Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

“Tiff,” she said, taking away his drink. “Why don’t I call room service and get you some coffee?”

He sniffled, patting her hand. “Thank you, dear. Thank you. So glad you’re here. You’re a real mensch. What do they call a girl-mensch? A womensch? A wench? Listen, sweetheart: any time you want to leave that slick bastard and come work for me, you’ve got a job. Pay you twice what he gives you. But you’ve got to take care of yourself, Lisanne.” He went and stood before the mirror. “Know what my friend Feibleman said? Do you know Peter Feibleman? I love him — brilliant writer. You should eat his fuckin paella. One day he’ll make us all dinner. Sylvia Plath was a huge fan. Not his cooking — his novels. He just went through the prostrate thing too. Said the radiation took away the ‘punctuation’ of sex. And that’s true. All the commas and semicolons are gone. There’s no catharsis. You’re chemically fucking castrated. That moment where life used to hang in the balance — that ‘little death’— gone. You come, or think you do, and then you say, Was that it? Feibleman says, ‘I don’t have that seizure anymore, that paroxysm. I go right to wanting the cheeseburger.’ Don’t you love that? The cheeseburger! But I’ll tell you something, Lisanne: I always wanted the fuhcocktuh cheeseburger. I wanted it before the shtup. Know what I’m addicted to? Know what sex is for me now? Tributes. The cancer took away food and sex and left me with tributes. I’m worse than Quincy — Jesus! They can’t stop giving and he can’t stop getting. Did you know he got a Grammy for Spoken Word? For reading his autobiography out loud! Is that not genius? King Coon goes to Cancún,” he said nonsensically. “A sweet sweet man. Beautiful spirit. We’re supposed to go to Africa in September with Bono. Next month we’ve got Sting and the Poitiers and Medavoys at the Kofi Annan dinner. I got the Ark Trust Genesis in two weeks at the Hilton. (In my honor.) Then the ‘Starlight Dream’ gala-thing at the Kodak — for me and Quincy. Then Roslynn and I have the cervical thing — what’s it called? — whatever, at the Peninsula. Would you go with me, Lisanne? Unless some miracle happens with Roslynn by then, which appears doubtful. Kittie’s flying out for that, you’ll love her. A funny funny lady. And that’s all in one weekend!” He laid upon the bed and sighed. “You wade through crap all day and then you put on a tux and feel less like a putz. Hey, that rhymes. And you know what? The applause ain’t so bad either. But I wanna tell ya, I’m seriously addicted. Does that make me a terrible man, Lisanne?” he asked tearfully. “Does it? Does that make me terrible?”

A Beachside Reunion

KIT WAS IN the trailer with Xanthe, his assistant. He was at the beach opposite Temescal Canyon, shooting a film with Jennifer Lopez and Anthony Hopkins. Alf and Cameron Diaz, sometime flames, dropped by the set.

“Thought you might like a little orgy to start your day,” said Alf.

“Hope you like to watch,” said Kit to Alf, then belched.

“Ready-teddy,” said Cameron. “That’s what I’m here for. To be fucked like a righteous animal.”

“Careful what you say around the Man, Cam,” said Alf. “There have been some fairly ugly rumors about Mr. Raffles.”

Kit gave Alf the evil eye.

“Oh yeah? Who’s Mr. Raffles?” she asked.

“His dog. Mr. Raffles seems to have that certain je ne sais ménage à trois quoi.”

Cameron laughed, and Kit got off the subject by asking if next week they wanted to go to Harrison’s ranch in Jackson Hole with Callista, Ben, and Jennifer. Cameron couldn’t because she had to be in Monaco for an AIDS costume ball.

Xanthe answered a knock at the door. She took Kit aside and said his father was there to see him.

• • •

BURKE LIGHTFOOT SAT at the end of a catering table. He stood when he saw his son approach. The waves crashed weakly a few hundred yards off, lending the reunion a petty dramatic touch.

“Hey there, Kitchener!” said Burke, with an oily smile. (As any Kit-watcher knew, the star had been whimsically named after the first Earl Kitchener of Khartoum.) He extended a hand, and Kit reluctantly shook it, squinting in the sun so as not to fully take the man in.

“Hey.”

“I was on my way to Santa Barbara,” Burke said unconvincingly. “Saw all the trucks and asked about the commotion. Cop said it was a Kit Lightfoot movie. ‘Now wait a minute, that’s my son!’ ”

“Yeah, right,” said Kit, sucking in snot and tapping a cigarette against the bottom of his boot. “I’ll have that guy fired.”

Burke laughed it off. Kit wasn’t sure why the man bothered to lie anymore.

“Saw you on Leno,” he said.

“Uh huh.”

“I didn’t know you did all that fund-raising.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t.”

His father shone with good health and good cheer. He was a handsome, lanky New Englander; Kit’s mom was an American beauty with a touch of Cree. It was a right-on gene pool.

“Anyhow, thanks for seeing me,” said Burke. “I know it was unannounced.”

“That’s your thing, right? ‘Unannounced.’”

“Your mother was rather spontaneous herself,” he said folksily.

“Don’t drag her into it.”

“All right.” Burke knew when to acquiesce.

“Look,” said Kit, cynically. “I don’t know what you think we got goin. Or what you think we’re gonna get goin—”

“I don’t have an agenda, Kitchener, other than seeing my son. Fathers tend to want to do that.”

“Oh really? Well, this father”—he jabbed a finger toward Burke—“didn’t tend to want to. Didn’t tend to want to do shit until I started making bread.”

“That isn’t true,” said Burke, stung.

“Why don’t you tell me what husbands tend to want to do? Now that I know all about dads.”

“I was there for your mother—”

“Right!” Kit exclaimed, with a nearly out-of-control donkey laugh.

“—as much as she wanted me to be. And you know that. But she had you. R. J. didn’t want to see me when she was sick. She had you and that was enough.”

They listened to the waves. Crackle of a walkie.

“Look, son… I won’t take any more of your time. But while I’m here, I wanted to tell you I came across some of her things, from when we were in college. Love letters — beautiful. Thought you could drop by the house and see ‘em this weekend. If you’d like.”

Kit blew a ring of smoke. “Call Xanthe,” he said. “She’ll give you a FedEx number and an address.”

“I’d rather not send that precious material through the mail,” said Burke, shrewdly playing out his hand. “I’ll wait till you’re in the neighborhood.”

“You might have to wait a long time,” said Kit, standing. “And it’s probably not a good idea to drop by without calling. In fact, it’s probably not a good idea to drop by at all.”

“You’re the boss.” His father gathered up an old leather satchel. “One more thing — may I trouble you? Grant School’s having a benefit. Remember Grant? They had some pretty severe water damage to the auditorium. That’s where you did The Music Man. ‘Trouble in River City! With a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for pool !’” He pulled a stack of headshots out — Kit at the beginning of his career. He drew a fancy Waterman from his coat. “I told them I’d help. If you can sign some eight-by-tens, they’ll be the hit of the auction.”

Pool Party

THE REALITY SHOW relocated from Tasmania to the Canary Islands. Sadge kept Becca on a tight leash until he left. He wouldn’t even let her answer the phone. A guy kept calling at all hours, asking for her. It gave Sadge the creeps. Whenever he picked up, the voice would say, “Is this fat Jack Black and the Heart Attacks? Is this Tenacious D?” Becca had given Rusty her cell phone but didn’t know how he got the home number. She didn’t think Elaine would have given it to him. He denied making the calls.