The Body Of Jonah Boyd by David Leavitt Read Free Book Online Page B

along with two friends from Wellspring, both of them hippies with stringy hair
     and none-too-clean faces, Mark loaded into a battered Datsun with no reverse gear, his eventual destination the Canadian border,
     and a future the repercussions of which we could only guess at.
    That morning Nancy loaned me her camera and asked me to take some pictures of the assembled, one of which I still have. In
     it the Wrights and their friends are posed clumsily in the driveway, in front of that famous Datsun that would later play
     as crucial a role in the family lore as the black Ford Falcon with red interior. In the front, Mark kneels between his scruffy
     friends. His expression is grave, and there is just a whisper of a beard on his chin. Behind him stands Daphne, holding a
     tin containing some chocolate chip cookies she had baked that morning as a farewell present, and next to Daphne stands Mark’
     girlfriend, Sheila, her hair tied in a single braid that drapes over her shoulder and hangs below her belt, and next to Sheila,
     the bizarre Boxers, both victims of the McCarthy blacklist, and hence eager to show their support of Mark in this gesture
     of defiance. Nancy is slightly to Bertha Boxer’ right, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, while to her right, Hettie Longabaugh, who always managed to be around at dramatic moments, perches on one foot and casts a solicitous
     and possibly lewd glance at Ernest, who is hunched at a little distance from the others. From his expression you can see that
     this theatrical and overly public departure his wife has orchestrated embarrasses him deeply, that given his druthers, he
     would prefer for Mark to leave furtively, under cover of darkness. But there is nothing to be done about that.
    The only person missing from the picture is Ben, and that is because, just at the moment that I was about to snap it, he separated
     himself from his parents and ran off toward the garage, against which he put his face. Today I can still feel his presence
     to the right of the yellowing frame, as remote from the rest of the family as Pluto from the other planets, and with an orbit
     just as eccentric.
    Oh, what a sad and peculiar ceremony that was! None of us had any clue as to how we should behave. We were like wedding guests
     at that moment just after the reception when the bride and groom climb into a car dragging tin cans and drive off into some
     glorious future, leaving us to clean up the rice we have just thrown—only that day there was no rice, there were no tin cans,
     and the future into which these boys were driving, far from glorious, was possibly tragic. Eyes stern, Mark bade his farewells
     to the assembled, hugged his mother, kissed his girlfriend, shook his father’ hand. His brother’ hand he tried to shake too,
     but Ben refused to look at him, so Mark simply patted him on the shoulder, provoking a visible shudder. And then he climbed
     into the passenger seat of the Datsun, and the dirtier of his two friends, who was driving, started up the engine, and because
     the car had no reverse gear, he had to circle over the lawn, damaging the border grass, which made Ernest wince. “Goodbye!”
     Daphne called as the Datsun veered out of the driveway, and then at that instant she realized that she had forgotten to give
     Mark the cookies. “Wait, wait!” she cried, running after the car, which had turned the curve, and was out of view. Daphne
     burst into tears, and Nancy said, “Now what good is crying going to do anyone?” and stomped into the house, leaving the rest
     of us to stare at the space where moments before Mark had stood, and who knew if he would ever again stand there? Dusk was
     falling. We all trooped inside after Nancy for coffee and the forgotten cookies—everyone except Ben, who had retreated to
     the barbecue pit, where he remained until well after dark with a flashlight, writing a poem.
    Some years later, Ernest told me that in his professional opinion Ben