On a typical day, Mr. Michelet catnapped in a lawn chair in front of his trailer while Clea and I took over the bedroom, ostensibly to work on one of a thousand or so projects. The truth was, I had begun a leisurely read of the out-of-print Soft Sea Horse—ordered online just after the funeral, it had finally come — while Clea obsessed over Playboy. The current issue contained a witty photo essay by David LaChapelle featuring an old friend of hers, also the daughter of an icon of silverscreen, albeit one still living. Hefner’s people had a long-standing, lucrative offer on the table and with each new issue Clea contemplated blowing out the candles of her birthday suit afresh, before there were too many.
We were thus engrossed when inquiring voices disturbed our peace.
“Thad? Is that him?”
“Of course, it’s him. They said it’s his trailer.”
The first again, louder: “Thad!”
We rushed forward and there they were, figures in a scary dream: Morgana Michelet and Mordie K, at the foot of the trailer’s entry, cautiously ogling the cubistic Morloch as fussy merchants might observe a transient dozing in the vestibule of their shop. Her eyes lit upon us as we appeared at the door; smiling awkwardly in our futurama getup, we felt the full sting of Morgana’s phaser, set eternally on Humiliate. Just then the sleeping Vorbalid stirred from his psychopharmacologically induced haze and, blinking rapidly, sat up with veteran professionality to exclaim — strand of spittle brocading his mouth—“Mother!”
“Freak!” cried Klotcher’s great-nephew, in admiration of Morloch’s impressive deformities. “That is so cool.”
Clea stepped between Thad and the boy, as buffer.
Morgana gaped at the ambassador, not yet recognizing the girl underneath. Finally, the old woman eked out “Clea?”—like a dowager discovering that a new society friend was a sales assistant at Walgreen’s instead.
“Hi,” I offered, lamely bright, extending a mitt in the direction of Mordy/Morgana. With no takers, the hand retracted. In its place, I tendered a pathetic reminder—“I’m Bertie Krohn. My father created the show”—that we’d met on the Vineyard, blah. The M & Ms’ mouths widened but still said nothing; I suppose they were in shock though I wasn’t quite sure why. Standing in uniform, I felt a fresh wave of foolishness, as if me and my compatriots had been caught playing dress up. Or strip poker.
“Vorbalids!” shouted the horrid, gleeful boy.
I flashed on what it would be like to hit him so hard in the chest that he’d belch blood and expire at the moment of impact.
“It is you,” smiled the producer, eyes crinkling like the Tin Man’s. “I was beginning to think we had the wrong galaxy!”
“What are you doing here?” said Thad, now awake enough to be bemused. He addressed Morgana but Klotcher answered instead.
“Didn’t Miriam tell you I was dropping by?”
“That looks shitty,” said the unstarstruck child, scrutinizing hours-old peel at the neck of our latex-grafted prince.
“I didn’t know you were in town,” said Thad to his mother.
“I’m taking portraits,” she finally answered. “For my book.”
“You’re kidding,” he said. (Curdled smile.)
“I’ve only been here a few days — at the Peninsula. Mordecai rang up and said he was coming to see you. I hope you don’t mind me crashing the party! I thought we could all have dinner tonight at L’Orangerie.”
“How long does the makeup take to put on?” asked the boy, running thin, dirty fingers over the polyester hem of Thad’s royal tunic.
Clea swatted his hand away; he silently mouthed Fuck You.
“You knew I was out here,” said Thad. “I thought you’d have called.”
“I didn’t know how to reach you!” said Morgana. She talked too loud.
“How long does the makeup take to put on,” the punk testily implored, giving the fabric a yank.
Thad obliviously shoved him, hard enough to put an end to the entreaties. Morgana looked as if she might reprimand her son but begged off when she saw no real harm had been done.
“What do you mean, you didn’t know how to reach me?”
His sneer reconfigured itself into a kind of fluorescent incredulity.
“You didn’t tell anyone where you were staying,” said Morgana.
“I always stay at the Chateau. You know that. And Miriam knows—”
“Well, I don’t know how to reach Miriam. How would I? And believe it or not, your lodgings are not as legendarily known as you might think. But here I am, so what difference can it possibly make?”
“I didn’t mean to intrude while you’re working,” said Klotcher conciliatorily, mindful of the tension between the two. “I thought Miriam gave a heads-up. She must have told someone, or there wouldn’t have been a drive-on.”
I eased my way back to the bedroom while Clea protectively remained. I had planned to leave but, after retrieving my things, hung back to listen.
“I’ve been taking your mother around with my realtor.”
“Oh?”
“We looked at a fabulous horse ranch in the Malibu Hills,” said Klotcher. “Twenty-two acres.”
“Lovely but not for me,” said Morgana.
“I think it was once owned by Bo Derek.”
“You’re moving here?” said Thad, further dismayed.
“Not on your life,” said Morgana. “It’s a nice way to see the city, though — it is such a luxury to look at property knowing you have absolutely no intention to buy!”
“I want to meet Cabott 7,” said the boy.
“I’m sure the feeling’s mutual,” said Thad. “But I’m afraid the court has ruled against the android having contact with minors. Stipulation of parole.”
“What’s parole?” asked the child, faintly flummoxed.
Klotcher guffawed while Clea nattered about how nice supper at L’Orangerie would be. The little shit harped on What’s parole until Morgana set him straight.
“My son has a warped sense of humor and should not, as a rule, be taken seriously.”
“Are you going to be a regular?” asked the boy.
“No,” said Clea, protectively. “He’s guest-starring.”
“You should be in another Jetsons,” he said, like a pint-sized agent.
“Aren’t you meant to do something in La Jolla?” asked Morgana. “A play?”
“Postponed,” said Thad — prevaricating, as they say. Suddenly he grimaced, as if discerning great hooves of headache kicking up dust in the distance.
“Can I see the ship?” asked the boy.
“He wants to see the ship,” said Klotcher.
“Go for it,” said Thad. “Anyone hassles you, say you’re my guest.”
“I want to meet Cabott 7.”
“I told you. He’s not allowed around minors.”
“Thad!” admonished Morgana.
“But why? Why isn’t he?” pleaded the boy.
“I said. Major Cabott’s not allowed around minors because he’s a pedophile. In fact, that’s what we call him on the bridge — Major Pedophile!”
“What’s a pedophile?”
“Those are androids with very special powers. Android priests — machine-men of the cloth! Now go bother someone else.”
Klotcher laughed and Morgana clucked in disapproval as the child dashed out.