Lit: A Memoir

The hot rubber is warm in my hand as he asks, for I’m greedily rolling what I instantly decided was my inner tube to the water’s edge.

We’ll bring them right back, I say, impressed to have met such a stand-up citizen.

The inner tubes plop into the green swirl, and we wade in behind. Arms and knees hanging over, we let the current take us. Occasionally, deliciously, my foot brushes his muscled calf, which makes me go all creamy in my center like a stuffed chocolate.

He seems vaguely stirred by my blue-collar credentials, that I paid my way through schools with all manner of unsavory tasks and now hold down community teaching jobs.

That night I call my sister to make my crush official.

Well, he’s Ivy-educated, so he’s not an idiot, she says. What does he look like?

Superman.

Her silence on the phone is passive doubt.

I swear, like that actor. Very patrician-looking, cheekbones out to here, square jaw. Also those long dimples, very fetching—deep enough to hold a dime.

Is he short?

Six-five, I say.

Height—ours and our boyfriends’—is a running contest between Lecia and me. If I tell her good news about myself, she’s liable to say, I’m five-nine and hang up.

You’ll have to stand on a step to kiss him.

He rowed crew, I tell her. (Not really his sport.) Plus, he can recite more Shakespeare than anybody not paid to learn it.

Shakespeare meets Superman? He might as well walk out with his hands up.

A few nights before the residency ends, he asks where I’d like to have our first solo dinner, and I say—provocatively, I hope—Montreal.

I hope you don’t mind chipping in on gas, he says.

Among young poets, this is standard, even on a date—is this a date? I gnaw my thumbnail.

Before we hit the freeway, Warren stops for an oil check, though his car—a recent graduation gift—still has the dealer’s sticker on the rear window.

What’s your dad do? I ask as Warren squeegees off the windshield.

He’s a lawyer, Warren says. I don’t ask what kind of law because who knew there was more than one.

Buckled into the driver’s seat, he adjusts the rearview with microscopic precision before even cranking the ignition—a care that opposes my haphazard plowing around in an uninspected Vega, its heater pumping out enough monoxide to give passengers a metallic-tasting headache.

The mountain road hairpins under us, and the green valleys that open up in the windows can’t stop my fixation on his regal profile. Trying to impress him, I quote a new translation from Swede Tomas Tranströmer.

Warren counters with “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness …” And watching his unkissed mouth shaping those plush syllables is the libidinal equivalent of a studly crooner mouthing a love song.

Wordsworth? I say.

Keats’s “Ode to Autumn.”

Dang, I say with a Gomer Pyle grin—my mask in grad school, where I’d posed as a redneck aborigine just to warn everybody up front how far behind I was before it blatted out like a fart. Once there, I started burrowing nightly into the library to look up references everybody else nodded in recognition over.

As a result, I’ve taken in a gnat’s portion of American and European poetry, but our banter—Warren’s and mine—includes his modestly correcting me on the English tradition. By the time we cross over into Quebec, I’ve scrawled a long list of books to wade through, impressed he can teach me so much. There’s a low-slung fingernail of moon in the orange sky, and I pretend to interpret the local license plate slogan—Je me souviens, I remember—as I am a souvenir.

He smiles. You’re kidding, right?

Not even I am that primitive.

You’re not at all primitive, he says.

Don’t lie, I say. But I secretly hope to pass for a girl he maybe went to prep school with, though I could’ve impersonated a baboon closer.

In the restaurant, we give our names as Wally and Holly Stevens, a poet and his editor daughter. At a tiny candlelit table, I smell the red wine on Warren’s breath. As he passes over my menu, his hand touches mine, and the pulse in my chest grows so thunderous I fear he’ll make it out. This has to be a date, dammit. When he starts to quote Yeats’s famous love poem, When you are old and gray and full of sleep / And nodding by the fire take down this book …

I leap in to finish: And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep …

And if there’d been a chaise longue nearby to land on, I might have stood up and swooned.

The night before I graduate, he shows up at a bar where I dance with him all night while my putative suitor buys our drinks. In the wee hours, Warren quotes the famous pastoral proposition poem, Come live with me and be my love … The sixteenth-century version of Hubba, hubba, sweetcakes. My heart’s banging bongos. And four months later—after he’s driven cross-country to see me several times—he asks me to move to Cambridge with him. Three years after that, we’ll get engaged.

But before any of that, I have to meet the family, and boy am I eager, facing the task with a peasant girl’s bouncy determination to wow people not overimpressed by much. The final miles Warren’s tiny car putters, I hold a compact in one hand and a mascara wand in the other, globbing on lashes. (Little did I know my mother’s advice—You can never wear too much mascara—is, in this company, deeply wrong.)

We pass through wrought-iron gates, and I look up, wand in hand, to ask, Is this a subdivision?

This is my house, he says.

It’s a testament to Warren’s reticence that he’s failed to mention the place is posh enough to sport a baronial-sounding name without seeming ridiculous: Fairweather Hall. There’s a separate wing for the live-in staff, severely reduced now that the six children are gone. If I remember right, the gardener even grew up on the estate since his father had been Mr. Whitbread’s valet in law school—sounding like a Chekhov serf to me.

After Warren parks, I gawk my way from the car, jaw unhinged, about to burst out with a ghetto goddamn.

Why didn’t you tell me about all this? I ask.

Tell you about what? he wonders, completely sincere, for he’s never less than sincere, which partly informs my devotion. I already know how Warren shrinks from show. When people ask where he went to college, he’ll avoid dropping the H-bomb as long as possible, though I’d have tattooed it on my forehead.

That ivy-scribbled house has a fairy-tale quality, with gardens sprawled around it and long, vaulted windows you could drive a Buick through. Plus a door bigger than my daddy’s bass boat, with a bronze knocker, even. The uniformed Irish maid waits outside to help us with our bags, which Warren refuses, partly because she’s at least seventy and no taller than five feet.

They call her Kelley, though it’s her last name, and I’ll later find out she was deputized to take Warren trick-or-treating when he was a kid, with a sheet over her head and a bag for her own candy. Odd, I thought, my parents hadn’t taken me around, either. (Though the Whitbreads’ offhand parenting style was light-years from my family’s, both Warren and I grew up yearning for a warmer home than where we’d started.)

I don’t have the sense not to hug whoever greets us, so I try to throw my arms around Kelley, and she flinches away, straightening her apron. Facing the big house, I’d like to say I’m neither wowed nor panicky, but I feel like a field hand called out of the cotton.

Would you like some tea? Kelley asks.

Yes, please, Warren says, closing the door.

The foyer, a crystal chandelier like a sparkly jungle gym hangs from the two-story ceiling. Two dogs waggle around us, which Warren pats and baby-talks to while I stare. Cloudily mirrored alcoves hold Chinese vases. The staircase curves grandly enough for his older sister to have descended for her debut into New York society on it. At some point, Warren gently uses his hand to close my jaw.

For something to say, I ask the dogs’ names.