Joy: A Novel

Chapter 1

Allegra Dixon could remember perfectly the day her mother left. She was six years old. Anna, the housekeeper, was off. Allegra’s mother, Isabelle, usually slept late, and her father, Bradley, was home from one of his long trips. She had learned early on not to bother them and to make as little noise as possible. She was tiptoeing down the stairs to get something to eat for breakfast, and she heard her parents talking in the kitchen. They were speaking loud enough for her to hear them before she entered the room. She wasn’t sure whether to go in or not, so she stopped to listen.

Her parents didn’t shout. They were polite to each other. When Allegra’s father wasn’t home, her mother laughed a lot. Allegra thought her laughter sounded like bells. Isabelle was exquisite. She had long red hair, green eyes, and a beautiful face. She wore fancy dresses and jewelry, and perfume that smelled delicious. When Allegra’s father was away, her mother went out almost every evening, and the housekeeper would stay with her until her mother came home. They lived in Washington, D.C., in a house in Georgetown. Isabelle often went to New York to see her friends, and Anna would stay then too. Isabelle’s parents, Allegra’s grandparents, the VanderHolts, lived in New York.

Her father was in the army. He wore a uniform and was very handsome. He went to faraway places and stayed a long time, sometimes even a year. He went to places like Libya and Liberia in Africa, and South America. He only came home from time to time. When he was home he worked at a place called the Pentagon. He hardly spoke to Allegra, and when he did, he never seemed to know what to say. He would ask her about school, or tell her how much she had grown since he’d last seen her, which had always been a long time.

Their voices in the kitchen sounded serious that day. Her mother wasn’t laughing. Allegra heard her say that she was going back to New York. Her father asked her what she expected him to do with “the child.” He usually referred to her as the child and seldom used her name when he spoke about her, so she assumed the question was about her. He said he would be leaving again in two weeks. Isabelle said that Allegra could stay at the house in Washington with Anna. She couldn’t take a child with her. She was planning to stay with friends. Allegra’s father said that was impossible. The child needed at least one parent with her, and Isabelle said she wasn’t going to be it.

Allegra tiptoed away quietly, deciding it wasn’t the right time to enter the kitchen. She was frightened and confused. Her heart was beating fast. If her mother was leaving and couldn’t take her, and her father was going away again, and she couldn’t stay alone in Washington with Anna unless she had a parent with her—­what was going to happen to her? What did it mean for her? She hardly ever saw her paternal grandparents, and they were very old. Her mother had said her parents weren’t an option either. Allegra went back upstairs to her room and sat on her bed with her teddy bear in her arms. His name was George. She had to wait for them to tell her where she was going.

When she walked back to her room, Allegra saw her mother’s suitcases lined up outside her bedroom. She’d seen her packing the day before. Her pretty dresses had been laid out on her bed. Allegra guessed that she was going to a party in New York. She always took a lot of clothes with her, but this time she was taking even more.

Allegra sat quietly on her bed for a long time, waiting for them to come to see her. She wasn’t hungry anymore. She heard a car come then, and voices downstairs. She heard footsteps on the landing. They came and went for a little while, and then the front door closed. The car drove away, and no one came to her room to see her.

Her father didn’t come up for a long time. She waited all day. They had forgotten her. They did that sometimes when they were busy. And then the door opened and her father walked in. He was wearing his uniform and he looked very serious. He looked at her sitting on her bed with the bear in her arms. He stared at her for a minute. She was a tiny miniature of her mother, with the same red hair and green eyes. Possibly an unwelcome reminder now. Then finally, he spoke.

“Your mother’s gone away,” he said in a solemn voice. He hesitated for an instant and then added, “She’s not coming back.” He waited, not knowing what else to say, and then he turned around and left and closed the door softly behind him. He had forgotten that there was no one in the house to feed Allegra, since it was Anna’s day off. It didn’t matter. Allegra wasn’t hungry anyway. She sat looking at the door, holding George tightly in her arms. Her father hadn’t told her where she was going, or if she was going anywhere. She had no idea what was to become of her. All she could think of was that her mother had forgotten to say goodbye when she left. Her father always told her to be brave, so she didn’t cry, in case he came back to her room. But he didn’t. She curled up into a ball on her bed, holding George, until she fell asleep.

The briefly torrid affair between Bradley Dixon and Isabelle VanderHolt had lasted months, and the marriage seven years. Everything about it was improbable. She was a Golden Girl, a dazzling young debutante-­turned-­socialite in New York, the wild child of the ultrarespectable VanderHolts. At eighteen, after graduating from an exclusive private girls’ school in New York, she had no interest in college. She had fallen in with the fashionable underground elite of the city, with Andy Warhol and his entourage. She was a nightly regular at Studio 54, known as “a modern day Gomorrah,” a hotbed of drugs and disco, socialites mingling with musicians, Hollywood stars, and a hefty dose of appealing riffraff. The ambience was racy and unsuitable. Her parents had long since given up trying to rein her in. She was their only child. A trust fund set up by her paternal grandparents gave her total autonomy at twenty-­one. Her parents couldn’t stop her. She was beautiful and young and wild, with Rita Hayworth looks and a body to match. She’d been paired with various inappropriate people, including her friends at Warhol’s Factory. She’d made cameo appearances in several of his films, more beautiful than any movie star. She was twenty-­one when she met Bradley Dixon.

It was 1979, and Colonel Bradley Dixon, much decorated hero, veteran of Vietnam, had spent the last four years, after the final skirmishes in Vietnam, in Laos, Cambodia, and various trouble spots in Africa. High-­ranking in the Military Intelligence Corps, he’d played an important role in the signing of the peace in Vietnam. He was forty-­three years old the night he walked into Studio 54 with friends, wearing black tie and not his uniform, and saw Isabelle. It wasn’t his usual scene, but his friends insisted he go with them. They said he needed to loosen up. They weren’t wrong. He had lived in the military all his life. Only son, only child of four-­star general Tom Dixon, Bradley had grown up all over the world. He had graduated from West Point and had trained for military intelligence early in his career. He’d married an army brat like himself, the daughter of another high-­ranking officer. The marriage fell apart while he was in Vietnam for extended tours of duty. His career always came first and wasn’t compatible with marriage. His wife had divorced him while he was gone, and eventually married someone else, another officer with a tamer and less illustrious career. Bradley had no children with her and had never remarried. One had to make choices in life. His first love was his career, until he met Isabelle that night.

He had spotted her as soon as he walked into Studio 54, a dazzling redhead dancing wildly with a famous Black singer. She saw Bradley too, handsome in black tie. He had two drinks and asked her to dance. They danced for hours, and he left her at Studio 54 and went back to his hotel, bewitched by her. He was based in Washington, D.C., for a few months, and came to New York often to see her. They were married in six months. She was twenty-­two years old and he was forty-­three. Her parents were dubious about the match, and about her ability to settle down. Bradley’s father wasn’t enthused about Isabelle either. Everything about her spelled trouble, starting with her looks, her friends, her history, her freedom.