Bruce Wagner - The Chrysanthemum Palace

“He’ll be there all next month,” she said.

“I’m doing Krapp’s Last Tape in La Jolla,” said Thad, jolting to synthetic life. Klotcher looked at him blankly. Miriam’s adding the word “Beckett” did nothing to clear the producer’s confusion.

“ And a two-parter on Starwatch: The Navigators, ” said the agent.

(As if that were the plummest of plum actor things.)

“A marvelous show,” said Klotcher, on cue. “Now there’s a phenomenon.”

“ Yup. A real Phnom Penh. ” Egregiously bored and egregiously drunk, Thad winced at his own wordplay idiocies. “The Cambodians love it. It killed .”

“There you go again!” said Klotcher giddily. “Your father was marvelous with the pun. And polylingual, too — like Nabokov! Now there’s someone who rivaled your dad. Ol’ Black Jack didn’t even want to hear his name. He always thought Nabokov was the one who’d snatch the Nobel from his hands. But neither of ’em got it, did they? Big on butterflies, Nabokov. I knew his wife. And his kid. We tried to option one of his books. Ada, I think it was called. Never worked out.”

To my surprise, Thad segued to a toast (he still had drink in hand) — to me, Bertram Krohn, “putative son” of the Starwatch creator. Klotcher pivoted, duly impressed.

“ Starwatch is cool, ” said the great-nephew, taking me in. “I want to do a walk-on!”

“Walk on this,” said Thad.

“They’ve asked him to do a game show too,” said Miriam, nervously unstoppable. “One of these postmodern George Schlatter things, with a floating guest spot. Sort of a permanent cameo — like Whoopi did in Hollywood Squares. Merv Griffin and Ryan Seacrest are producing. They’ve offered a ton of money; they’ll be lucky to have him. But Thad’s got so many other projects…”

She looked winsomely toward her old friend but he blew her off.

“The Michelet name’s hot right now,” said Klotcher, hoisting an imaginary glass of his own. The crusty old pro frowned and recanted. “Sorry — didn’t mean that to sound disrespectful.” He delicately lifted the glass again, bowing to everyone present. “To continuing the legacy! Salud!”

As soon as they left, Thad’s mood darkened. (I was amazed by his relative civility during the encounter.) He scolded his agent, cruelly mocking her postmodern floating-guest-spot riff. He called her “the unstinkable Molly Brown-Noser” and, when Clea rushed to her defense, grew venomous. There was always a mysterious — I should say sadomasochistic — undertow between those two, a tacit agreement that Clea literally bow her head in penance as the blows rained down. After a blunt screed that cut her to the quick, he strode through the sandy gap in the brush and headed for the pounding waves. Clea took her shoes off and followed, sprinting as he sped up. I leaped in pursuit until I felt Miriam’s hand upon my arm, holding me back. We already possessed the physical shorthand of lovers; both touch and look assured that Clea was in no imminent danger. Time and again she’d seen the couple play out this scene and knew best not to interfere.

We went back to the main house to decompress. Miriam drank wine and I guzzled Diet Coke as we numbly mingled among guests before saying our good-byes to Morgana. For the first time, she stood back and sized me up. There was real kindness in his mother’s eyes as she thanked me for having come all the way from Los Angeles “to be with the family, such as it is.” Morgana knew that my father was a honcho — she was good at retaining details, however hastily imparted, particularly when they applied to money or status — and tenderly asked if I’d “look after” her boy when he did his Starwatch “thing.” She was full of shit but I liked her nonetheless.

She turned to Miriam and stage-whispered, “There’s a plot for him beside Jeremy’s. When he saw that today, it made him furious. I know it sounds gothic, but it’s… it’s, well it’s just right that he should be buried there. I understand Thaddeus having resentments. His father did not do well by him — not by anyone —it wasn’t the best family but it’s the only one we’ve got. The only one he’s got — that’s what I told him. My God, Thaddeus, no one fed you dog shit or Seconal! Nanny didn’t masturbate you — far as I know. Maybe that would have been a good thing. By contemporary standards, we were the von Trapps. But Miriam, won’t you please talk to him? About Jeremy? I mean, where else is there for him to go? His brother’s been there over forty years. Forty years! And now Jack—” Tears welled up; she loved an audience. “And I shall be there, long before Thad. Though sometimes,” she amended, “I’m not so sure. The way he treats himself…”

She took a fashionably loose cigarette from the pocket of her shirt; Klotcher appeared en passant to deftly light it before discreetly disappearing. Morgana inhaled, blowing smoke like a dragon.

“Did you know I made every effort? To breast-feed. But he wouldn’t take it. ” She waved a hand in the air, as if shooing a fly. “The doctors said something in the milk made him allergic. Now, how can that be? His brother gnawed that tittie till he was five — ruined it. Did you know Jeremy used to tear into a hamburger, then wash it down with a suck?” She smiled before returning to the matter at hand. “He cannot, it makes no sense for Thaddeus to continue… this— vendetta against his twin. So will you talk to him, Miriam? Because I know he listens to you. I know he does.”

She walked us to the door.

“I don’t know what’s going on between those two,” said Morgana, rather hush-hush. “But it cannot be wonderful. You know that, Miriam. She’s not good for him. She’s not welcome —I won’t have her here again in this house! Why on earth did I allow it? I suppose it’s because I’m getting so damn old. The old guard let her ol’ guard down.”

The face softened to a smile again. As we walked out, she said cryptically, “I militated for that boy’s happiness. Absolutely militated.”

I wanted to make love in the worst way but Miriam needed food in her stomach; the day had taken its toll and she was wobbly. As we waited outside for one of the drivers provided to ferry guests into town, we scanned the grounds — immensely, guiltily relieved that Clea and Thad were nowhere in sight.

Back in the village, we had burgers ( sans milk) and Miriam drank more wine — I came dangerously close to sharing a glass — while romantically snuggling in a booth. My mood cycled again, shedding the skin of gloom, doom, and ill tidings it acquired at Michelet Manor. I felt reborn: suddenly, I couldn’t have been happier being on the other side of the country, frisky, depleted, flirting with insobriety, my own migraines of the soul on storm watch. As Miriam’s appetite abated, along with nausea and nausée, she grew hungry for something else, 2running her hand under the table. Picturing us in various XXX-rated poses, I frantically signaled the waiter for our bill. As we loped past the registration office to Miriam’s cabin, I leaned into her in erotic play, low-growling and hot-breathing while she giggled, a wolf and his well-read Riding Hood. Then suddenly, a break in continuity: eyes and ears perked: officiously, she nodded toward a taxi pulling up to the cottage adjacent mine. Out stumbled Clea. I sighed. Miriam shrugged, quickly kissing my neck before departure.