk that night and ended up at Cyrano’s. Marie Ligget was working the late shift, and, as there were few other customers, she sat with us for a while. “So, Lizzy,” Marie said, “if I buy a copy of your favorite novel, will you underline the parts that work best for you? You know, work best. ” She made an obscene gesture, then got all serious and said, “You were great. You’re so smart, Lizzy. I was really impressed.”

“It meant a lot to me that you were there, Marie.”

“So, want to hear my grievances or what?” Marie said.

“Yes, we do!” Elizabeth said. Marie, with great flair and with no holds barred, proceeded to work her way through (1) her “stupid” boyfriend; (2) her stupid boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend, whom she suspected might not be ex; (3) her boss, whom she called a “complete dunderhead.” And then she hypothesized that the reason she was so upset at her boyfriend was not because she was convinced he was still sleeping with his ex, but because the ex, according to Marie’s boyfriend, had taught him so much about sex, so that deep down Marie was grateful to her. “See what I mean when I say it’s complicated?” Marie asked. “Like, for instance, the other night—”

“Don’t get too graphic on us, Marie, please,” Elizabeth said.

“Oh, get off it, Lizzy. You don’t keep secrets from me. You told me that Victorian chaise longue is the place you love most to fuck your husband — that means you, Sam. Even more than the bed. Remember telling me that?”

“You never told me that, Elizabeth,” I said, laughing. “Maybe we should move the chaise longue into the bedroom and put the bed—”

“No, Sam, you idiot,” Marie said. “The whole good idea is that it isn’t in the bedroom. The bedroom is where fucking is supposed to happen. Whereas fucking on the chaise longue in the living room has nothing to do with ‘supposed to.’ Think about it.”

“Marie!” Elizabeth said, taking such pleasure in her friend but acting all huffy.