Bruce Wagner - The Chrysanthemum Palace

“Oh, I’ve forgotten their names,” she said, bullshitting. “Someone… wait a moment. He wrote A Staggering Work of Genius. ”

“Dave Eggers?”

“Yes. Oh — and another: David Wallace Foster? Or maybe it’s David Foster Wallace.”

“Foster Wallace,” said Thad, quizzically. “He was at the funeral. I didn’t talk to him. Why was he at the fucking funeral?”

“Pretty soon,” she said, ignoring his ire, “your mother’s going to have to walk around with Post-its glued to her forehead.”

“Where are you going to shoot them?” he asked, like an undercover Fed consorting with an assassin.

“Wallace Foster or Foster Wallace teaches nearby. Relatively. Someplace called Pomona. A lot of these colleges pay, Thad. Irvine too. Big, big budgets. They’re going to drive me. Evidently they give him millions to teach. You know, he was a great fan of Jack’s — they used to chat on the phone at indecent hours. Alice Sebold teaches there too. Her husband’s quite well known, as well. A novelist. They’re both bestsellers. I’m going to do both of them, then fly to San Francisco for Eggers and Michael Something.”

“Chabon?”

“Yes. He won the Pulitzer. And I believe he makes quite a living writing screenplays.”

“Jesus,” Thad muttered. “Mr. Spider-Man 2 !”

Long, chafing pause.

“Why don’t you do me ?” he asked.

“What?”

I could see her face contort, as if he’d said something in a rough, dead language.

“Can’t you take my picture?”

“Well, of course I could,” she said emptily.

He snickered before saying, “Then why don’t you?”

“I doubt the publisher would allow. These things aren’t my choice, you know.”

“Why not? You’re taking the pictures, aren’t you?”

“They give me a list— ”

“It’s your fucking book, isn’t it?”

“Let’s not get overblown, Thaddeus. Yes, it’s my book but it’s their decision. We’ve been doing it like this for years, you know that. Anyway, it’s appearances — how could you be included in the series without cries of nepotism?”

“Of course!” he said, sarcastically. “There would be a public outcry! Not to mention I’m not remotely in the League of Superhero Writers! The great Alice Sebold, ” he sputtered. “She’s right up there with Virginia Woolf! Maybe I should go get myself raped then write a slender memoir. Parlay it into a tender little porn novella —with me, the adorably sodomized angel, high in the sky! Throw in a decapitation — decaps are all the rage! Oh, boo hoo hoo! Readers and Book Clubs’ll love it! Yes! If I get myself fucked up the ass and beheaded, with my heart yanked from my chest and eaten by some teenage Liberian warrior — no, wait! Not a Liberian, a librarian . There’s just my head left, upchucking lyrical little monologues… The publishers will line up for the advances!”

She composed herself during his fit.

“The writers on the list are widely read, Thaddeus, in the popular sense—”

“Have you read them, Mother?”

“Of course I haven’t. You know I don’t read.”

“Then how do you know they’re widely read?”

“That’s a nonsensical question. The publishers have that information — BookScan, it’s called. It has nothing to do with my having read them or not.”

“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.”