Bruce Wagner - I’m Losing You

“She put her arm inside you? How ?”

“I said I lost a diamond and if she found it, she could have it. I pushed it in…I mean, there was no way — it was only like ten seconds and that was all . She went to bed immediately . I mean, she was half-asleep during .”

“Simon? It’s Mitch.”

“Oh hi, Mitch.”

“Your mother’s very upset. She’s so upset that she asked me to call.”

“What’s up?”

“You know what’s up.”

“‘Fraid I don’t, Mitch.”

“Did you pay a visit to Hassan DeVore?”

“ Pay a visit is a bit much, Mitch. I saw him, at the studio . Did he tell her that?”

“How else would she have found out, Simon?”

“What’s the problemo?”

“I think you know what the problem is.”

“Frankly, I don’t, Mitch. To summarize, why don’t you tell me.”

“Come on, Simon. You have a head on your shoulders, though you don’t always use it. That man is a client of your mother’s. Going to see him like that is not only a gross invasion of his privacy, but an act of aggression toward Calliope. I can’t believe you would have exploited her in that way. Or him.”

“I went to see Mr. DeVore as a courtesy , Mitch. I’m a writer! I’m not playing games! I know a producer on that show—”

“I can’t believe you’d even defend —”

“It’s moot that Sagabond’s no longer there, Mitch! The man extended me an open invitation —”

“Simon, I don’t care ! Do you understand? Can you imagine her embarrassment? A client confronting her like that? With stories that her son’s soliciting work —”

“ Confronting her? What does that mean, Mitch? Did Mister Vorbalid say he was unhappy I stopped by?”

“Mr. What?”

“He’s a fucking Vorbalid , Mitch — we’re not talking Anthony Hopkins here! We’re not even talking Michael Douglas!”

“This is pointless. I’m just calling to convey a message from your mother, okay, Simon?”

“But this is important , Mitch, this is subjective . Did my mother say DeVore was unhappy about my visit or didn’t she? Did she actually hear DeVore say—”

“This isn’t Court TV , okay, Simon? What you did was wrong and you know it! Calliope doesn’t want you to call, she doesn’t even want you at the house.”

“Oh, really . And what does that mean?”

“It means what it means. She doesn’t feel safe.”

“She doesn’t feel safe , Mitch?”

“That’s right and I can’t blame her. You crossed a line, Simon.”

“And now I’m the Unabomber.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Now I’m stalking my own mom, a moser ! Pursuer of Jews!”

“You’re not to come by the house.”

“The house I grew up in. Oh. I see. Great. Wonderful, Mitch. I’m not to come by the house that I grew up in and the house you’ve inhabited for a relatively short while.”

“Don’t drag me into this.”

“You’ve done a pretty good job already.”

“This has nothing to do with me, Simon.”

“Oh. And what does it have to do with?”

“Your inappropriate behavior.”

“Oh. Right. To summarize. I see.”

“Let’s not belabor this.”

“I know you’re pissed off because she’s famous and you’re not.”

“I won’t even dignify that asininity with a comment.”

“You never will be, Mitch. I know that must hurt.”

“Goodbye, Simon.”

“Just one more thing. I was just wondering.”

“This conversation is over. Just stay away .”

“I only want to know one thing, it’s important.”

“What is it?”

“I was just wondering what your clients say when you show them your weasely non-famous little dick.”

When Simon got to Bel Air, Serena wanted to take a drive. The new day nurse was refreshingly indifferent to the announced itinerary. They brought the sheepskin from the couch and laid it on the cracked leather of the old Jag.

“This is a bit unusual for me,” he said as they got under way.

“Being abducted by a sick old woman?”

“But I have to say I like the anarchy quotient.”

“You’re a funny young man.” Serena coughed, readjusting herself beneath the strap of the seat belt. “I’m going to take this damn thing off,” she said, trying to undo it. Simon reached over and freed her. “Thank you. Silly for me to wear it. For you, no. But for me…”

When they got down the hill, she said she wanted to go see raccoons at the zoo.

“I’m not sure they’re part of the repertoire.”

“Well, of course they have raccoons, it’s a zoo .”

“Could be, could be. Maybe so.”

“You are funny.”

“Rocky Raccoon,” he sang, “went into his room …”

A tear spilled to her cheek and she wiped it away with the quavering back of a hand. “I’m so worried, Simon.” It was the first time she had called him by name, and he felt a deep tug within. “I can smell the mother — I know she’s unwell. What will happen to the babies, with the mother gone?”

They stopped at the park across from the pink hotel, to sit awhile. Serena didn’t look well, and Simon was afraid she would die on him. She thought about Sy Krohn with a drowsy, bluesy yearning; every once in a while his voice keened on the radio of a passing car. She got loopy and asked Simon if “the old Jurgenson’s still sold fumigants”—frankincense and myrrh—“anything to blot the smell.” Serena wanted to know if he’d ever been in love and Simon said he didn’t know. Of course that meant he hadn’t, she said. Simon felt an unbearable melancholy, like a weed killing his meager gardens. He remembered a boy in grammar school he thought he loved, and a girl too. The boy smelled like Zest soap and the girl, Jungle Gardenia — now, they were barely memories. Serena asked about his family and Simon said his father died long ago, a mythic figure distant as a king on the cover of a vintage comic. He thought of telling her more, but Serena was in pain and asked that he drive her home.

If they had stayed a while longer, Simon might have spoken of his father as a murdered man, a cantor. “His name was Sy Krohn,” he might have said. It can only be wondered whether Serena, already hemorrhaging, would have felt the impact of this rogue revelation and held it long enough to bony breast to declare the fallen idol as the very one she’d loved to near madness; how she had been with him when he died and for years after wished to die herself. For better or worse, those details would remain under shifting sands, consigned to the Rub al Khali of memory for all time.

After a few sleepless nights, she called an old therapist friend. They met at a coffee shop, Calliope in her big dark glasses. Of course, she didn’t name names. Her colleague said, “You must report this.” You are not an attorney, he said. Hence, certain things your client tells you are not privileged under California law. But if the child is indigent? Calliope heard herself asking, knowing it came out wrong. She meant it in a habeas corpus, not a class sense — the child would have to be submitted, no? But you told me they’re with this person’s friend, said the colleague. So they are not indigent. Aside from the actions of your client, which are criminal, this little girl is being put in harm’s way by her mother — your client said the mother is feeding her pills. Not only is she negligent but her judgment is impaired. You’d better do some serious thinking, said the colleague. Because you have a serious problem on your hands.