Here’s a frustration with a one-way correspondence. The narrative doesn’t “unfold”: What you get is just a jumping status quo. Astonishing developments simply and smugly become How Things Are. Still, Trader spends a lot of ink on Jennifer around now, coaxing her out of the notion that nobody and nothing can be trusted. Sanity, or at least logic, returns. You can finish the stories:
The boyfriend, Hume, drops out for a time, and does some drugs. But he’s readmitted, and comes through civilized. He and Jennifer even manage an okay lunch.
Thickly sedated, Phyllida gets to graduate. Some collateral family member takes her in. References to her are frequent for a while. Then trail away.
And Mike Hoolihan recovers. It is approvingly noted that even someone with a background such as hers can eventually patch things together, with the right kind of understanding and support.
While Trader and Jennifer, of course, watch these heavy clouds pass over and cruise on up into their clear blue sky.
Now the bureaus and the filing cabinets and the endless, endless shite of citizenship, of existence. Bills and wills, deeds, leases, taxes—oh, man, the water torture of staying alive. That’s a good reason to end it. Confronted with all this, who wouldn’t want to rest and sleep?
Two hours on my knees brings me only two mild surprises. First: Trader, on top of everything else, is a man of independent means. I seem to remember that his daddy was big in the construction business during the Alaska boom. Here, anyway, is Trader’s modest portfolio—his bonds and shelters, his regular and generous donations to charity. Second: Jennifer never opened her bank statements. The fiercest-looking wallets of crap from the IRS lie wrenched open on her desk—but she never opened her bank statements. Here they all are, backed up from last November, and still sealed. Well, I soon rectify that. And find prudent outgoings plus a nice little sum on deposit. So why not read this good news? Then I get it. She never opened her statements because she never had to do anything about them. These were letters that needed no answer. That’s what you call a sufficiency. That’s putting dough in its proper place.
What to me feels the most intimate thing I have saved till last. Her worn leather handbag, left slung over the shoulder of a kitchen chair. This shoulder is like her shoulder, erect, wide-spanned, with the gentlest inward curve… Jesus, my bag, which I seem to spend half my life scrabbling around in, is like a town dump that’s gone through a car compactor. I’ve no idea what’s going on in there. Mice and mushrooms flourish among the fenders and spare tires. But Jennifer, naturally, traveled light, and fragrant. Boar’s bristle hairbrush, moisturizer, lip gloss, eyedrops, blush. Pen, purse, keys. Also, her datebook. And if what I’m looking for is a sense of an ending, then here I get it big-time.
I flick the pages. Jennifer wasn’t the kind of busybody who faced a thicket of commitments every waking hour. But for the first two months of the year there’s plenty happening—appointments, schedules, deadlines, reminders. And then on March second, the Friday, it all stops dead. There is nothing else for the whole year, except this, under March 23: “AD?” Which is tomorrow. Who or what is AD? Advertisement? Anno Domini? I don’t know—Alan Dershowitz?
Before I left, as I was closing the blue trunk, I took another look at Trader’s last letter. It was among the loose papers and photos yet to be gathered and organized, and it was dated February 17, this year. The postmark says Philadelphia, where Trader was attending a two-day conference on “The Mind and Physical Laws.” It’s almost embarrassing: I can hardly bring myself to quote from it. “Already the eastern side of every moment of mine is lit by you and the thought of tomorrow…”
I love you. I miss you. I love you. No. Jennifer Rockwell didn’t have a problem with this boyfriend. He’s perfect. He’s everything we all want. So what I’m thinking now is she must have had a problem with the other boyfriend.
Photograph on a bookcase. It’s graduation: Jennifer and three friends in gowns, all tall but bent with laughter. Laughing so hard they look fucked up on something. And the little crazy one, Phyllida, trapped in the frame, cowering in the corner of it.