The Chrysanthemum Palace

by Bruce Wagner

  Klotcher laughed and Morgana clucked in disapproval as the child dashed out.

  “I’d like us to have lunch on Saturday,” said the producer. “Can we go to the Ivy on Saturday? I read your book . . . and so did Mikkel Skarsgaard. Do you know his work? He’s very intrigued. Miriam didn’t tell you about this?” The boy shrieked for his great-uncle, making a general ruckus. Klotcher left to find him, with a parting shot to Thad: “See you on the bridge!”

  “Who the fuck is Mikkel Skarsgaard,” asked Thad of Clea.

  “A famous Danish DP. It’s good.”

  “What’s good?”

  “It’s good that he read it.”

  “Why is that good?” he said, annoyed.

  “Because he’s really hot.”

  “Oh goodie, he’s hot. He’s hot hot hot!”

  “And he wants to direct.”

  No one said anything. I was about to come out. I assumed his mother had wandered off with Klotcher. I hesitated. More silence, then Clea entered the bedroom without warning. We heard Morgana return to the trailer—and gave each other a look. The fact we’d have to pass by them in order to exit had a paralyzing (and alluringly voyeuristic) effect. We intuitively sensed a primordial mother-son spectacle looming.

  “Awfully small, this trailer, isn’t it?”

  “It’s television, Mom.”

  “I would think they’d at least have found you something bigger. Don’t the agents tend to all that? Miriam—is she as effective as she could be?”

  “Miriam’s not my agent, Mom.”

  “She isn’t?” said Morgana, baffled.

  “She’s my agent for books.”

  “Then she is your agent.”

  “Not for TV or movies. Just books.”

  “Well, maybe you’d do better to go elsewhere.”

  He let that one go.

  “You haven’t done any films lately, have you, Thad.”

  “I don’t know, Ma. Have you seen me in any?”

  She let that one go.

  “Are you really out here taking pictures?” he asked suspiciously.

  “There were a few legal things I had to attend to connected to the estate. As it turned out, your father owned a condo in Century City. Another little secret,” she said ironically.

  Since his mother had opened the probate door, he decided to step in.

  “There’s some stuff I wanted to talk to you about. I was going to wait, but—I wanted to ask . . . if Dad made any provisions.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you. The lawyers are going to be calling.”

  “Calling?”

  “That’s what I said. You’ll have to ask the lawyers.”

  “Because I could use some help! The IRS thing, the ‘offer and compromise,’ or whatever—the thing my accountant was working on didn’t come through.”

  “You told me that—at the funeral.”

  “I thought I’d be paying pennies on the dollar. That’s how he represented it—”

  “You told me, at the Vineyard.”

  “—but it just didn’t happen. I might sue the idiot for malpractice.”

  “You can’t sue the world, Thaddeus.”

  “He never should have repre—you start having these expectations. Anyway, I made a deal, with the government. My accountant made a deal, but it’s usury. It’s like thirty eight thousand a month, for five years. I may as well have borrowed from the Mob.”

  “You should have thought about that when you didn’t pay taxes.”

  He let that one go too. “So what do the lawyers want? Why are they calling me?”

  “About Jack’s will.”

  Clea and I gave each other a look again.

  “So, who you taking pictures of?” he asked, forcedly casual.

  We were actually now spying on them through a crack in the door; a bit insane. Morgana gave her son a blank look. She knew exactly what he wanted from her, but sometimes did the vacant-look routine, just to make him “work.”

  “For your book.”

  “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 ha
d 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.”

  “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 THAT the 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 b
reath.

  The lawyers showed up a few minutes later, apologizing for their tardiness. An “emergency” had come up.1 Introductions 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.”