It was with mild surprise that I found myself pumping Miriam for historic details re: the House of Michelet on the morning I drove her to LAX (a Thursday toward the end of the two-parter’s first week of filming; I was on hold till after lunch). I was trying to glean the look and feel, the fabric of Thad’s early life. It was uncharacteristic of me to have the energy for such a campaign — a welcome distraction from my usual self-involvement. Subconsciously, I suppose work had already begun on this very narrative, the writer in me instinctively gathering pigment to make a fireside portrait of the artist as, well… a man.
“You met Jack Michelet at Yale?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I thought you met him through Thad.”
“Uh-uh. I was a student there. He lectured.”
“Right. And… so you — did you… interact?”
“There was a Q and A, then we took him to dinner.”
“Right.”
“What’s with ‘right’?”
“What do you mean?”
“You keep saying ‘right, right’—”
“So? I’m within my rights.”
“You are such a dufus.” She laughed and lit a cigarette. “No, I didn’t sleep with him, if that’s what you’re crudely angling at. Which I hope you’re not because that would be really offensive.” Then, apropos of nothing: “Do you think they’re going to blow up the airport today?”
“I think that’s scheduled for later in the week.”
“Oh! I forgot to ask what you thought of Miss Clea’s big idea.” I shook my head. “The TV show — she didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“It’s probably a surprise.”
“What.”
“Maybe you should hear it from her.”
“Come on, bullshit. What is it?”
“She wants to do a sitcom with Thad. Not a sitcom but more like a ‘dramedy’—is that a word? A smart improv thing, like Curb Your Enthusiasm. That’s what Clea said. About what it’s like to have a famous mom and dad. She and Thad would star but I’m not sure she meant they’d actually play themselves. That part sounded kind of too ‘reality show.’ But I think she thinks they could get away with having, like, famous fictional parents, with fictional vocations. I mean not, like, a big movie star and a famous writer but maybe famous in some other field. She wants to pitch it to the networks while Thad’s still here. I like it. I mean, if it’s done like Larry David, I think it could be really great.”
After we finished shooting that day, I stopped by Clea’s dressing room.
I mentioned hearing about the celebrity offspring project from Miriam. I was actually kind of hurt she hadn’t brought it up — we always hashed over dumb ideas together — but Clea prattled on, coolly ignoring my sulk. (All peevishness aside, I thought the idea was exploitative and trivially bogus.) She caught my mood but neither of us wanted to go there. We knew we’d been in murky waters of late. As a peace offering, I asked if she wanted to hit the gym.
When Clea said she was having “sciatica” problems, I smugly asked, “Why don’t you just tell me you’re using again?”
“What?” Her face contorted in a loony smile, as if I’d gone psycho.
“Oh please! Please don’t bullshit me, Clea. It’s so pathetic. And really, really sad, OK? You’ve been doing so great.”
“Don’t you fucking patronize me!” She gathered her energy before making an actor’s choice to commit to a lie. “I’ve been in pain, Bertie. If that’s all right with you. I’ve been to three acupuncturists and four chiropractors. I’ve had two MRIs”—I was wondering where she found the time—“and no one can figure it out, OK? I took one empirin codeine, OK? I was on a shitload of anti-inflammatories—nada. I can’t sleep, all right? You know what happens when I can’t sleep. I freak. I slur words. I can’t learn my lines, I panic attack. You’re lucky. You don’t have those kind of problems. You’re so fucking blessed. You know what? I may really want to. And I’m not saying I won’t. But at the current moment, I am not getting loaded. OK?”
“You sure act like you are.” I wasn’t proud of proselytizing but the train had already left the station. “You need to be careful, Clea. People are gonna know. It doesn’t matter if the reason is legitimate.” (I gave her that.) “People aren’t going to give a shit. You’ve worked too fucking hard—”
“Yeah, right!” she said, sarcastically. “It’s so artistically gratifying to sit in a chair for ninety minutes and have four pounds of latex glued to my face! Tell me, Bertie: what’s gonna happen if the world press finds out I’m taking a little codeine”—she spat the word out with supreme condescension, like it was a multivitamin—“to relieve some shitty, intractable pain. Is Katie Couric going to call, Bertie? Think they’ll want me on Dateline?”
“Why don’t you lower your voice?”
She kicked it up a notch instead. “Is your daddy gonna ban me from the dunking booth at the next Starwatch convention?”
I backpedaled, without softening my message. “I’m just saying you have to start going to meetings again. And you need a better doctor,” I advised, indulging her fantasy of musculoskeletal alignment. “An orthopedist. Gita’s the total maven — she’ll find you one.” I took on a somber tone. “And you have to be careful, Clea. You’re with him all the time. Look: I really like your boyfriend but he’s a major addict-alcoholic. I know it’s hard not to use when you’re sleeping together.”
“You know, you know, you know,” she mocked.
“Yeah well one thing I do know is it isn’t great for you to be around that, twenty-four/seven.”
She paused before blurting out, “You’re fucking Miriam.”
“OK,” I said, with a dumb smile.