Bruce Wagner - The Chrysanthemum Palace

Gita drank from a flute of Champagne before saying, “Otherwise known as Her Royal Pain — to my husband anyway.”

Nick tried to play but was frozen out.

His wife wisely retreated in the direction of the Frisbeeites.

“Commander Karp,” said Laughton. “Have you been introduced to the concubines?”

“ Incredibly authentic,” I said, snapping sordidly into character. “I believe X-Ray is making the formal request we be allowed to bring them aboard — scientific study, of course.”

Clea and Miriam laughingly returned to the deck. They were wet to their hips.

“Oh my God!” said Clea, breathlessly. “It is so beautiful. ”

“The water is amazing, ” said Miriam.

In the distance, the captain’s partner still frolicked, joined by flat-stomached stringy-haired teens and a few more cash-rich dogs.

“Aye, Ambassador Trothex! We were just talking about the astonishing Vorbalidian science. The water, not being water, feels more like water than water itself!”

“It’s a rare thing when we Vorbalids are allowed to enjoy the fruits of our own technology,” said Clea. “It is only because of your diplomatic visit that we’ve been sanctioned to experience ‘the Malibu.’ Do you have a name for this sort of activity, Commander? Other than the subgenre ‘R and R’?”

“Yes,” I said, eyebrow raised. (My Cabott impression.) “I believe the Earthling slang is an obscure, three-letter word. The pronunciation is ‘fun.’ ”

“Fun,” echoed Clea, morosely contemplative.

Miriam giggled as the game devolved and everyone made a dash for fresh rounds of food and drink. Only Thad remained engrossed, albeit in a softer, minor key.

“I will have to fight my brother Morloch,” he said to himself, resigned. “It’s the only way the others can be saved.”

I didn’t think anyone else heard but then I saw a perturbed look on Gita’s face. Sensing something wasn’t right, she engaged “instruments” in an effort to stabilize. Mother delicately brought up the canceled Beckett play (I told her about it a few days ago), and how much she admired anyone with the fortitude to tackle “the craggy Irishman”—like a famously genial professor, she added a subtler intellect to the grosser Perry Krohn equation, for balance. Under the pull of her gentle conversational prodding, Thad eventually broke free of the tractor beam of Vorbalidian constructs. He spoke for a while like a charmingly distracted, slightly defeated person.

She even asked after Morgana. He said that when his mother heard he was doing Starwatch, flowers had been sent (chrysanthemums, actually) along with a note: “Beaming down lots of love.” Gita laughed. She told him she knew Mrs. Michelet’s work though admitted confusing it with “that Ettlinger woman,” which he got a kick out of. For a moment, I panicked Mom was going to ask if he’d ever sat for an official portrait but my worry was needless.

Thad espied a small, wet neighborhood boy, a shivery party-crasher of about nine, standing at the cornucopia of the buffet table cogitating over what he might help himself to. Mars handed the towhead a towel; without taking his eyes off the food, the visitor draped it over his blonde-downed, sparrow’s shoulders.

“There’s something so… perfect and monstrous about the drowning of a child,” said Thad, taking the child’s measure.

The comment jarred Gita anew. I moved closer, as if to shield Thad’s words from the guests and muffle him from the world as well.

“Jeremy was like that when they found him — down in the flooded library of the Aegean, the tiniest Leopardi. I made my way through schools of Father’s iridescent books. Heartbreaking it was, to see him broken on the reef with his funny glasses.”

Gita glanced at me then put her hand on Thad’s.

Clea joined us with a plate of pasta and eggs, and an unsuspecting smile.

“He already had little scales. The eyes were hooded and when the lids opened… cobalt blue! Like the most fantastic marbles. Beautiful— beautiful. He hung there in the water, twisting ever so slowly… the softest of sea horses. Oh, it was him all right! The picture pride of Hollywood. I knew it was him. ‘Too many fall from great and good for you to doubt the likelihood. Die early and avoid the fate ’—”

The captain bounded over unawares, Miriam at his heels. Observing Clea’s darkened face, and mine and Gita’s as well, the book agent knew something was up.

“Well, well,” said Laughton, still oblivious. “I see our beloved ensign is in sequestration with his mum, the Vorbalid queen!”

“That would be you, ” his boyfriend shouted, approaching the bridge.

“Thad,” said Gita. “Are you all right? Would you like to go in and lie down?”

Everyone instantly grew solemn-faced. Father came out. Thad was still fixated on the towel-shrouded boy, who, plate filled, shuffled back to sea and sand.

“Headache,” said Thad, without much conviction.

Clea knelt by his side and quietly asked if he’d brought his “medicine,” whatever that was code for — in moments like this, I’d gladly have forked over heroin. I just wanted him “fixed.”

He’d be fine, said Thad, if only he could “catnap.” Clea and Miriam helped him to his feet. Carmen met them at the elevator and up they whooshed, as if to sickbay. Nick made a few predictable comments about how his mother, who lived in a place with the wretched name of Slough, also suffered migraines — remarks calculated to communally minimalize Thad’s short-term miseries while self-servingly allowing the director to keep his eyes on the prize of any long-term Thad-related goals. The tomb-raiding wife nodded along, in mercenary cahoots to rescue and coddle future deals at any cost. Thankfully, the couple soon announced they were going home (a Point Dume rental). The captain and his partner discreetly ambled down the coast to let things settle before taking leave. Dad wondered aloud if we should call Thad’s personal physician, then excused himself to retrieve a bottle of wine from the cellar.

I sat with Mother and she looked so sad.

Her gaze fell over the water, blinking at gulls and whitecaps.

“What an awful time of it some people have, Bertie. What an awful time.”

THAD SLEPT NEARLY TWO HOURSwith Clea beside him.

Meerkat and I spooned on the couch, dozing off between cigarettes, kisses, and long vacant stares at the broiling, turquoise-veined ocean. We didn’t hide our affections from Mom, who was perfectly content to sit and read her Sunday Book Review. With a rare full house, she was comforted by the resurrection of family.

Upon awakening, Thad took a shower (we all did, in various venues) and drew a serious second wind. It was dusk when he resurfaced, fully dressed and headache-free. Mom invited us to stay for supper but Thad sang “Hello, I must be going,” explaining he had an early call. He suggested that Clea, Miriam, and I remain; he’d send his driver for us later, which of course was completely absurd.

On the way back to Shutters, Thad suggested we dine at Chez Jay, a favorite beach haunt. (He was often ravenous after a migraine.) I wasn’t up for it, and neither was Miriam — the protracted outing was beginning to acquire a manic, marathon flavor — but we acquiesced, mostly out of caution due to the weirdness of what we had earlier witnessed. Thad still didn’t seem himself. 1

By the time we were seated, the mood had soured; congealed might be a better word. Miriam became the codependent poster child, overly solicitous of the group gestalt, her words and gestures abrasively convivial. Clea, obviously intoxicated, sniped at my “addiction” to Diet Coke — clearly, my sobriety made it impossible for her to fully enjoy her loadedness. I wanted to flee but reminded myself that apart from possessing a psychotic component which, without warning, blossomed into hallucination, our troubled friend was at this point somewhat of a wild card, and volatile enough that I worried for the girls’ safety.