Bruce Wagner - The Chrysanthemum Palace

Thad started to laugh. It was a dry laugh, nearly a retch.

“I’m a big fan of your films,” said one of the men. “But I have to say I wasn’t aware you wrote books. When I jumped on the Internet, I was very impressed. Now, I’m not exactly sure how many you’d have to sell to get on the Times list—”

“I’m having a paralegal research that.”

“It’s a bit of a labyrinthine process. I mean, they definitely have their own logic.”

“They have their own country over there!”

“But I think it’s actually doable. ”

“Did he specify fiction or nonfiction?” said one to the other.

“Fiction — I believe.”

“It was definitely fiction,” said the one who referenced The Corrections.

“I don’t think it’s as high as you would imagine — in terms of sales.”

“To get on the list.”

“It’s definitely doable. God knows your dad was on that list enough—”

“Though not as much as a person might think. It’s not a cakewalk.”

“It was clearly his fervent wish that some of his good luck and good fortune rub off.”

Though after midnight on the East Coast, I phoned Miriam on the way home. She was enraged when I recounted what happened. She said Jack Michelet was a sadist who looked forward to striking yet another blow at his son — this one, from the grave. We didn’t talk very long because she wanted to call the Chateau and check up.

As I walked inside the house, my cell phone rang. Miriam had spoken to Clea (“Thank God she’s there”) and Thad was fast asleep — his traditional reaction to upsetting news. Luckily, he didn’t have to be at the studio until ten.

In the morning, I went for a jog on the beach. Black Jack’s ghoulish machinations put Dad in a better light. (No shit.) Perry had his callous side, to be sure, but was never willfully cruel, which I’ve always considered among the most deplorable of sins. I couldn’t conceive what it would be like to have a parent as full-time predator. It reminded me of someone who spoke at AA a few months ago, a man who trained attack dogs for a living. He said he wore protective gear but when the dog bit down it was important to keep your arm moving; that way, the animal tended to refocus and attack elsewhere. If you didn’t stay mobile, the teeth sank dangerously down, even through wadded layers — point being, it was a fair metaphor to describe growing up in an alcoholic household. I imagined Thad dodging and feinting, tooth and muzzle upon him year after year, still dodging, still feinting, reeling from roughhouse burnout, adrenals spent — taking the infernal, foul-breathed blows even after a gaggle of vets had supposedly put the miserable beast down.

1In Hollywood, whenever agents or lawyers are late, they play the “emergency” card.

ON THE WAY TO WORK,I phoned the Chateau.

No answer in the room.

I tried Clea’s cell—10:00 A.M. on the dot — nothing.

I feared the worst.

This time, as I drove through the studio gates, she picked up. Boisterous laughter on the other end affronted my ear. They were in Thad’s trailer, having breakfast with some of the cast. I was ordered to join them, “warp speed.”

When I got there, Clea, Cabott, the captain, and X-Ray were enrapt by one of Thad’s gossipy pornographic anecdotes, this, regarding a Broadway diva of “uncertain age.” He looked cheerful and wide awake, eyes clear as bells. Just as the story ended, we heard the A.D. walkie—“OK, everyone, we are back ”—and the raucous laughter continued in choppy waves while actors drifted out. Nick Sultan, tucked out of sight in the kitchen nook, was the last to leave. The director gave a thumb’s-up and smiled as he brushed past, heading for the set.

“Bertram!” said Thad, giving me his full, warm attention.

I was amazed by his powers of recovery. Though I wasn’t exactly Dr. Phil, it occurred to me his ebullience might have been masking a dangerous mania, soon to show a savage, darker side. Still, I clung to the possibility Thad’s lightness of mood was some indicator of mental health, say, the nimble instincts of a survivor that had allowed him to flourish, more or less, through the years of horrible abuse. At first, I thought the celebratory air was due to Clea’s earlier announcement he’d been “green lit” to adapt Chrysanthemum to film.

But that wasn’t it — that wasn’t it at all.

“Did you tell him?” he asked Clea.

She shook her head pridefully, like a child who’d kept the biggest secret in the world.

“Tell me what?”

“You will not believe how perfect this is!”

“It’s incredible, ” said Clea. “And it was Miriam —Miriam’s idea! Miriam is a genius. ”

“Tell me.” I was a child now too.

“Miriam is a genius,” said Thad, peremptorily.

“She called this morning with this amazing concept.”

“A brilliant fucking stratagem. ”

“Bertie, you won’t believe it…”

“You guys are killing me—”

“Tell him,” said Thad, coolly delegating.

“She was up half the night — ohmygod, I love her! She was so pissed. Miriam really hated what Jack did—”

“Beware Miriam, when pissed,” Thad intoned. “There’s hell to pay!”

“—I mean, with the will.” Clea was loaded. Lag-timed.

“ Total fucking warrior. A killing machine!”

“She kept thinking there was some way around it.”

“And she aced it! She totally fucking aced it.”

“But how?” I said, beaming — happy they were happy.

“She went online, right?” said Clea. “And looked up all the New York Times’ bestseller lists — for like the last ten years. And you know what’s there?”

“Can you guess?”

“What’s on the list?”

I shook my head, stumped.

“There are twelve Starwatch: The Navigators titles! Twelve!”

I wasn’t comprehending.

“Don’t you see ?” said Clea. “The total genius of it? If Thad novelizes ‘Prodigal Son’—there’s no way they’re not going to let him — and if ‘Prodigal Son’ gets on the list…”

“Miriam found the cosmodemonic loophole, honeychile!” Thad jigged, arms akimbo, crooning: “Supercali- fraga -listic-expi-ali- doh -cious, pay -day on the Fell -crum Outback won’t be so a- tro -cious!”

“It’s the Vorbalidian Quick Pick! The Great Dome Super Lotto!”

“Wham! Bam! Thank you, Dad!”

“Bertie, can you believe? Can you believe how genius that is?”

“We’re in the money! We’re in the money!” He hooked his arm in hers as they polka’d round the cramped trailer, knocking into paper plates, sending breakfast burritos spilling to carpet, disgorging scrambled eggs and onions like the innards of a wormy piñata. “We’ve gotta lot of what it takes to get along!”

IT WAS THE END OFthe second week. Five more (shooting) days, and we wrapped.

I had Friday off. I met a girl at the Wednesday night AA meeting in Brentwood (the supersized Pacific Group) and she invited me to Ojai, for pottery lessons. Sounded like fun but I declined, opting instead to hang with Mom, who by now was rightfully suspicious of my recent attentions. So be it — the Benedict house was conveniently located should I feel compelled to wander over to the studio after a visit, which I invariably did… 1