the four years before this president came into office, who was pres—”
I’m really pissed off by his presumption of my ignorance. One of Poppa’s snide jokes comes into my head, and I say, “George Bush and before him Bing Crosby.” Some sort of awful singer, that’s all I know about him, but the reaction is spectacular. I hear this wheezing gasp, then a gulping snort.
“You’re joking,” the voice says weakly.
“It’s Poppa’s joke, not mine, but he says the real thing was just as silly.”
Very patiently, the voice says, “And who was that, dear?”
“You know as well as I do,” I snap. “Ronald Reagan, and what the hell is all this about?”
“Crosby,” he says. “Movies. Reagan. Wasn’t he in cowboy films? I really can’t....” He sounds as if he is struggling with a hairball. “Thank you, Jenny. Here’s the final question. I’d like you please not to hang up anyway, after you’ve told me this, but even if you do decide to, give me the answer first. Okay?”
“Fire away,” I say. I am getting pretty bored, and Madeleine has gone back inside my bedroom and turned the sound up and she’s dancing her disco aerobic steps, and I know Poppa will be out any minute to shout at us. I can do without that, because I want no trouble fouling up my date with David in a few hours.
“Was Kennedy or Nixon the President of the USA?”
“That’s the question?”
“Yes. Do you want to hear it again?”
“No. What a dumb-ass question. Is this a trick or what?”
He sounds terribly worried and baffled. “No, Jenny, this is not a trick question. Just tell me, which one was president? Have you ever heard of John Fitzgerald Kennedy and Richard M. Nixon, the presidential candidates in—”
“You’re driving me crazy,” I say. “Of course I’ve heard of them. In fact I did a social-ethics essay on them last term, ‘Camelot and Watergate, a comparison.’”
“Camelot and— Fascinating. My God. Apollo, Camelot, I feel as if I’d fallen into a mythological— Look, Jenny, if you did an essay on them, then think back carefully to this one point. Which one of them became President?” A sort of screech gets into his voice.
“Which one? Which one? What do you mean, which one?” I shout at him. “Both of them did. They were both President, you dumbo,” and I hang up in his ear, hard.
SATURDAY, 8 APRIL, EVENING
In the middle of all this bizarre stuff, I start getting cramps. Oh great. Maddy’s upstairs and I’m feeling weird and uncomfortable but I don’t really feel like talking about it to her. Perfect timing for a romantic night with Davy. I was a late starter, Maddy’s been getting periods since she was twelve, and it always gives me a lot more trouble than she ever has. Just what you need for a really terrific mood on a night in front of the video. Not that I have any intention of—
So I’m in the bathroom off the hallway when the doorbell buzzes. It could be anyone but since Maddy is already here and bopping around upstairs I know it just has to be David. The only time in his life he’s ever been on time. We have one of those once-trendy 1970s’ lavatories with pine slats in the door, not that you see in or anything but everyone can hear a good fart if you let rip, not to mention a good plop, and if everyone’s halfway through their wine and coq au vin down the hallway in the dining room the idea is to pretend that nothing happened. It shows how relaxed you are about the physical reality of the body or something. I am unwrapping a tampon, and the wrapping makes a soft crumpling sound that nobody could hear unless they have their ear jammed up against the door, and I go bright red anyway and just crouch there on the edge of the toilet seat as Poppa opens the front door and lets David in.
So naturally they decide to have a little conversation at the far end of the hallway, while I wait to stop my life’s precious fluids running out. From the sounds of traffic it seems like Poppa has the poor boy bailed up in the open doorway. I wish they were both dead, or at least a kilometer down the street.
“Oh, good evening...David,” my father says, with that pause while he hunts through the huge list of my known boyfriends. Ha. It’s the sort of thing that really puts David at his ease. To make things even better, Poppa adds, “Is it that late already?”
“Hi, Dr. Kanes. I’m not too early, am I?”
“Kane, dear boy,” my father chides him. “Like the fellow who slew his brother because he had a birthmark. Or was it the other way about?”
This is not the sort of test David does well at. “Huh?”
“Actually, David, my name is Kane, not Keynes. Don’t dawdle, come in. Jenny’s upstairs.”
I want to yell out “No I’m not, I’m three feet away dying of humiliation,” but I would die of humiliation.
“Sorry,” Davy says, deeply baffled. “I always thought it was ‘Kanes’.”
A diesel bus roars by. I smell the fumes. Poppa finally shuts the door. “Actually, no. Keynes was the celebrated economist.”
“Aren’t you an economist?”
Poppa sighs painfully. “Yes. Not, however, that one.”
They lumber past into the kitchen. I flush, wash my hands, and come out calling cheerily, to cover the noisy cistern, “Oh hi. Is that you, Davy?”
None of it fazes that boy. He probably didn’t notice. He looks gorgeous, as usual, like Matt Dillon in the video we saw last week at Louise’s. I wish I looked like Kelly Lynch, that’s all. But why bother trying when you don’t? “Hi, Jenny,” Davy yells. “Hey, they’ve got a great double bill on at the Valhalla.... Back to the Future III and Terminator II.”
“Seen ’em. Bor-ing. Come on up. Maddy, stop giggling like a child.” She’s leaning over the top of the banister and starts down as we start up, after Davy gives me a little squeeze and a light smooch around the mouth that we both make a mess of.
“Hi Maddy.”
“Hi David.”
Poppa is back in his study. He calls, “I really must put on a turn of speed. Enjoy the film, you three. I’ll be back from the lecture by eleven, Genevieve.” He puts his head around the door. He’s trying to look stern and parental. “Make sure you are too.”
“Aw, Poppa, the movies aren’t even out till then. Midnight?”
He pauses at the front door to muse on the reckless pace of modern life. I try to imagine what he’d been doing at midnight 20 or 30 years ago. Getting stoned, probably. Or arrested in a Vietnam demonstration outside some Embassy. Covered in hair. Wearing flares. Erk. “Eleven thirty and not a second later.” I pull a face and nod, and he shuts the door behind him. David instantly puts his hand up the back of my sweater and I let it stay for about three seconds, then run up the stairs very fast away from him. I say, “Maddy was just leaving, weren’t you Maddy?
Maddy looks baffled rather than crushed, which I would be. “Huh? I thought we were all going to the Valhalla.”
“Nah,”
