“Have you read my books, Mother?”
“Yes,” she said. “I have. Don’t be an ass.”
“You haven’t!” said Thad, smiling imbecilically. “You haven’t read word one.”
“I think I’ve had enough.” She made a move to leave.
“If you have read my work, Mother, I am deeply impressed. Even if it’s only two paragraphs. OK? OK. But tell me: having digested my oeuvres throughout the years, what do you think? What thinkest thou of my lit’ry gifts? What dost thou thinketh. I’m serious, Morgana! Because I never asked. We’ve never really had this conversation, have we? And it’s healthy! Am I up to Alice ‘Rape Me’ Sebold’s standards? Or Professor David Pomona Wall-ass? Do you feel I’m worthy of being included in your vanity project? Forgetting the publishers for a moment. Am I worthy of the pantheon, Mother?”
“What I think isn’t the point,” she said curtly. “I’ve already told you that.”
“You’re dodging the question!” he said, radiantly.
She grunted. He clapped his hands with infernal delight.
“Ha! I’m not worthy, am I — wasn’t that always the bottom line?”
“In your mind, perhaps.”
“In my mind.”
“That’s right.”
“By the way, who reads these books, anyway?”
“I told you, the publisher makes the decision—”
“I mean who reads your books, Mama? How many have you done, seven? Seven books! I suppose people don’t really read them — they just look at the pictures. Like Hustler or Maxim… and all remaindered, just like me! Don’t you see? We share a common bond! In fact, I think you’ve been out of print longer than I have! Why are they even allowing you to publish? How did you manage to get a deal? Did you tie it in with Dad? No shame in that. I want your agent. Are you paying them, Mother? Are you paying for publication and they’re slapping their name on it? That’s OK. I should do the same. I will do the same. Whitman self-published — Emerson too. We’re in a happy league: the League of Superhero Remainders! C’mon, Tammy, tell me true. I understood why they let you take your little snapshots while Father was still alive; it was always under a Harcourt imprint. A bone they were throwing ol’ Black Jack, no? But aren’t you worried, Morgana? Aren’t you worried the cottage industry is gonna fold up its tent? I mean, now that the money train’s a-molderin’ in the grave—”
“I don’t appreciate this! I don’t appreciate any of it,” said Morgana, finally gathering up her things. “You can go fuck yourself, Thaddeus!”
“Mother, wait! You’re misunderstanding. No disrespect! What I’m saying is, if no one’s buying this incredibly contemporary coffee-table anthology of literary portraiture anyway, then no one will even notice if we stuck in a photo of little ol’ winemaker me.”
“It’d be self-aggrandizing,” said Morgana. She was trembling, and nearly at the end of her tether. “That’s how it would appear.”
“Who cares how it appears?”
“All right, Thaddeus,” she said, at breakpoint. “I’ll take your picture! Grab a Polaroid from a makeup gal — let’s do it! Right now! We’ll just ‘slip’ it into the book like you said and no one will ever notice!”
“Great! Perfect!” She’d called his bluff and Thad was suddenly tamed. But he needed some serious de-Vorbalizing. “Just let me find one of the girls to take this shit off my face… we can do it in front of the blue screen — and digitally insert Yaddo later on! You’d be surprised at what Photoshop can do,” he said, excitedly rubbing his hands together. “I’m telling you, your editor’s asleep at the wheel! I think it’d be great to be on a page between Franzen and Cunningham — the prick and the fag.”
“Right! You don’t even have to get out of your makeup!” Suddenly, she crumpled, tired of the sport. “I’m going to leave now. Mordecai and I are having lunch.”
“Aren’t you going to take my picture?” he said pathetically.
“I said I would. But some other time.”
“Liar!”
He seized her wrist and she shouted, “Let go of me!” Clea and I rushed in. He’d pinned her to the Naugahyde couch, and Morgana broke free as I went to subdue him.
“Someone get me a Polaroid!” she shouted, a carbonous edge to her voice — as if drawing that special sword reserved for the occasions her husband became dangerous. She shoved Thad away, snatching her purse from the floor. “You — you—crazy man. Go! Stand on the bridge of your rocket and I’ll take a picture! I’ll take a thousand pictures of you in that… Halloween costume! Of you and all your little fools! Your girlfriend,” she snarled, “the slut who fucks for dope, like her mother did!” (Clea cried out, as if stabbed.) “Go, Mr. Vorbalid, get the Polaroid! I’ll show it to Deepak Ghupta and he’ll say, ‘Who is this?’ And I’ll say, What’s the matter, don’t you recognize him? That’s my son, Thaddeus Michelet, the genius! And Deepak will say, ‘Oh, forgive us! How wonderful. You know, we have to admit we weren’t going to publish you because you’re a widow and a hack and a dried-up cunt but now that you’ve given us the gift of your famous son, forgive us, Morgana! Because everyone knows Thaddeus Michelet — didn’t he win the Pulitzer? Didn’t he win the National Book Award? — every schoolkid knows Thaddeus Michelet! He’s a bestseller, he’s a household saint, they even recognize him when he’s all dressed up like a green man from outer space! Thad Michelet’s a genius, like his father — better than his father! We’ll put him on the cover, Morgana! Why don’t we put him on the cover of your piece of shit book because that way we’ll sell a million! What a coup. Oh thank you oh thank you, fata morgana, dried-up widow-cunt that you are, because now we can publish your amateur-hour book!’ And I’ll get down on my knees and suck Deepak’s cock — I’ll suck everybody’s! — just like Clea would — saved by my genius son, my genius son, my genius son!”
The old woman ran out.
~ ~ ~
CLEA LATER TOLD ME THAT the lawyers had indeed called and because of Thad’s schedule, made arrangements to drop by the Chateau after dinner. We took their thoughtful urgency as a good omen.
She added that while her lover said he was trying not to fantasize about any provisions his father might have made (cash or real estate seemed unlikely), a bequest of books, paintings, or correspondence would still be of enormous value. It was a revelation that over the last few years father and son had come to terms during late-night bimonthly phone sessions — squeezed in, Thad joked, between Jack’s calls to David Foster Wallace — in which the old man showed distinct signs of mellowing. With the pending powwow, Thad couldn’t help but allow himself to imagine paying off the IRS or at least getting a handle on that part of his life. He even apologized to Morgana for his behavior on the soundstage, laying it off to the stress of “recent financial pressures.” Again, he asked if she had any inkling of what the attorneys were going to say, but she claimed ignorance.