The Haunts of His Youth: Stories and a Novella

By Jonathan Strong

The Haunts Of His Youth are the Midwest and the Sixties when sex, of all sorts, became easier but love only more confusing. This collection of nine stories and a novella brings back to print Jonathan Strongs first book, Tike and Five Stories, in a revised and expanded edition.

A fourteen-year-old glimpses the coming sexual revolution when his sister takes up with a college student boarding with his family. Two teenage brothers, stuck in the country with their parents all summer, look for dangerous ways to let off steam. Young friends are puzzled by their feelings for each other when they say goodbye at a bus station. Whether its a boy in the bosom of his large family on the Fourth of July or a boy and girl shacking up for the first time, theres a youthful fever in the air.

Two stories, set in the day ward of a mental hospital, trace elusive bonds of friendship in a world of loss. A longer story, which in its first version won the third prize O. Henry Award in 1967, introduces a charmer of a street kid weaving his way into the life of an older man to whom he comes to mean far too much.

As for the novella, the New York Times review summed it up this way: Shy, somewhat lonely, pleasantly soft and sensitive, Tike Larkin lives in a rooming house with his pet, McDog. Tike is drawn out of his shell by Val, another occupant of the rooming house and the most beautiful and sexy girl Tike has ever known. Val hurts him just enough to provoke a small act of anger, which, in the framework of the story, is a dramatic step. Thats all. But Mr. Strong has put the pieces together so artfully that (it) has the immediacy, charm, and believability of a long letter from an old and good friend.

The collection comes full circle in a final story, written in 1975, in which a neophyte soccer coach finds himself trying to inspire a new generation that already thinks of the Sixties as a bit old-fashioned.

These early works of Jonathan Strong appeared in a wide range of magazines (The Partisan Review, Esquire, The Atlantic, Shenandoah, Ingenue, TriQuarterly, The Transatlantic Review), and in nine different anthologies. As Christopher Lehmann-Haupt in The New York Times put it: The world of Mr. Strongs fiction is warm, relaxed and friendly. He relies for his effects on subtle varieties of artlessness. The results from story to story are almost completely successful.

And in The New Leader, Phoebe Pettingell wrote: Strongs stories are compassionate and moving. When I say they are reminiscent of Mann or Gide, I do not mean they are imitative, since he certainly has his own style. Rather, although he writes about modern youth, he does so in a European tradition. Above all, Strong has a delicate and sure touch; his sadness never turns sentimental, and he never simplifies his characters problems.

Sarah Blackburn, in The Nation, called Jonathan Strong a writer who can speak for the Sixties as Salinger did for the Fifties. . . . Mr. Strong combines a deceptive surface fragility with a tough, direct, and absolutely authoritative sense of who his characters are and what the world is like for them. His remarkable, unaffected spareness is possible and successful because he trusts his reader: his material barely runs to book length, yet it is far more substantial than works twice its size by novelists of great reputation. Only once in a great while does a writer of such immediately evident talent appear.

In 1970, Tike and Five Stories won the Rosenthal Foundation Award of the National Institute of Arts and Letters, a prize for a first work of fiction won in previous years by such writers as Bernard Malamud, John Updike, and Joyce Carol Oates.

And in a long review of Strongs first novel, Ourselves, Richard Locke in The New York Times looked back at the earlier book like this: In the spring of 1969, when he was 24 and a senior at Harvard, Jonathan Strong published Tike and Five Stories and was immediately acclaimed as an important young writer. He

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 30, 1999
• ISBN: 9781462815401

Jonathan Strong

Jonathan Strong was born in Evanston, Illinois in 1944 and grew up in nearby Winnetka.  He graduated from Harvard College in 1969, the same year he published his first book, a collection of short fiction called Tike and Five Stories, which won the 1970 Rosenthal Foundation Award for the National Institute or Arts and Letters.  Two of the stories had been included in the O. Henry Awards anthologies, and part of the novella Tike had first appeared in Northwestern's Triquarterly Review.     He taught part-time at Tufts for nine years, and in 1978 began a five-year Briggs-Copeland Assistant Professorship at Harvard.  His second book, the novel Ourselves, appeared in 1971, but his third--two novellas collected as Companion Pieces--had to wait until 1993 for book publication.  Sections of it were published in Triquarterly and Shenandoah. He also taught at Umass--Boston and Wellesley College before returning to Tufts as a senior lecturer in 1989, by which time his fourth book, Elsewhere, had been published (Ballantine, 1985).  In the 1990s, Zoland Books has brought out all of his subsequent works: Offspring, An Untold Tale, Secret Words (for which he was awarded an NEA grant), The Old World, A Circle Around Her, and the forthcoming Consolation.  He lives with his partner Scott Elledge in Rockport, Massachusetts.

Book preview

Jonathan Strong

(a revised and expanded edition of Tike and Five Stories)

Copyright © 1999 by Jonathan Strong.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-7-XLIBRIS

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

Contents

INVOKING MINERVA

QUIMBY

OTTO AND BRUNO

WALKS

SAYIN GOOD-BYE TO TOM

SUBURBAN LIFE

ZWILLINGSBRUDER

PATIENTS

DE OOZY BED

TIKE’S DAYS

THE BIRD THAT FLIES BY BEATING ITS WINGS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Books by Jonathan Strong:

The Haunts of His Youth

Ourselves

*Companion Pieces

Elsewhere

*Secret Words

*Offspring

*An Untold Tale

*The Old World

*A Circle Around Her

*available from Zoland Books

INVOKING MINERVA

Joseph watched the white Mercedes sedan turn in the drive. Then he went to the front door to let in Mr. and Mrs. Ngolo. They were wrapped up in long black coats and came stamping up the snowy steps. Kyle had forgotten to do the shoveling. Joseph’s mother would have to get mad at him again.

"Bonsoir, Monsieur Ngolo, bonsoir, Madame Ngolo," said Joseph.

"Ah, bonsoir, Joseph, comme il fait froidce soiA"

Bonsoir, Joseph, said Mrs. Ngolo. Joseph smiled and suddenly could not think of any more French. Mrs. Ngolo raised her eyebrows at him when he looked at her. Then she turned around to let him take her coat, and a smile came over her face too.

The Ngolos are here! Joseph yelled up the stairwell. Kyle appeared in time to take the coats.

Joseph’s mother leaned over the banister on the second landing. Hello, hello, I’ll be right down.

Ah, hello. I fear we are early.

No, no, you’re on the dot, I’ll be right down. Joseph, call Papa.

Papa!

And Joseph, where’s Kyle? Did he shovel the steps? I didn’t hear him doing it. Did you both have to trudge up in the snow?

No problem, said Mr. Ngolo.

Oh dear, I knew it. Joseph, tell Kyle to get out there right away. I’ll speak to him later.

Kyle, said Joseph.

I heard, said Kyle coming back in. He went out the front door slamming it.

Papa! Joseph yelled. He watched Mrs. Ngolo looking at herself in the hall mirror. She was a young woman, and Joseph was very attracted to her. Come in the living room, he said. Papa’ll be in to fix the drinks. Outside Kyle was scraping the snow off the steps in a temper.

Mrs. Ngolo sat by the fire and held out her hands to warm them. Joseph sat on the footstool of his father’s leather chair and admired her long black fingers. Mr. Ngolo sat on the couch and picked up The Nation from the coffee table. Then Joseph’s father came in, holding a cocktail and still wearing his corduroy jacket from school, and he offered drinks to everyone.

Ah, Pere Thomas, said Mr. Ngolo, let me see, just a sherry.

Sherry, said Mrs. Ngolo.

Joseph, you can handle that, can’t you? The bottle’s on the counter in the pantry.

Joseph got up, and his father took the leather chair for himself and put his feet up on the stool. It’s been a long day, he said. The front door slammed. Kyle tramped past and smiled half-heartedly into the living room.

Hello, Mr. Turner.

Hello there, Kyle. You know the Ngolos.

Upstairs Mrs. Turner hurried up the girls and told them to go down and be sociable until she was ready. Helen’s African print dress was a success with the Ngolos. She had brought it from college, and Susan had made her promise to bring her one when she came home next vacation.

Mrs. Turner rushed around pulling down window shades and turning on lights. Then she looked at herself in the mirror at the top of the stairs and went down. Mr. Ngolo stood and bowed when she appeared at the living room door. They exchanged elaborate French compliments, and when she took her seat in the wing chair, he sat down again on the couch and patted it beside him. Come sit here by me, Joseph, he said.

First, Joseph, you can get your mother a drink, said Mr. Turner.

Where’s Kyle? said Mrs. Turner. "He should be serving

drinks. Joseph shouldn’t. He’s too young to be serving drinks."

Kyle came in and explained. I was shoveling.

That should have been done earlier, Kyle.

I had a late class today. Still.

I’m sorry.

That’s all right. We’ll forget it. I’ll have a bourbon on the rocks.

Susan sat in front of the fire. I’ll have a ginger ale, Kyle, she said.

Helen, what will you have? said Kyle.

Nothing for me.

Susan, you’ll get too hot in front of the fire, said Mrs. Turner.

I’m freezing, Mama. I’ve been freezing all day.

Susan, perhaps you will sing for us after dinner, said Mr. Ngolo.

Maybe, said Susan making a face.

When Peter gets here, said Mrs. Turner. He plays the piano. Peter’s our lone-wolf teacher. He eats with us.

You take care of everyone, said Mr. Ngolo. We are lucky to have you.

Don’t be silly, we’re lucky to have you, said Mrs. Turner. Tom, you might have put on a different jacket.

I too had a late class, said her husband.

Kyle brought in the drinks, and Mrs. Turner told him he could relax, get himself something, and join them. Mrs. Turner was good about bringing him right into the family circle, once his chores were done, but it was still an awkward arrangement, boarding with the family.

How do you like the snow, Madame Ngolo? said Joseph.

Ah, I do not like it.

You don’t?

No, I do not like it.

It is too much trouble, said Mr. Ngolo.

Was this the first time you’ve seen snow?

Ah, no, said Mrs. Ngolo. I saw it in Paris several times, but of course it was not so much.

We have quite a winter out here, Ophelie, said Joseph’s father.

I am not looking forward, said Mr. Ngolo. And yet in a way it is a peaceful thing, the snow. I do not know how to say. It makes it very quiet in the street when you drive. It is very strange.

I got stuck this morning, said Joseph’s mother. Up in the village. It took four people to get me out. It was dreadful. It was in the place where you go in to the drive-up window at the bank. She launched into a detailed description. Joseph settled back on the couch and decided not to stay in the conversation he had started about the snow. Conversations always got out of his hands. He wanted to talk to older people, but he did not have anything particular to talk about and he never really cared about the subjects he brought up. So he looked at Mrs. Ngolo from time to time and let his mind drift.

Joseph knew that Kyle had gone into his sister Helen’s room late the night before after his parents and Susan were asleep. He had peeked out of his room and had seen Kyle at the end of the hall opening Helen’s door. Kyle had come out about an hour later, but Joseph had stayed up for hours thinking about it. And all the time his mother was hoping Helen might take to Peter. She protected Peter so much, always having him over for meals. Of course it was Susan, not Helen, who had the crush on Peter, but Peter did not respond in any way except by playing the piano for her. And here he was, Joseph, with a thing for Mrs. Ngolo, which was the least possible crush of all. All these crushes, he thought, and my dumb mother doesn’t have any idea of them.

Helen and Kyle never said much to each other during the day. What they were doing did not seem to have anything to do with a romance. Joseph figured it must be a kind of arrangement they had. When Helen came home from college they’d do it, that was all. It made Joseph jealous, and he wished his mother could have a girl student live in, as a cook or something, but she only

seemed to adopt boys: Peter, Kyle, and Mr. Ngolo. It sometimes made Joseph feel he wasn’t a very satisfactory son if his mother had to keep supplementing him.

Everyone heard the front door open, then slam shut, then boots stamping on the rug and Peter saying, I’m here. Peter was such a regular guest, he did not ring the doorbell anymore. It bothered Joseph.

Hello, Peter, said Joseph’s mother. Get yourself a drink and come warm up by the fire. Still snowing?

Sounds great! said Peter. He stuck his head in the living room and nodded at everyone, then he went on to the kitchen. Dinner smells great! everyone could hear him say.

You’ll like Peter, said Mrs. Turner to Mr. and Mrs. Ngolo. He’s the ancient history teacher at Joseph and Susan’s high school. And he plays the piano.

Good, then we shall have music after dinner, no problem, said Mr. Ngolo.

*   *   *

It began with the soprano voice unaccompanied: Minerva! Then there were two chords which Peter played with more expression than Joseph thought he could get out of them. Minerva! was repeated, lower. Two more chords. Then, O hear me! Chord. Then the aria.

It was Susan’s first number in the opera. She played Princess Ida, and she was the first sophomore in the school’s history to take the female lead. She did have a beautiful voice for a fifteen-year-old of her size, but she actually didn’t care much for music. It annoyed Joseph who loved music but couldn’t sing. Still, he was proud of his sister and tried to coach her in her interpretation when she was feeling co-operative.

They were all in the library sitting around the piano. Joseph’s father was in his T.V. chair, smoking his after-dinner cigar. As a mathematician he had not expected three such verbally-minded children. Helen was a psychology major, Joseph was interested in French and current events, and Susan sang. All of them were terrible in math. Better that way, thought Mr. Turner, not so ingrown.

Mrs. Turner was walking around in the living room emptying ashtrays. She knew she made Susan nervous when she stayed in the library and watched. But Susan didn’t mind singing for the Ngolos. She knew Mr. Ngolo took her seriously as a talented young woman. When she could, Susan looked at him sitting in the straight back chair, with his legs crossed, his black hands clasped around them, his face tense with interest, but she could hardly take her mind off the music because it was a very difficult aria with no pauses, no easy parts.

Joseph did not look at his sister because it embarrassed her. He looked at the books on the shelves and let his mind drift reading the titles. Helen was sitting next to Kyle on the window-seat. It was the first time they had been side by side in front of the family. They were self-conscious about it, but no one else noticed, except Joseph. Kyle’s knee almost touched Helen’s. Joseph wondered if it was just that they enjoyed doing it when they had the chance or whether they were really interested in each other. It had not seemed likely to him before, but they were sitting there now like a couple, as though he were the boy she had brought home to meet her parents.

Peter played very well. He caught up when Susan got a little ahead of him, and he got his entrance perfectly when he came in again after the little cadenza on the word light. Peter was very fond of the Turners, and he felt like part of the family, though he knew Joseph felt odd about his being there all the time. He would have to try to get friendlier with Joseph, though he found it difficult to talk to a fourteen-year-old boy, except as a teacher.

Let fervent words and fervent thoughts be mine,

That I may lead them to thy sacred shrine!

The aria ended, and Mr. Ngolo smiled at Susan in profound gratitude.

*   *   *

Peter followed Joseph out to the kitchen to get a coke. Joseph said something about Peter’s playing, and Peter said, You’ll have to come over sometime, Joseph, and listen to records at my place. Joseph said he would, but he knew he did not want to, even though his mother would probably make him. Peter filled his glass and put in the ice and went back to the living room, not knowing anything more to say.

Joseph was looking around for cookies when Kyle came in with the tray of liqueurs. Joseph liked Kyle, which was strange because Kyle was more of a full-time son than Peter. But his mother protected Peter, she did not protect Kyle. And Kyle never hung around the way Peter did. He was always busy working or going out or, for that matter, having success with women. Joseph had to look up to him.

Hey, Kyle, he said, Helen and Peter don’t seem to hit it off the way Mama thought they would. Joseph figured it was time to bring up the whole subject with Kyle.

Did she think they would?

She thought so, said Joseph. Kyle smiled. What’s so funny?

Your mother’s always arranging things.

I wish she’d arrange something for me, said Joseph.

Like Mrs. Ngolo?

She’s married.

So what’re you doing giving her the eye all evening?

I wasn’t giving her the eye.

Face it, Joe, you aren’t exactly subtle.

Joseph shrugged his shoulders. How come you and Helen were fiddling around on the window-seat? he said.

We weren’t fiddling around.

It was pretty obvious to me, said Joseph.

Hey, Joe, said Kyle, I’m going to have to talk to you sometime soon about me and Helen.

What about you and Helen?

We hit it off pretty well. Yeah, I know. You know what?

I know a few things. Joseph smiled. Hey, Joe, what’re you talking about? You snuck into her room last night.

Hey! said Kyle. He was very surprised. He stared at Joseph. Joseph looked away. It doesn’t bother me what you and my sister do.

What do you think we do?

I guess I think you and Helen are having sex. He took a sip of his coke.

That sounds sort of crude, Joe, said Kyle. I don’t care, it doesn’t bother me what you do. Do you think we might be serious about each other? I don’t know. I doubt it. Why not?

You never do anything else together.

You just said we were fiddling around on the window-seat.

Well, that was the first time.

Are you going to go tell your mother anything?

No.

Then I’ll tell you. Helen and I are very serious about each other.

Are you kidding?

No. We’ve only known each other since I moved in in June. But I’ve been writing to her at college all fall, and now this happened, I mean us sleeping together.

Why is it such a big secret about your being serious? said Joseph.

Can you imagine how it would be with your mother arranging it all?

I suppose.

We would rather feel private about it right now. Is she ever going to be surprised!

Well, just let us do the talking, Joe. Joseph nodded. He was quite happy. It made sense. Helen and Kyle were not just doing it for kicks.

They went back to the living room, and there was not much conversation going on, so Joseph said, How come you bought a Mercedes, Monsieur Ngolo?

It is a fine car.

I heard that the Swahili word for the ruling class is Wa-Benzi, said Joseph, the people of the Mercedes-Benz.

The Ngolos laughed. Of course we do not know Swahili, said Mr. Ngolo, but it is quite true in West Africa too. They all have the Mercedes.

Are you going into politics when you go back?

Ah, said Mrs. Ngolo, we do not talk about that. I tell him no, no. But we do not talk about that.

Joseph, said Mr. Ngolo, your mother said you are going to have an African history course next semester.

Yes.

"That is unusual for a high school, is it not?’’

It’s an experimental course, said Joseph.

It’s a wonderful high school, said his mother.

The conversation went on with long pauses. Susan was sleepy and went up to do her homework. Peter had gone, and Joseph’s father had stayed in the library to work on something. Joseph’s mother asked Joseph to help her in the kitchen a minute, leaving Helen and Kyle to talk to the Ngolos.

They just stay and stay, she said in a whisper as soon as they were in the kitchen. "It must be that in Africa, if you’re invited for dinner you’re expected to make a day out of it. You know I’m so fond of them, Edouard particularly, but they don’t know when to go home. You’d think Peter might have stayed to help me out with them, or made more of a point of going, but he just snuck out with nary