This Other Eden Read online

  “"She called me.”"

  “"She did?”"

  “"Oh she did.”"

  “"What did you say?”"

  “"I told her the book meant nothing.”"

  “"People think the book is about us,”" I said.

  “"They do?”" she said.

  “"Yes,”" I said.

  “"Let them think what they want,”" she said.

  “"People think you and I,”" but I couldn’t say it.

  “"Are you ashamed?”" she said.

  “"I don’t want people to think that.”"

  “"What if it were true?”" she said. “"It happened to Anaïs Nin. It’s happened to many - —Dorothy Allison —and…—”"

  “"What are you saying?”"

  “"Before I left for Yale,”" she said, “"I came to you, I was in bed with you - —are you telling me - —are you telling me you don’t remember?”"

  “"Nothing happened,”" I said softly.

  “"And the other times? Before?”"

  I started crying. “"Nothing like that ever happened between us, Gillian.”"

  “"But what if I wanted it to happen?”" she said. “"What if you wanted it to? If we both did? Isn’t that just like - —if it did happen?”"

  I wept. “"Why are you doing this?”"

  She grabbed my arm and told me to hush. “"All right, all right,”" she said. “"It never happened.”"

  I asked, “"Why did you write that book?”"

  “"It’s just a book, Daddy,”" she said, “"just fiction.”"

  What Happens When

  Things

  Happen to People

  ...he felt...as if he were supposed to be doing something else, something grander,

  higher, more difficult, more dangerous, more daring.

  —Steven Millhauser, Martin Dressler

  Ivy’s Beautiful Skin

  On their second date, Edmond and Ivy experienced a prejudice they would learn to ignore. They were in line to see a movie, and someone said, “"Hey, man, why are you with a nigger?”"

  Edmond wanted to fight the guy. Ivy took his arm and said, “"Forget it. What do you expect from stupid people?”"

  She had a point.

  “"Nigger lover,”" someone else said.

  “"That’s right!”" Ivy said, laughing. “"Don’t you wish you could have a piece of my sweet black ass?”"

  Ivy had experienced this sort of thing all her life (she was twenty-four) because her father was white and her mother black; her skin was light brown, the most beautiful skin Edmond had ever seen. He met her at one of those quickie $8 haircut stores; she was renting a booth and working too many hours to pay the rent and her tuition at San Diego State University. Edmond walked in to get an $8 cut. He gave Ivy a $20 bill and had said, “"Keep the change.”"

  “"That’s quite a tip,”" Ivy had said. “"I can’t take a $12 tip.”"

  “"Why not?”"

  “"Well.”"

  “"Look, I don’t do this sort of thing.”"

  “"Tip big?”"

  “"Ask strangers out.”"

  “"Strangers? I just cut your hair. Me and your scalp are quite intimate.”"

  “"I’m sorry,”" he’d said, feeling like he’d just made a fool of himself. He never knew how to ask women for dates. It was always awkward. He started to go. Ivy stopped him.

  “"Hey.”"

  “"Yeah.”"

  “"Where you heading?”"

  “"I don’t know.”"

  “"You were asking me out.”"

  “"I was.”"

  “"So, take me out. Take me out to lunch. Out to the ball game. Out of here.”"

  “"Today?”"

  “"Sure.”"

  “"When’s your lunch break?”"

  “"Now,”" she’d said. “"I’m an independent subcontractor, I don’t punch in a time clock.”"

  Later, she would tell Edmond that she was attracted to him the moment he sat in her chair, and if he hadn’t made the first move, she would have. (He didn’t believe her.) She would tell him, “"You and I, we’re destiny; it’s in the stars that we’ll have an interesting life together.”"

  So, when people made comments or gave them looks in public, Edmond learned to ignore these abuses of language and propriety.

  The Apple

  Ivy decided they needed to leave San Diego. She was done with college; she had an M.A., and she wanted to be an editor at a publishing company. That meant going to New York.

  Edmond shrugged and said, “"Sure.”" He didn’t think she was serious, but oh she was. They didn’t move immediately, it took them almost a year to get there. They had to save money. Ivy worked extra hours at the hair store; she even started cutting hair at the apartment. She didn’t spend a dime on unnecessary things., Tthe two hardly went out to dinner or movies; everything went into the bank for “'The Big Apple Transfer.”'

  Edmond worked in a variety of odd and unrewarding jobs. He cooked and delivered pizzas, he pumped gas and he hammered nails into wood - nothing he was good at. When Christmas time came, he got a job at a big toy store conglomerate stocking the overhead product and filling the shelves with dolls. He was good at it; in fact, management asked him to stay on as a permanent employee. He worked at the toy store 9-5, five days a week and one Sunday a month; one splendid morning Ivy woke up and said, “"We have enough money in the bank, let’s go.”"

  “"Right now?”"

  “"Start packing.”"

  “"Okay.”"

  Two days later they rented a moving truck. The truck cost a third of their savings.

  They had no great adventure moving across America; when they stopped to buy gas or eat, every place looked identical and no one (as they feared) gave them trouble for being an interracial couple. Edmond had it all mapped out in his mind, like the movies. Some trucker stop, some evil truckers talking about ebony and ivory, pinching Ivy’s butt, hitting him in the face and then there would be the inevitable violence and that sad, if not ironic, end to their young lives and goals.

  Ivy’s goals. He was a day-to-day guy and his girlfriend had the prerequisite visions of grandeur; taking New York by storm, becoming important and famous. New York. He liked the feel of the city—the smell, the people, the buildings, the weather.

  His mother told him he made a mistake.

  “"New York is a cesspool,”" she said on the phone after he called to inform her of the move, “"Wwhat were you thinking? Are you crazy? You’re living there with that girl? What’s her name? Blossom?”"

  “"Ivy.”"

  “"Poison. This is her idea, right?”"

  “"We’re happy, Mom.”"

  “"No you’re not.”"

  “"We’re fine.”"

  “"You’re poor.”"

  “"We’ll get by.”"

  “"You’ll regret this decision, I just know it.”"

  “"I did the right thing.”"

  “"Edmond, come back home.”"

  “"Stop worrying, Mom.”"

  “"What about your future?”"

  “"It’s the future,”" he said.

  Ivy Meets the Larger-Than-Life Alonzo Crews & Begins Her Career in Publishing

  For half a year, Ivy applied to all the publishing companies and magazines in town. She never got a single call-back. It depressed her but she kept at it. “"It just takes time,”" she told herself each day, “"it takes time.”" She covertly wrote very short stories and even shorter poems; this was such a secret she didn’t even tell Edmond. If she told him, he might want to read her tiny stories and poems and then what would he think? Most of them were about sex - not real sex, but imaginary and often bizarre encounters people would have with strangers or animals and odd other-worldly creatures. She enjoyed writing in notebooks; when Edmond was asleep or she was in a coffeeshop she would open the notebook and write with a nNumber tTwo pencil. The subway would suffice for composing five-line poems. When Edmond was gone, she would type her writings up on her 1970s Olympia manual and
(so they wouldn’t be around and mistakenly discovered) she would send the things off to magazines and literary journals.

  One such journal with a post office box address in Brooklyn, The Peach, sent her encouraging words. Very dandy, the handwritten rejection notes said, quite intriguing, this tickled my fancy but didn’t fancy me enough, oh this one was close! Send more! Yes, my dear, yes, send more! Ivy sent more. The rejection notes remained encouraging: Keep sending! Keep sending! Please know that I know what you’re doing, what you want to do, that Alonzo is keeping watch, Alonzo watches with interest, and Alonzo wants you to send more, to send all you have.

  The editor of The Peach was Alonzo Crews. One day he called Ivy on the phone. He said, “"Ms. Gaylord, Ms. Gaylord, is that you, Ms. Gaylord?”" He had a singsong and scratchy voice.

  “"Yes,”" she said cautiously.

  “"Alonzo Crews here.”"

  “"Oh yes,”" she said.

  “"I’ve decided you need my help. Yes, this is what I have decided. I like what you’re doing, but you’re not quite there. You need guidance. You should take my class.”"

  “"Class?”"

  “"I hold a private writing class, a session every four months, a tri-quarterly affair. You belong there.”"

  “"I don’t know what to say.”"

  “"You should say yes. Yes, say yes, and learn.”"

  She had to think about it because the price of the class was far from cheap. She had just enough in the bank, but that would mean she and Edmond would have to live frugally for a while.

  That week, Ivy finally got a job interview at a publishing company. During the interview (it was a proofreading position) she mentioned that a fellow named Alonzo Crews suggested she take his class. The managing editor, a pale and balding gentleman who looked too skinny for his baggy clothes, dropped his jaw and opened his eyes very wide and said, “"Are you serious? The Alonzo Crews?”"

  “"You’ve heard of him?”"

  “"Who hasn’t?”"

  “"He has this magazine—”"

  “"People beg and bribe to be in his class. Many big writers have been students under him. If he asked you, consider yourself among the chosen.”"

  “"I didn’t know.”"

  “"You haven’t lived in New York long enough.”"

  She nodded. “"I have much to learn.”"

  “"You’ll learn a lot from the man, I’m sure.”"

  “"So you think I should take the class?”"

  “"You shouldn’t be thinking twice.”"

  “"It’s a lot of money.”"

  “"Take out a bank loan.”"

  “"A job would help.”"

  “"It’s just proofreading, and we don’t publish fiction here. We publish science and psychology.”"

  “"I love those subjects.”"

  “"Can you start Monday?”"

  “"Bright and early.”"

  “"Welcome aboard then.”"

  There was much to celebrate. She bought two bottles of champagne on the way home. She called the phone number The Peach’s editor had given to her.

  “"Yeah.”"

  “"Is Alonzo Peach—I mean, Alonzo Crews there?”" She was excited; she knew it was him on the phone—that voice.

  “"He is here.”"

  “"Mr. Crews?”"

  “"He is here.”"

  “"This is Ivy Gaylord.”"

  “"Yes, yes—of course, yes. What can Alonzo do for you, dear?”"

  “"I’ll enroll in your class.”"

  “"There is no ‘enrollment.’ You’re either there, or you’re somewhere else. And there are no refunds.”"

  “"Well then,”" she said, “"I want to be there.”"

  “"Good, good. I knew you would.”"

  “"Thank you.”"

  “"Don’t thank me yet,”" he said,; “"you haven’t been in my class.”"

  When Edmond came home, carrying a pizza and smelling like pizza, because he was working in a pizza joint, she said, “"I’m tired of pizza, honey.”"

  “"It’s free,”" he said.

  She showed him the champagne bottles.

  “"What’s this?”"

  It was time to come clean, to reveal her secret. She told him about the job, and then the writing, The Peach, the class, how the man’s name probably got her the job. He hugged her. He said he was happy. He said he knew about her clandestine literature.

  “"We’ve been together long enough,”" Edmond said. “"How could I not know?”"

  She said, “"Oh.”"

  He said he was wondering when she'd tell him.

  “"Now you know,”" Ivy said. “"Let’s make a pact, here and now.”"

  “"Okay.”"

  “"No secrets between us, ever. Wait.”"

  They opened a bottle and poured champagne into paper cups.

  She held up her cup.

  “"No secrets, ever.”"

  Alonzo Crews’ class proved to be elucidating and gruesome; —not just the class, but the man. He was six feet tall, robust, and wore an orange jumpsuit with a white T-shirt. He looked like a prison inmate. He thrived on his eccentricity. He had swarthy skin, green eyes, and long black hair that he always kept in a pony tail. He moved his hands when he talked and he talked a lot. The man loved to hear his own voice. The twice-a-week class (Mondays and Wednesdays, six p.m. until late, sometimes one or two in the morning) was held at an on apartment in the West Village. This was not Crews’ home; he lived in “'the heart of the heart of Brooklyn, where my heart of hearts lives and dies.”' The apartment, he explained, “"belongs to an old, dear, and trusted friend. Someone I once nurtured, whom I give a fifteen percent cut of the money you pay for this use. This is the apartment of someone famous, perhaps quasi-famous, perhaps someone whose books you may have read. But I will not give out her name, for she has requested anonymity. Nonetheless, here we are in this cozy little abode with walls lined with books, and here I will teach all you rascals how to create great sentences.”" He rattled off names of writers, known and obscure, whom he had a hand in publishing.

  “"Yes,”" he said, “"I used to be an editor at a very fine, very refined literary publishing house, where for years I acquired and edited many books; alas, said genteel house was purchased by a multinational conglomerate and the new owners did not see, shall we say, eye-to-eye with Alonzo’s view of American letters; thus Alonzo said, ‘Fare thee well, adieu, so long, and kiss my wrinkled arse’ and faded into semi-retirement and the publication of The Peach. Why The Peach you ask? Because the work I publish in those humble pages are peachy-keen.”"

  Crews was a ruthless critic and teacher. He tore apart every single sentence Ivy, or anyone else in the class, wrote.

  “"Would you die for that sentence?”" he’d say. “"If you’re not willing to die for every sentence you compose, then kill the sentence! Or kill yourself and be done with it! Or walk out of here and forget about being a writer! Don’t sit there and cry. - Ddie! Die or have your sentences save your life!”"

  He frightened some away; the class started with fifteen, and three weeks later, seven remained.

  “"Now,”" Crews said, “"we’re nice and small and can really begin to learn.”"

  Ivy almost didn’t make it. She wanted to quit the first night after Crews dismantled the first two paragraphs of one of her stories. It was a five page piece, but she couldn’t get past page one without Crews saying, “"No, no, no, shit shit shit.”"

  Edmond told her she could not give up so fast.

  “"I won’t take such abuse,”" Ivy said.

  “"You can’t get your money back.”"

  “"It sucks,”" she said.

  “"It sounds to me like he’s weeding out the weak from the strong. I know you, you’re strong. This is what you want. It’s what you need. Everyone here is a hard-ass. You have to be just as hard.”"

  She stayed., Sshe followed Crews’ advice, she wrote the way he wanted people to write, and she liked the product. Near the end of the class, Crews allo
wed her to finish reading her stories out loud with few comments.

  “"That’s very good,”" he’d say, “"Tthose are the kind of words and sentences that make my dick hard.”"

  He asked Ivy if he could buy her a cup of coffee.

  “"It’s eleven-thirty at night,”" she said.

  “"It’ll be weak coffee.”"

  They went to a place in the Village, a “nice” place as Crews described it; an all-night diner where people could be alone to sit and talk, “"to plan, to scheme, to rejoice and lament,”" said Crews.

  “"What a reputation to live up to,”" said Ivy, “"for such a common little diner.”"

  “"I’ve been meaning to do this for some weeks now.”"

  “"Do what?”"

  “"Find out about Ivy; who she is, where she comes from, where she’s going. These things interest Alonzo very much.”"

  She thought it was strange to be in public with a man who wore an orange jumpsuit; she expected looks. No one in the diner seemed to notice. She didn’t have the nerve to ask him about his clothing, so she asked, “"Why do you sometimes refer to yourself in the third person?”"

  He said, “"I have no idea what you’re talking about. This is a good cup of coffee. It’s amazingly hard to find a decent, good - —good! - —cup of ordinary, simple American coffee. Why is this? We’re losing the simple things more and more, every day, and we’re not even aware of it. Drink your coffee.”"

  Ivy barely sipped; she was not interested in coffee. She wanted to know what Crews was up to. She caught him staring at her tits. She didn’t want to play games. She wanted to get this over with.

  “"You’re from California.”"

  She said, “"Yes.”"

  “"San Francisco, perhaps? I’ve had seminars there. I know people there. The City Lights Bookstore is there. Let me tell you about San Francisco; when I was younger, when I was your age, maybe even younger than you, when I was living in Bozeman, Montana - —did I ever mention this is where Alonzo once resided? Bozeman! But he was born, I was born in New Mexico. Roswell, where the UFO crashed. After the UFO crashed, my parents packed up and we moved to Montana. Anyway, San Francisco. After I read On the Road, I wanted to go there and find Dean Moriority: befriend him, travel with him, drink bottles of wine and smoke reefer with him.”"