Free The Body Of Jonah Boyd by David Leavitt

to the kitchen, where we washed vegetables and tore up bread for the stuffing. It was now becoming clear that
     as much as it excited her, the prospect of Anne’ visit also filled Nancy with dread. She confided that every time the phone
     rang, part of her hoped that it would be Anne, calling to cancel—"because then, at the very least, I wouldn’t have to deal
     with any of it. The awkwardness, and having to explain about Mark, and the new husband.” What if the old connection no longer
     surged? What if, on reuniting, she and Anne felt nothing, or worse (was it worse?) felt too much—a tug of longing so intense it could engender only sorrow, given how rarely they were now able to see each other? In
     the first case, she would greet Anne’ departure with relief, in the second with regret, in both with an inconsolable ache
     of loss.
    She did not sleep well that night (or so she told me the next morning). I came over early, and together we stuffed the turkey,
     taking care to adjust the thermometer before arranging it in its pan. Into the oven the bird went. Nancy took off her apron;
     lit a cigarette. She was harrowed by anxiety, while I, on the contrary, felt rising in me the richest flush of pleasure. That
     morning was the apogee of my love for Nancy, a love the name of which I dared not speak, and which I had tried, ironically,
     to consummate through my affair with her husband. Later I grew to love Ernest for himself; that Thanksgiving, he was an irrelevance.
     It was Nancy with whom I was besotted, and the passionate suitor, as all passionate suitors know, is profoundly selfish. How
     I longed for her to weep, just so that I could kiss away her tears! No matter that what preoccupied her was another love,
     no matter that I was as irrelevant to her, at that moment, as Ernest was to me! This was my chance to prove myself. So I bustled
     about, chopping carrots, setting the table, as effervescent as Daphne was sullen. I even took care, for once, to load the
     dishwasher to Nancy’ exact specifications, and was disappointed when, rather than peering inside to make sure I’d misarranged
     the plates, she slammed the door shut and switched the thing on without a word—when for once I had done a perfect job!
    It was close to one o’clock. Nancy was basting the turkey for the umpteenth time. Dinner was scheduled for four, with the
     other guests invited for three. The Boyds’ flight had landed, on time, at ten-thirty (Nancy had checked with TWA), which meant
     that they should have arrived in Wellspring at twelve-fifteen. Ernest was sequestered in his office above the garage. Ben
     and Daphne were playing Scrabble at the tulip table. Already Mark had made his mournful holiday call; tears had been shed
     at his description of Vancouver going about its regular business, an ordinary weekday in Canada, which he and some of his
     fellow draft dodgers were going to try to make more cheerful by preparing a little feast of their own, with a soy loaf in
     the shape of a turkey. The memory of that call must have touched some nerve of maternal affection in Nancy, for now she stole
     up behind Ben and rubbed his shoulders.
    “Mom, stop,” he said.
    “Lucid,” she whispered. “Right there, the double letter score—”
    “Will you please not help him?” Daphne asked.
    “Sorry. What time is it?”
    “Five past one.”
    “I wonder why they haven’t gotten here. Maybe they had an accident. Or got lost.”
    “Then they’d have called.”
    “Or maybe they pulled in for gas in a bad neighborhood and got held up,” Ben interjected helpfully. “That happened to Hettie
     Longabaugh’ sister, remember? People who don’t know L.A.—”
    “But if they rented a car, it would have a full tank.”
    “It’ my fault,” Nancy said. “I should have sent Ernest to pick them up.”
    Daphne switched on the television. “Poor mother, always so worried,” she said, with the easy gravity of a girl whom sex has
     endowed with