“He’s written four,” said Miriam.
“Number five’s in the works,” said Thad, oddly assertive.
“He’s not a writer,” said the boy, caricature of a sitcom brat. “He’s Sammy Jetson.”
“Number five!” exclaimed Klotcher, like his horse had come in. “All still in print?”
“Covers and everything.”
“Can you send them to me? To my office?”
“We absolutely can,” said Miriam, extending her hand. “I’m Miriam Levine, Thad’s book agent.”
Klotcher twitched, as if startled to discover someone else had been standing there all along. A burst of shop talk ensued, with glib references to mutual acquaintances; the ever-obliging Ms. Levine, on showbiz autopilot, seemed merrily distraught. To me, anyway.
“The books… they’re adaptable?” said Klotcher, like a tourist who’d learned just enough of the local language to ask the natives for basics. “To film? I’m always hunting for properties, always on the prowl. In fact, I’d like to see the galleys of the new one. That’s where we make most of our acquisitions — galleys.” He turned his attention back to Thad. “You know, I did one of your father’s books years ago, with Julie Christie. Hearts and Vagabonds.”
“Yes,” said Miriam, piping in. “I loved it.” At the moment, she was the only one in our group who seemed capable of speech. “I’ll send you The Soft Sea Horse.”
“That’s the one I’d heard of,” said Klotcher, a reptilian glimmer of recognition lighting up precataract eyes. He fumbled with the title, as if soliciting her help to make the deposit in his memory bank: “The Salton Sea—”
“The Soft Sea Horse,” she corrected.
“Marvelous title! Come to California!” he exhorted. “Will you, Thad? We’ll have a lunch or a dinner.” He swiveled toward Miriam, as if she were the royal food taster — or gastroenterologist. “Can he have a dinner?”
“He’ll be there all next month,” she said.
“I’m doing Krapp’s Last Tape in La Jolla,” said Thad, jolting to synthetic life. Klotcher looked at him blankly. Miriam’s adding the word “Beckett” did nothing to clear the producer’s confusion.
“And a two-parter on Starwatch: The Navigators,” said the agent.
(As if that were the plummest of plum actor things.)
“A marvelous show,” said Klotcher, on cue. “Now there’s a phenomenon.”
“Yup. A real Phnom Penh.” Egregiously bored and egregiously drunk, Thad winced at his own wordplay idiocies. “The Cambodians love it. It killed.”
“There you go again!” said Klotcher giddily. “Your father was marvelous with the pun. And polylingual, too — like Nabokov! Now there’s someone who rivaled your dad. Ol’ Black Jack didn’t even want to hear his name. He always thought Nabokov was the one who’d snatch the Nobel from his hands. But neither of ’em got it, did they? Big on butterflies, Nabokov. I knew his wife. And his kid. We tried to option one of his books. Ada, I think it was called. Never worked out.”
To my surprise, Thad segued to a toast (he still had drink in hand) — to me, Bertram Krohn, “putative son” of the Starwatch creator. Klotcher pivoted, duly impressed.
“Starwatch is cool,” said the great-nephew, taking me in. “I want to do a walk-on!”
“Walk on this,” said Thad.
“They’ve asked him to do a game show too,” said Miriam, nervously unstoppable. “One of these postmodern George Schlatter things, with a floating guest spot. Sort of a permanent cameo — like Whoopi did in Hollywood Squares. Merv Griffin and Ryan Seacrest are producing. They’ve offered a ton of money; they’ll be lucky to have him. But Thad’s got so many other projects…”
She looked winsomely toward her old friend but he blew her off.
“The Michelet name’s hot right now,” said Klotcher, hoisting an imaginary glass of his own. The crusty old pro frowned and recanted. “Sorry — didn’t mean that to sound disrespectful.” He delicately lifted the glass again, bowing to everyone present. “To continuing the legacy! Salud!”
As soon as they left, Thad’s mood darkened. (I was amazed by his relative civility during the encounter.) He scolded his agent, cruelly mocking her postmodern floating-guest-spot riff. He called her “the unstinkable Molly Brown-Noser” and, when Clea rushed to her defense, grew venomous. There was always a mysterious — I should say sadomasochistic — undertow between those two, a tacit agreement that Clea literally bow her head in penance as the blows rained down. After a blunt screed that cut her to the quick, he strode through the sandy gap in the brush and headed for the pounding waves. Clea took her shoes off and followed, sprinting as he sped up. I leaped in pursuit until I felt Miriam’s hand upon my arm, holding me back. We already possessed the physical shorthand of lovers; both touch and look assured that Clea was in no imminent danger. Time and again she’d seen the couple play out this scene and knew best not to interfere.
We went back to the main house to decompress. Miriam drank wine and I guzzled Diet Coke as we numbly mingled among guests before saying our good-byes to Morgana. For the first time, she stood back and sized me up. There was real kindness in his mother’s eyes as she thanked me for having come all the way from Los Angeles “to be with the family, such as it is.” Morgana knew that my father was a honcho — she was good at retaining details, however hastily imparted, particularly when they applied to money or status — and tenderly asked if I’d “look after” her boy when he did his Starwatch “thing.” She was full of shit but I liked her nonetheless.
She turned to Miriam and stage-whispered, “There’s a plot for him beside Jeremy’s. When he saw that today, it made him furious. I know it sounds gothic, but it’s… it’s, well it’s just right that he should be buried there. I understand Thaddeus having resentments. His father did not do well by him — not by anyone—it wasn’t the best family but it’s the only one we’ve got. The only one he’s got — that’s what I told him. My God, Thaddeus, no one fed you dog shit or Seconal! Nanny didn’t masturbate you — far as I know. Maybe that would have been a good thing. By contemporary standards, we were the von Trapps. But Miriam, won’t you please talk to him? About Jeremy? I mean, where else is there for him to go? His brother’s been there over forty years. Forty years! And now Jack—” Tears welled up; she loved an audience. “And I shall be there, long before Thad. Though sometimes,” she amended, “I’m not so sure. The way he treats himself…”
She took a fashionably loose cigarette from the pocket of her shirt; Klotcher appeared en passant to deftly light it before discreetly disappearing. Morgana inhaled, blowing smoke like a dragon.