Walking down the darkened hall of the Chateau, I could see the door to Thad’s suite was ajar. A muted Miriam greeted us with warm hugs, whispering how Thad’s migraine had become full-blown and they had to give him a shot. Indeed, the doctor was injecting him as we entered. The off-duty ensign wore a threadbare LAUGH FACTORY T-shirt; there was something sadly sweet sad about the grimy ring of Pan-Cake foundation still clinging to his neck. Clea rushed to the couch and kissed his cheek. He smiled adorably and said, “Call me Olga” (which only occurred to me later was an allusion to Chekhov’s headache-plagued schoolmarm). He gave me a wink.
“Bertram,” he said. “Darling, darling Bertram…”
I didn’t feel I’d yet earned such affections and was wary of his making fun. Such sensitivities betrayed my depths of feeling for the man.
“What are you giving him?” asked Clea of the doctor as she held Thad’s hand.
“A suppository and a shot of old malt whiskey,” said Thad, gamely.
The medico was in his late forties, with closely cropped white hair.
“A migraine cocktail,” he said. “Demerol and Vistaril.”
Clea cooed her tiresome When Harry Met Sally “I’ll have what he’s having” number — sleazy and overobvious. I was never a fan of the exhibitionist side of her that thought it hip to advertise addictions; to me, it vulgarly telegraphed relapse.
“V is for Vistaril,” Thad uttered, on the way to feeling no pain. “V is for vomit. V is for Vorbalid.”
“Will he sleep?” asked Miriam, conversationally. I imagined she’d been through this before.
“Like a patient eulogized upon a table,” said Thad, droopy-lidded. It was somehow reassuring that even in his current state he still liked a pun.
“He’ll sleep,” said the doctor. “We like to say the medicine won’t necessarily make the headache go away — it just won’t bother him anymore.”
“Wait,” said Thad, suddenly queasy. White-faced, he shakily stood. Clea braced him, as did Miriam from the other side.
“Do you want to go to the bathroom?”
He winced, his face relaxing as the vertigo receded. He took a deep breath before settling back on a pillow.
“That fucking starship bouillabaisse…”
“If you need to throw up, go right ahead,” said the doctor, folksily.
“Don’t be facile,” said Thad, soft targets refocusing.
“A horrible patient,” said Miriam, apologetically.
“Oh, he’s not so bad. But I should wait a while. He may need another shot.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? What are they? Two hundred a pop?”
“Thad!” scolded Clea. “Give the man a break. He came all the way at rush hour.”
“Dr. Chaldorer would never be so venal.”
“Is that your regular physician?” said the doc, affably.
“Not just my physician,” Thad rejoined. “He’s responsible for the entire crew.”
“The film crew?”
“He’s a character in our show,” informed Clea, with a slight roll of the eyes.
“You’re an actor,” said the doc. He was a little square — I mean, not only could you see Thad’s Pan-Cake, but here we were at the Chateau. Hello.
“He’s doing Starwatch: The Navigators,” Miriam offered.
I thought it strange the otherwise savvy, intuitive Miriam could grow situationally clunky, cheaply broadcasting the most negligible details of Thad’s identity or career — like an old-fashioned flack, she didn’t seem to have a clue about when to withhold or divulge. (I flashed on her painful chatter with Klotcher on the Vineyard.) At such moments, she seemed perversely inspired to blurt out whatever insipid, useless thing was most likely to wound or set him off.
“Now you do look familiar,” said the doc, warming to his subject. “Were you in that Don Quixote movie?”
“Yes, he was,” said the proud Miriam.
“I saw it on a plane. It was great!” Everything fell into place. “Your father’s the writer?” No one responded. “Jack Michelet? The novelist?”
Shockingly enough, Miriam skillfully aborted exploration of the topic by thanking him for his services.
Turning to Thad, he said, “I want you to try the Zomig.” The doctor gathered his things. “If he feels a headache coming on, he’s to take a pill. They’re two and a half milligrams. He can have up to four, but no more than ten milligrams — total — per day. That, plus the Vicodin. If the headache’s still there, I want you to call.”
“Careful with those Darian showgirls, Doc,” said Thad, good humor briefly returning. “Remember: alien ‘pelvics’ can be a bit pesky. Better to triple-glove.”
“Will he be able to work tomorrow?” asked Miriam.
That was another annoying trait — her tendency to ask a mindless question for which she already knew the answer. But why was I subjecting the girl to such brittle scrutiny? Simple: too much time had elapsed since we’d shagged.
“I don’t see why not. He might be a little unsteady on his feet, but he’s an old hand. The show must go on, no?” He gave Miriam his card. “Call my office or pager. And I can always be reached through the hotel.”
“Do you make housecalls? I mean set calls?” asked Thad, in earnest.
“It’s been known to happen. Yes. That can be arranged.”
“Do you feel it yet?” asked Miriam of the drugs.
“Hasn’t quite kicked in.”
“Oh bullshit,” said Clea, our resident expert. “It’s been at least half an hour.”
“I’m a woman on the verge — the mere knowledge the stoned Pony Express is galloping through the bloodstream with those leathery ol’ saddlebags of painkiller molecules brings me exorbitant comfort.”
“Are you really going to feel like eating?” said Miriam.
“It’s probably not a great idea to load up on food,” I said, supportively.
Clea came and sat beside him. “Why don’t you let me put you to bed?”
“Because I want a shrimp cocktail, OK?” said Thad, imperious. “Don’t worry — I won’t aspirate. And french fries and a fucking cheeseburger. Everyone has to order, is that understood? Mister Karp? Call room service immediately or I’ll kick you where the six Darian suns don’t shine! As acting captain of the good starship Demerol, I command you!”
Thad’s stamina was pretty amazing. We played half-assed duets on the piano, messily eating our food while Clea and Miriam sat on the terrace, smoking and murmuring girl-things. I knew it was neurotic but ever since we met I’d worried he thought of me as just another inane, rich lummox from Clea’s childhood, or — far worse — that I was boring. Sitting side by side on the lacquered bench of the Kawai, I began to loosen up and be myself; maybe it was a contact high. I fantasized we could really be friends. The truth was, I did feel boring next to this man — I didn’t necessarily want to feel his pain but coveted his cadence and complexity. I understood why Clea was so drawn. I actually wanted to please him, and decided that was all right. So we laughed and pounded the keys and I did those impressions I used to haul out at parties years and years ago. At some point, I coined the phrase “endorsement rush” (what athletes feel when they sign a big product deal) and Thad laughed so hard the girls wandered in to see about the commotion.
The three of us had early-morning set calls. Miriam and I left, so Clea could tuck him in. (To our relief, she was staying over.) I walked her downstairs just before midnight and, happily, she asked me in. My curiosity piqued because whatever Miriam had in mind wasn’t amorous; she’d made that clear enough by saying she had “overdosed” (tonight’s theme) on Motrin, due to “Godzilla cramping.” Too bad — if she thought I was going to reject her polite invitation, the hint fell on hard-on ears.