Nobody's Wife

The Massachusetts Review, Inc.
Nobody's Wife
Author(s): Portia Bohn
Reviewed work(s):
Source: The Massachusetts Review, Vol. 34, No. 4 (Winter, 1993), pp. 621-632
Published by: The Massachusetts Review, Inc.
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Portia Bohn
Nobody's Wife
met Leonard cohen at the laundromat. Leonard
I Cohen, the balladeer? The doctor thinks there's a connec
tion between my flushing the lithium down the toilet and
my meeting Leonard Cohen, but I don't like to believe that.
It was, though, directly after I flushed the lithium that
I met him. I hate lithium. It always makes me feel as if
I'm living under a blanket. All wrapped up. Life can't get
to me. So this time?for no reason I can name?I said to
hell with everything, and I flushed it. And the party began.
I walked around smiling and talking to people. I felt
great. I threw out my clothes and bought all new outfits.
My favorite was a blue and white kimono I got from The
Salvation Army Store. I cut off the bottom and wore it over
black toreador pants. I could tell by the way people looked
at me that I looked outstanding. The only thing was that
the bottom kept unravelling where I cut it, so to look ab
solutely perfect, I had to carry a scissors and kind of
surreptitiously snip off the threads.
About a week later was when I met Leonard Cohen at
the laundromat. I used to go to that one on Second Ave
nue and Sixth Street, right next to Schacht's? One time I
saw Bobby Kennedy there, but that was a time ago,
long
of course. Before he died. Anyhow, this time I saw Leonard
Cohen. He was just going into the wash cycle. Leonard
Cohen! I could hardly believe my eyes. Imean, you don't
expect to meet a renowned poet-singer at your laundromat.
He was wearing a trench coat and he held a half-peeled
banana, just like the picture on the jacket of his "I'm Your
Man" album.
I said, "You're Leonard Cohen, aren't you?"
He looked surprised that I'd recognized him, but he
admitted he was.
621
The Massachusetts Review
"I am a big fan of yours," I said.

Describing myself as a "fan" was really toning it down,
since my marathon binges of his records had at one time
inspired the neighbors to circulate a written complaint: She
keeps us awake every night loudly playing records of amale
vocalist who sings extremely neurotic and depressing songs,
which most of us believe contributed toMrs. Friedman's
breakdown in 4C.
And now here he was, in person, my favorite recording
artist. He looked even darker and more brooding than in
his pictures.
"I know every one of your songs," I told him. I sang a
line from Famous Blue Raincoat: "'. . . and when she
'
came back she was nobody's wife. Would you do me a favor
and explain that lyric to me?" I said. "I've never understood
that lyric."
He looked at the clock on the wall. "If you have a few
minutes, we could run over to a bar, and I could explain
it to you," he said.
My heart pounded. I had never imagined such a thing.
But I tried to act cool.
"McSorley's is right around the corner," I said.

We could smell the odor of stale beer three doors before
we got there. It was afternoon, and the place wasn't crowd
ed yet with the kids who spill out the doors and onto the
sidewalk in the evening. We sat at one of the round, wooden
tables in those big captain's chairs. Only one other customer
shared the place with us, a man standing at the bar.
"What'll it be?" the bartender asked.
Leonard had left his wallet in his other trench coat, so
I paid for the beers.
"So, Leonard," I said, "tell me, was that Janice Joplin
you slept with at The Chelsea Hotel?"
He looked surprised, but not offended. "A gentleman
doesn't name names," he said.
I liked that. I wished I'd met a few of those gentlemen
who didn't name names earlier in my life. His skin was
tanned, and he had a big nose. I always like a man with
622
Nobody's Wife
a big nose.
"I feel privileged to be here inMcSorley's Bar with you."
I raised my glass to him.
"And I feel privileged to be here with such a beautiful
woman," he said.
"I'm not too old for you?" I shot a quick look at him
to see how he reacted. He took it okay. "Actually, I don't
think I'm that much older than you," I added, "but I know
men like young girls."
He said he liked amature woman, that young girls bored
him.
"Like Janice?" I said, sneaking one in.
"Oh," he said, "you are too clever by far."
I hadn't noticed before, but now I saw he had his guitar
with him. Holding it close, he plucked one string, then
another.
I said, "Where do you get the inspiration for your songs,
Leonard?"
"Inside myself," he said.
"Every experience I've ever had,
every person I've ever known, is in there, just waiting for
me to turn them into music." He tightened the guitar pegs,
plucked a string, and brought it up to his ear to listen. "Like
you, baby, you're down there in the hopper right now, wait
ing your turn."
He strummed a single chord, loud.
"Nola Jean," he sang, kind of mellow and sexy. Then,
looking startled, he said:
"Well, here she comes, now. This
song's about you, baby."

"My name isn't Nola Jean."
He shrugged. "This song is about the essence of you."
He closed his eyes, threw back his head, and sang: "She
came into the launderette, with her very own breath of
brandy and death, draggin' her tail in the sea."
"Those are the lyrics from Take this Waltz," I said.
"Yeah. A good lyric bears repeating." He pulled a pack
of cigarettes out of his coat pocket, shook one loose, and
stuck it between his lips. He had a very sensuous mouth.
"Where did you come from, Leonard? Where are you
623
heading?"
He strummed some chords. "Came from hell. On my way
to the moon."
The pace made me feel light-headed. "That's quite an
itinerary. Who's your travel agent?"

He laughed. "It's gotta be a woman, right?" He rested
his cigarette in the ashtray and strummed another chord.
"I'm lookin' for a travelin' companion." He glanced at me.
"I've been to hell," I said. "Does that qualify me for the
moon trip?"
"Depends on what you're looking for there."
"Oh, I'd just go along for the party." I tried to act real
casual, so he wouldn't see how badly Iwanted to be taken
along. "I'm in a party mood."
"Baby, you're a one-woman party. I recognized that right

off at the launderette." He threw back his head, again, and
sang:
"So I travelled to Inja

And I travelled to Speen,
But I couldn't forget
My sweet Nola Jean."
"I wish you'd choose some other name besides Nola

Jean." My voice sounded
complaining, even to myself.
"You cannot argue with The Muse, baby, or she'll just
take away her gift. You're lucky she didn't name you Boris."
His face lighted up. "Hey, wait a minute!
When Boris met Doris,

They screwed in the forest."
"Those don't sound like your usual lyrics." I tried to

keep my expression noncommittal, in case he was putting
me on.
"They're the lyrics I always wanted to write, but never

had the courage." His dark eyes were intense. "You're
my muse."
624
Nobody's Wife
"I hope people won't think I've commercialized you."

"What people think should never bother us." He turned
my hand over and pressed his thumb against the diagonal
scar on the inside of my wrist. "You and I, baby, we stand
separate from the crowd."
Some people came in and sat at the bar. "I always wanted
to be a singer," I confessed.
"So what happened?"
"A couple of marriages. I didn't find marriage much fun,
though, so I never stuck it out."
"Fun!" He shot the word out on a little rush of air.
"If God had intended marriage to be fun, he would have
named it Disneyland." He tightened another peg on his
guitar and stood up. "Sing with me, now," he said.
He lifted me up on the bar, and we did Everybody Knows.
I crossed my legs, sorry I didn't have on a skirt. By this time,
more people came into McSorley's, and they gathered
around us. They wore glittering paper hats. Leonard letme
take the last few lines by myself; he just played real soft and
melancholy on his guitar, and looked at me with a funny
little half smile.
The bartender moved to stand behind me. I could tell I
turned him on, but there was only one man in that place
that caught my attention.
"That was great," Leonard said when we finished.
Everyone whistled and stomped. As he lifted me back down,
he held me so that I slid against his body to the floor. He
felt lean and hard. I laughed, just for the joy of feeling his
body against mine.
Still holding me against him, and smiling deep into my
eyes, he said, "I like your laugh," which was lucky, because
suddenly I couldn't stop laughing. I laughed and laughed,
until all the people in their sparkling party hats began
laughing, too.
We sat back at our table. "I wish you'd travel with me,"
he said. "It gets bloody lonely, travelling by myself."
When he said "bloody" like that, I remembered he was
Canadian.
625
"I'd like to go home to Canada with you," I said.

He leaned across the table, his eyes so dark and intense,
I could hardly sustain his look. It was like staring into
a hundred-watt bulb. Mesmerized, I touched his mouth
with my fingers, tracing the ridge that outlined his lips.
He cupped my face in his hands.
"I've waited for you all my life," he said, his voice husky;
then he kissed me. I'd never been kissed like that. So slow
and easy, as if we had all the time in the world, as if the
world were a big bed.
"I'll just be aminute," I said, and went back to the Ladies
Room. I thought I would put in my diaphragm, just in
case. But when I opened my purse, my diaphragm wasn't
there. I was confused. I always carried it there, in its shell
shaped, pearlescent box. I dumped everything out, and
found some strange a Vicks inhaler, a corn
really things:
plaster, a phial of Thorazine tablets?the label dated 1975,
and a used tea bag. But no diaphragm. Ifmy name hadn't
been on the Thorazine label, I would have thought the
purse belonged to someone else.
I went back to the barroom. Leonard Cohen was gone.
I couldn't believe it. Sitting in his place at our table was
an old bum.
"Ah, there you are, sweetheart," he said with boozy
good cheer. "I thought you'd fallen in." His toothless
mouth gaped like a rat hole in his purple face.
"Who the hell are you talking to, you crazy old coot?"
I screamed and shouted. I think I really lost it.
The bartender said to a man standing at the bar, "Doesn't
itmake you long for the days when broads weren't allowed
in here?"
"You creep!" I smashed my beer glass on the floor.
"Listen, hag, cool it," he said, "and get out of here before
I call the cops." His eyes looked mean.
I got out, but I dragged my kimono sleeve across the top
of the bar so that I took a bunch of glasses with me.
Iwent back to the laundromat, but Leonard wasn't there,
626
Nobody's Wife
and his clothes were gone. So that, I said tomyself, is that.

Forget the trip to Canada. Forget The Muse. But he never
did tell me what "nobody's wife" meant, and I was really
disappointed about that.
I thought the party was over, and I started to feel a little
sad, but that night, on the six o'clock news, I got a message
from Leonard to meet him at the laundromat. It came from
a woman newscaster who did a little special on businesses.
She said that in New York City self service laundries had
turned into big business, and that a man named Cohen
owned a chain of them. This man, Cohen, she said, super
vised his own establishments, and could often be found
right on the premises of one launderette or the other,
overseeing the management of the place. Then she stopped
talking, looked directly out at me, and winked.
I was elated, Oh, Leonard, you sly cat! I sang, "There
ain't no cure, there ain't no cure, there ain't no cure for
love," while I got into the tight black velvet skirt which was
slit up to the thigh that I'd stolen from a second-hand store,
and the low-cut organza blouse with its multiple fuchsia
bows, and I put flowers in my hair and drew a nice dark
liner around my eyes. That last part was hard because I
don't ever look at myself a
in mirror, but if you use a mag
nified glass, you can manage to see just one eye at a time,
or only your lips, small sections like that that don't add up
to anything.
When I got to the laundromat, Leonard wasn't there yet,
so I sat down to wait in one of the chairs in front of the
washers. Two women were having a fight. The older one
reminded me of my sister. She spoke with such authority.
"No," she said to the younger woman, "you put the
bleach in during the wash cycle."
"Screw you, Nola Jean," I said. That's my sister's name.
We're twins. Although not identical, of course.
"It's not only that Nola Jean is better looking than you,"
my mother would say, "but you are such a mess. Look at
your hair." She'd slap a piece of it around with her hand.
627
"It's so tangled and brittle it looks as if itwould break off."

The younger woman did what the older one said, then
they went and sat back by the dryers. Still no Leonard. I
found I was humming Last Year's Man.
"He's a Jew. Has to be, right?" I asked the woman sitting
next tome who I'd caught looking admiringly at my outift.
"With a name like Leonard Cohen, what else could he be?
But he's always singing about Jesus and the cross and like
that. So how do you figure?"
She didn't answer me. That happens a lot. Anyhow, I
know he's Jewish. He doesn't have that pukey WASP look.
I've always been attracted to Jewish men. There's some
thing so sexy about them, kind of weary but amused.

When Iwent to NYU, I dated Bert Levy, and my mother
said tomy sister, "Oh, God, if she marries that Jewish boy,
we'll have to go to her apartment every year for Seder."
My first husband was Jewish, but we didn't celebrate the

holidays. Not that my mother would have come, anyhow.
Washer Number one that Leonard had used that
3?the
morning?kept catching my eye. It had a hand printed sign
on the door: "Out of Order. Broken Dowsevy." What in hell
was a "broken dowsevy?" I asked myself. And then, with
a caught breath, it came to me: Broken Dowsevy was an
anagram for Everybody Knows, Leonard's that we'd song

sung together at McSorley's. There was for me a message
in that machine. my arms together, I tiptoed over.
Hugging
When I opened the door, sure enough, there it was. Ly
ing inside on the washer unit, Leonard had left a business

card from Original Ray's Pizza. It was so water soaked the
letters were almost washed away. I thought that was a clever
touch. Obviously this card was meant for my eyes alone;
Leonard intended to keep his whereabouts hidden from
everyone else.
So I went to the pizza parlor, which was across the street
on Second at the corner of Seventh. The place was empty,
except for the counter man, who was throwing pizza dough
high in the air.
628
Nobody's Wife
"Did anyone come around looking for me?" I asked him.
"A man?"
The guy glanced at me, kind of deadpan. "What does he
look like?"
"He has a big nose, sensuous and he's wearing a
lips,
trench coat and carrying a half peeled banana."
"No," he said.
"You're sure?" I didn't trust him.
"Even in here a man like that would stand out," he said,
and tossed the pizza dough over his head.
So I sat down at one of the tables. The woman who re
minded me of Nola Jean walked by the window dragging
her laundry cart behind her.
The last time I saw my sister, she took me for a ride in
her chauffeur-driven Cadillac. She obviously considered
this some kind of treat.
"You are fifty-seven years old," she said. (Like she
wasn't.) "It's time you took some responsibility and set

tled down."
What she meant was that I have no husband. Nola Jean
has always felt superior that she stayed married to the same
dreary man all these years, while my marriages and affairs

dissolved like soap chips.
"You're my sister," she said, "and I guess I love you, but
I have to tell you, you're an embarrassment."
"Nola Jean," I said, watching the manicured lawns of
Westchester pass by, "you don't have to say you love me.
I don't love you."
"You don't?" She sounded suddenly hopeful. "You're
not saying that just to be nice?"
"No."
"Oh, well, then."

A guy came into the pizza parlor and ordered a single
slice with pepperoni. He sat opposite me, but down one
chair. He had kind of scraggly blond hair, dirty looking,
and a thin, weasely face.We got to talking. He had a funny
accent: he said "aboot" for about, and clipped off the ends
629
of his words. He came from Canada, he told me. Which

put me on to him.
"Leonard Cohen sent you, didn't he?" I asked.
He pretended not to understand what Iwas talking about,
but after I explained a few things about Leonard, and how
we were in love, he finally admitted they were good friends.
They'd grown up together.
"I was practically sitting in his lap when he wrote
Marianne," he told me.
That's such a funny thing for a man to say that I im
mediately got suspicious. I thought he was up to no good,
and to protect Leonard I decided to stick with this guy for
awhile, just to see what his game was.
We went to his place, a falling-down
rooming house on
Avenue C with patches of brick showing through the crum
bled cement facing. The hallway smelled like old take-out
food. We had to climb a bunch of sagging stairs to get to
his room. On the way up we passed two men who stopped
to watch us. Swarthy. One had a mole on his forehead.
My friend's door was right by the top of the stairs.
"After you," he said with a silly grin. So I went in first.
Inside, a couch was opened up with sheets wadded
dirty
on it, and on the floor next to it a pile of newspapers
had collapsed and gotten spread around. The house was
very noisy. People seemed to go up and down the stairs
constantly, past his door. Each time it sounded as though
they were coming into his room, which took a little getting
used to.
"Do you want a beer?" he asked me.
I said, sure, and sat in his only chair, which had a short
leg.
He took two cans of Budweiser out of a little cooler on
the floor in the corner, but all the ice had melted, weeks
ago, judging by the stale, scuzzy smell of the wet cans. So
we drank warm beer.
"Tell me about when you and Leonard were boys in
Canada," I said, rocking experimentally on the short leg
of my chair.
630
Nobody's Wife
"Are you still on that kick?" He looked at me suspi
ciously. "You're kidding me, aren't you?"
I assured him that I was not, that I really wanted to
hear all about his days in Canada when he and Leonard
were young.
"Well, Leonard was a pisser," he said, and then laughed.
"I don't believe this."
"Did you always call him Leonard?" I asked.
"Lenny," he said. "We called him Lenny," and he
laughed again.
"Go on," I said.
"Well, I don't know what to tell you. One time my father
beat him for stealing money from the old man in the fruit
stand on the corner. He beat him so bad Lenny couldn't
sit down for a couple of days. My old man was a maniac."
Something about the story confused me. "Why would

your father beat Leonard Cohen? It would seem more
appropriate for his own father to punish him."
He sat up, very stiff.
"Listen," he said?he sounded mad and his face turned
shiny red?"I don't want to talk about this anymore. Do
you mind? I'm afraid I'll get as nutsy as you are."
"Nutsy?"
"Well, look at the way you're dressed. You look ridicu
lous. You're too old to dress like that. And your makeup!
You look like a racoon. An old racoon."
My party was beginning to break up. I could feel it go.
Everything inside me was to shred.
starting
"I think I'll be leaving, now," I said.
He jumped up. "Don't leave me alone. Please." Panic
shook his voice. I could see it in his eyes. "I'm sorry I said
that. Sit down here with me on the couch. I'll tell you some
more about when Leonard Cohen and I were kids."
"I can't get involved with anyone, right now," I said. I
kept standing, looking longingly at the door, trying to keep
my party together. "I'm saving myself for Leonard Cohen."
His face changed, suddenly. "Listen, you old bat, don't
flatter yourself. You'd be lucky if I took an interest in you.
631
You're old and you're nuts. I just thought I'd be nice." Tears
welled in his eyes. "Oh, Christ!"
He looked so young. Itwrenched my heart. What would
it hurt me to be kind? I hesitated another moment.
"All right," I said, finally. "But I lost my diaphragm, so
we'll have to be careful."
"Diaphragm!" he said. "Are you kidding? Oh, God,

I feel like I've walked into The Twilight Zone. Oh, it's too
much. It's all just too much." He lay on the bed and started
to cry.
That was my chance to get out. But I lost it. The boy
was sobbing quietly, hopelessly.
"Sh. Sh." I sat next to him, gathered him up in my arms,
and began rocking him. My fingers got greasy from strok
ing his hair. "Everything's going to be all right," I said.
He nuzzled his head against my shoulder. As I rocked I sang
Famous Blue Raincoat: "... and when she came back she
was nobody's wife."
I knew I'd never see Leonard Cohen again.
632

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The Massachusetts Review, Inc.

"I am a big fan of yours," I said.

"McSorley's is right around the corner," I said.

tanned, and he had a big nose. I always like a man with

song's about you, baby."

itinerary. Who's your travel agent?"

"Baby, you're a one-woman party. I recognized that right

"So I travelled to Inja

"I wish you'd choose some other name besides Nola

When Boris met Doris,

"Those don't sound like your usual lyrics." I tried to

"They're the lyrics I always wanted to write, but never

"I hope people won't think I've commercialized you."

"I'd like to go home to Canada with you," I said.

and his clothes were gone. So that, I said tomyself, is that.

"It's so tangled and brittle it looks as if itwould break off."

thing so sexy about them, kind of weary but amused.

My first husband was Jewish, but we didn't celebrate the

anagram for Everybody Knows, Leonard's that we'd song

ing inside on the washer unit, Leonard had left a business

wasn't.) "It's time you took some responsibility and set

dreary man all these years, while my marriages and affairs

"Oh, well, then."

of his words. He came from Canada, he told me. Which

Something about the story confused me. "Why would

"Diaphragm!" he said. "Are you kidding? Oh, God,

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