Bruce Wagner - The Chrysanthemum Palace

“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 THATthe 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.

I made it a point to talk to Clea about Morgana’s scabrous, trailer-trashed diatribe. I felt like an asshole for letting her get puked on like that. At the time, Clea was visibly shaken but now just shrugged it off. “Morgana didn’t like me from the gate,” she said. She always assumed it was one of those incesty, jealous mom deals. Moreover, “Mad Morgana” had long suspected her of a dalliance with Jack, as she suspected everyone (for good reason). She was the queen of ball-busters, Clea reiterated — the only one left standing when “ol’ BJ” decided to finally take a wife. “Rage is her thing,” said Clea. “Stick around long enough and she’ll come after you. ”

No thanks, I said.

I had the afternoon off (Thad and Clea were shooting their big scene at the Chrysanthemum Palace) and went shopping at Maxfield’s. Gita’s birthday was coming up. I got her some vintage Hermès jewelry, which she loved more than anything on Earth. I hit the gym and was done around 7:00 P.M. I headed for my parents’ to spend time with Mom. Her doctor had either reduced or increased the strength of her meds and she’d been having a tough time of it. Carmen made us authentic Trader Vic’s “snowball” sundaes (a woman of many talents) that I brought to Gita’s bedroom with leopard-spotted caviar spoons. We wound up dishing minor celebs and talking the usual shit about Dad. We watched Investigative Reports awhile before I split. I was going to hop on the 405 but instead, as if guided by unseen hands, hung a left, heading east — straight to the Chateau.

Arriving at Thad’s door, I suddenly remembered the suits from Century City. I stood outside and listened for a sign but all I could hear was Norah Jones. I knocked, waited, knocked again. In time, Clea answered, fully dressed. Gave me a hug. I smelled liquor and Listerine on her breath.

The lawyers showed up a few minutes later, apologizing for their tardiness. An “emergency” had come up. 1Introductions and pleasantries were endured while Clea served a choice of sparkling or flat. One of the men actually consented to a beer — an elder partner — and I thought that a good sign too. Mr. Michelet appeared from the dark recesses in his expensive bathrobe, fastidiously shaven, without the usual trace of makeup at the collar. He had a buoyancy about him, a lilt in step and spirit, like he’d slapped on hopeful aftershave.

There was a lull, then the visitors’ eyes cued me to leave — ready to get down to business. I stood but Thad overruled their motion. Our ménage à trois was thus decreed street-legal. I was family now, privy to the conditions of probate.

“The will is a bit unusual,” said the key man, clearing his throat.

“Dad was an unusual guy,” said Thad, trying to be cool.

The lawyers assented and laughed uncomfortably.

“Essentially, he has left you a very large amount…”

“A very large amount,” affirmed a cohort.

“But there’s a strange provision, which may be prohibitive.”

Thad’s smile brightened like the surface of a balloon before bursting. “Prohibitive?”

“Your father’s will stipulates that you receive ten million dollars—”

“My God,” said Thad, as Clea and I stopped breathing.

“With a condition. The condition being that the amount is triggered when one of your books appears on the New York Times bestseller list.”

Thad glanced at Clea, then me, as if having heard a joke he couldn’t parse. “Can you repeat that?”

The key man did, to the same effect.

His cohort, wishing to take the edge off the moment, said, “I guess your father’s intentions were that you use your gifts to write something either very commercial —a John Grisham, or what have you — a Da Vinci Code —or something artistic, with crossover appeal.”

“Bergdorf Blondes?”

Another colleague chimed in. “Not Bergdorf Blondes. Like The Corrections. Remember the guy who pissed Oprah off? Didn’t that make the list?” He turned toward Clea as if she might know. “Some years back? I’m pretty sure it did. My theory — it’s only a theory! — is that Jack was thinking of this as an incentive, a goal to work toward. A reward, if you will.”