Authors: Helen Oyeyemi
Mr. Fox (2 page)
H
ey . . . What’s going on here?” I asked. We’d changed positions. I was in a chair, sprawled across it, as if I’d fallen. I assumed we were still in my study—I couldn’t say for sure, because Mary’s hands were pressed firmly over my eyelids.
ey . . . What’s going on here?” I asked. We’d changed positions. I was in a chair, sprawled across it, as if I’d fallen. I assumed we were still in my study—I couldn’t say for sure, because Mary’s hands were pressed firmly over my eyelids.
“Mary?”
She didn’t answer.
“What’s going on?” I asked again.
“I’d rather you didn’t look at me just now,” she said.
“Are you all right?”
“What do you think? After what you did, you—you great
oaf.
”
oaf.
”
“Are you saying that that was us? Actually us? Me and you? The doctor and his lady wife?”
She was curt. “Yes, yes. I just need a couple of minutes, if that isn’t too much trouble.”
I whistled “I Can’t Get Started” until what she was saying sank in. That’s my go-to tune, my haven during many a mindless hour. I experimented with the length of the notes, drawing a couple of bars out here, rushing over a couple of bars there, fast, slow, fast, fast, slow, slow, slow. The tremor in Mary’s hands told me she was laughing silently. That was reassuring. I broke off halfway through the third rendition to ask if I could look at her yet.
“No, better not—”
She didn’t need to tell me it was bad. Put it this way—she was close, right in front of me, but her voice was coming from another direction entirely, from my far left.
“Listen—how did we get—I mean, how did that happen? How did we do that? How is that even possible? For us to do that together?”
“It’s all very technical,” she said haughtily. “You couldn’t possibly understand.”
“Try me.”
“This isn’t a good time, I’m afraid.”
I missed her hands when she took them away. “Don’t look—I mean it,” she warned. A moment passed, I heard a clicking sound, and she gave a ragged gasp. I kept my eyes closed.
“Mary—that’s just the way the story went. I didn’t know that was us. Maybe if you’d explained beforehand—”
“Oh, you knew. Of course you did.” Her voice was thin. “But never mind. Serves me right for letting you go first. The next move is mine, and I assure you, you’re not going to like it.”
BE BOLD, BE BOLD, BUT NOT TOO BOLD
February 17th, 1936
St. John Fox
c/o Astor Press
490 West 58th Street
New York City
c/o Astor Press
490 West 58th Street
New York City
Dear Mr. Fox,
I read Dr. Lustucru with great interest. It really wasn’t bad. In fact, I congratulate you on it. Whilst not expecting a reply, I feel compelled to ask why none of your books contain a photograph of their author. Are you particularly ugly, particularly shy, or is it simply that you transcend physical existence?
Best regards,
Mary Foxe
85 East 65th Street,
Apartment 11
New York City
Mary Foxe
85 East 65th Street,
Apartment 11
New York City
June 2nd, 1936
Mary Foxe
85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11
New York City
85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11
New York City
Dear Mary (you will forgive my familiarity, as it is potentially less presumptuous than calling you “Miss” when you may be a “Mrs.,” or “Mrs.” when you may be a ‘Miss”),
Thanks for your letter—such courtesies mean a lot to me.
I’m replying to confirm that I’m astoundingly ugly. I have been the sorrowful owner of several dogs, each of whom I named Nestor, each of whom has found my features exhausting and run away from home.
I have a hunch that you, however, are the complete opposite. True? I invite you to enclose a photograph of yourself by return.
Cordially,
S. J. Fox
c/o Astor Press
490 West 58th Street
New York City
S. J. Fox
c/o Astor Press
490 West 58th Street
New York City
July 2nd, 1936
St. John Fox
c/o Astor Press
490 West 58th Street
New York City
c/o Astor Press
490 West 58th Street
New York City
Mr. Fox,
Having reread my initial letter to you, I don’t believe it merited such an insulting reply. If you are so sensitive about your looks, perhaps you ought to refrain from responding to enquiries about them. And if the short piece in January 4th’s
New York Times
is correct and you have indeed recently obtained your third divorce, isn’t it extremely unlikely that dogs would be repelled by you yet women continually attracted? They say sarcasm is the lowest form of humour, and I agree.
New York Times
is correct and you have indeed recently obtained your third divorce, isn’t it extremely unlikely that dogs would be repelled by you yet women continually attracted? They say sarcasm is the lowest form of humour, and I agree.
M.F.
85 East 65th Street,
Apartment 11
New York City
85 East 65th Street,
Apartment 11
New York City
July 6th, 1936
Mary Foxe
85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11
New York City
85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11
New York City
M.F.,
How delightfully easily insulted you are, how unnervingly well informed. You also appear to be British (“humour”).
As you can see, I have rushed a reply out to you, so great is my anxiety that your opinion of me has been lowered. Has it? Say it ain’t so.
St. John
c/o Astor Press
490 West 58th Street
New York City
c/o Astor Press
490 West 58th Street
New York City
P.S. Your failure to include a photograph with your last letter has been noted.
July 11th, 1936
St. John Fox
c/o Astor Press
490 West 58th Street
New York City
c/o Astor Press
490 West 58th Street
New York City
You seem bitter, Mr. Fox. Are you having trouble with the next book?
M. Foxe
85 East 65th Street,
Apartment 11
New York City
85 East 65th Street,
Apartment 11
New York City
July 16th, 1936
“Mary Foxe”
85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11
New York City
85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11
New York City
Dear “Mary Foxe,”
Is this your true name? Have we met someplace; are we acquainted? Have I wronged you in some way?
Be direct. Allow me to
make amends,
St. John Fox
c/o Astor Press
490 West 58th Street
New York City
make amends,
St. John Fox
c/o Astor Press
490 West 58th Street
New York City
July 22nd, 1936
St. John Fox
c/o Astor Press
490 West 58th Street
New York City
c/o Astor Press
490 West 58th Street
New York City
Dear Mr. Fox,
I found your questions asinine.
Yours sincerely,
Mary Foxe
85 East 65th Street,
Apartment 11
New York City
Mary Foxe
85 East 65th Street,
Apartment 11
New York City
July 28th, 1936
Mary Foxe
85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11
New York City
85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11
New York City
My dear Miss Foxe,
That’s quite some vocabulary you’ve got there. But this is not the day and age to waste paper, ink, and stamps. What is it that you want from me?
S.J.F.
177 West 77th Street,
Apartment 25
New York City
177 West 77th Street,
Apartment 25
New York City
August 2nd, 1936
St. John Fox
177 West 77th Street, Apartment 25
New York City
177 West 77th Street, Apartment 25
New York City
I’ve written a few stories, and I’d like you to read them.
M.F.
85 East 65th Street,
Apartment 11
New York City
85 East 65th Street,
Apartment 11
New York City
August 6th, 1936
Mary Foxe
85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11
New York City
85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11
New York City
Why me?
S.J.F.
177 West 77th Street,
Apartment 25
New York City
177 West 77th Street,
Apartment 25
New York City
September 1st, 1936
St. John Fox
177 West 77th Street, Apartment 25
New York City
177 West 77th Street, Apartment 25
New York City
Mr. Fox,
I apologise for the brevity of my previous note, which was due to a combination of factors: I was surprised by the frankness of your letter and the fact that you had included what appears to be your actual home address. Also I had been having a difficult week but wanted to reply promptly, so was forced to do so without niceties. Why you? My answer is unoriginal: I-have-long-been-an-admirer-of-your-workand-have-found-it-a-great-encouragement- whilst-in-the-midst-of-my-amateurscribbling-to-imagine-you-reading-what-I- have-written. There, that’s over with. In short, I ask for nothing but your honest opinion of my stories. I’m aware that even asking this is an imposition, one that I would certainly resent if our situations were reversed, therefore I’ll take no offence at your ending this correspondence by dint of silence and shall remain,
Your interested reader,
Mary Foxe
85 East 65th Street,
Apartment 11
New York City
Mary Foxe
85 East 65th Street,
Apartment 11
New York City
September 10th, 1936
Mary Foxe
85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11
New York City
85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11
New York City
Little Miss Foxe,
If you’d really been doing your homework you’d know that I am the last person in the world to consult with about your writing. It surprises me that you’re able to make reference to the January
New York Times
piece about my third divorce without also recalling the February piece that described me as “a suffocating presence across the breakfast table . . . harsh destroyer of the feminine creative impulse.” Why don’t you write to the author of that piece? I’m sure she has some handy hints for you.
New York Times
piece about my third divorce without also recalling the February piece that described me as “a suffocating presence across the breakfast table . . . harsh destroyer of the feminine creative impulse.” Why don’t you write to the author of that piece? I’m sure she has some handy hints for you.
Sincerely,
S. J. Fox
177 West 77th Street,
Apartment 25
New York City
S. J. Fox
177 West 77th Street,
Apartment 25
New York City
September 13th, 1936
St. John Fox
177 West 77th Street, Apartment 25
New York City
177 West 77th Street, Apartment 25
New York City
Mr. Fox,
You are suspicious of me. Don’t be. You feel exposed by recent scrutiny of your private life and you sense that I am mocking you or preparing the way for some kind of punch line, that I will send you some satirical pages about a writer with thirtyseven ex-wives, all of whom hate him and blame him for their own failures . I find it disappointing that you so transparently view your every interaction as a narrative. It is cliché, if you’ll forgive my saying so.
I had a birthday in June and became twenty-one years old. No, I am not pretty. Not at all pretty, I’m afraid. Yes, I am a Brit, in fact directly related to the author of Foxe’s Book of Martyrs (I am very proud—I consider Foxe’s Martyrs to be the sixteenth century’s best book). I grew up in a rectory, my father is a vicar, as a child I suspected him of having written the Bible. I am sole occupant of one medium-sized bedroom in a penthouse apartment not so very far from you; the place is full of Objects I am afraid I shall accidentally break. For almost a year now I have been tutor and general companion—there is not really a name for my job—to a fourteen-year-old girl who was asked not to return to school because the majority of her fellow pupils were frightened of her. On weekends the family usually leaves town, and that is when I take the opportunity to type what I have written in my notebook. I am not sure what I mean by writing this to you, or how much, if at all, my listing these things will strike you as reassuring, or even interesting. I’m not what you think I am, that’s all.
M. Foxe
85 East 65th Street,
Apartment 11
New York City
85 East 65th Street,
Apartment 11
New York City
October 17th, 1936
Mary Foxe
85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11
New York City
85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11
New York City
Dear M.,
Your letters have interested me more than any I’ve been sent in a long while, and if you’d still like me to read your pages I’d be glad to. You must give them to me in person, though—I only read the work of people I am personally acquainted with. And before you make a smart remark, yes, I knew Shakespeare. I really am that old.
I almost always pass an hour or two at the bar of the Mercier Hotel of a Sunday—not even eavesdropping; everybody tries too hard to be shocking nowadays—just drinking. It would be my pleasure if you could join me there next Sunday. Seven p.m. No need to write back this time, just show up, and let’s see if we can pick each other out. If you have your pages in full view I’ll consider you a spoilsport.
Warm regards,
S.J.
177 West 77th Street,
Apartment 25
New York City
S.J.
177 West 77th Street,
Apartment 25
New York City
I received that letter on Wednesday morning and opened it at the breakfast table while Mitzi Cole licked grapefruit segments and Katherine Cole sat with her eyes closed, repeating “split the lark split the lark split the lark split the lark” in what she thought was an English accent. After a few minutes, Mitzi joined in: “Split the lark split the lark split the lark split the lark” but gabbled, her words hastily jammed into the pauses Katherine took to breathe.
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