The Chrysanthemum Palace

by Bruce Wagner

The meeting went well, or well enough—hard to gauge because it was the first I’d taken in my spanking-new role of all-seeing all-knowing writer-creator. I felt a little heady: you could see how guys like David Kelley or David Chase or David Milch (pick a David, any David) got hooked. No one brought up my father and that showed some class. But Perry was no David—he was demographically over-the-hill.

  On the way out, a young exec sidled up to say he was a big fan of Starwatch.

  “Clea Fremantle came in last week to pitch a show,” he said.

  “Really?”

  There was something about the way he asked if I knew her that made me instinctively play down our relationship. Later, I felt sleazy about it. Anyhow, she’d never said anything about pitching HBO.

  “It was so crazy! She came in with Thad Michelet—in fact, he’s out here doing a Starwatch. But you already know that.”

  I could tell he wanted to gossip but was being politic.

  “Yeah, he’s great!” I enthused, vacantly. I know it was seedy but I was distancing myself so the guy would feel comfortable about telling all.

  “They had this insane sitcom idea, kind of like a Curb Your Enthusiasm? About the almost-famous kids of famous parents. I mean grown-up kids—like Thad and Clea! They sort of typecast themselves.” He played it close to the vest, subtly scanning my allegiances to measure just how far he could go. “It’s a really funny idea, but—well, the meeting was strange.”

  “In what way?”

  I smiled, indicating that I was up for a little slander.

  “He’s a character!” said the exec.

  I could tell he was getting ready to spill.

  “Pretty interesting guy,” I said, cagily noncommittal.

  “Wild. And she’s wild too. Looks a lot like her mom.” We were halfway down the hall, ahead of the others. “And I’m a serious Roos Chandlerphile. A Roosaholic.”

  Morbidly, I steered him back. “So, what happened?”

  “Do you promise not to mention this? I mean, to either of them?”

  I nodded eagerly. The exec knew he could be reasonably sure I wouldn’t pass on anything that was said in confidence, for fear it might endanger my own project. He was smart and brash, and enjoyed the spice of telling tales out of school.

  “I thought you would have heard this already,” he said, lowering his voice. “I think they were loaded. I don’t know”—the slight backpedal. “Does she have any problems like that? I hear she’s been in a bunch of rehabs. But she was really nervous. She looked great—it wasn’t like she was ‘out of it’ or anything. And he was . . . he was—I don’t know what he was!” The exec laughed. “He’s kind of from another planet? Right? That’s why he’s perfect for your show! Not Holmby but Starwatch,” he said, wryly. “So they pitched us and we liked it, it’s kind of a hoot, kind of a cool idea, needs a tweak, and then we ask them about the characters. And Clea says her character is the daughter of someone like her mom, like Roos, only in the show her mom’s still alive—that was actually kind of touching—and Thad’s character is like the son of—instead of a famous novelist—the son of a famous film director. And then Terry or someone in the room said that the film director thing might be a little showbizzy and since Clea’s mom was already going to be this big movie star, why not just make his dad a novelist—you know, a literary thing, you know, just do it, right? And I think the comment was a good one because it’s not like anyone—I mean, Clea—was tiptoeing around because everyone knows who Thad’s father is, or was—we ain’t dummies! Right? And you’re here at HBO pitching a show where you’re basically playing yourselves so why not just drink from that well? Just, like, do that. Anyway, he got so pissed off—Thad—it was like suddenly he woke up and realized he was in this room hondling a series about the loser son of a superfamous man—hello. I mean, that’s part of the premise! It wasn’t our idea.” He laughed. “And Clea tried to calm him down, and then—I can’t believe you didn’t hear this! He, like, pulled out his dick.”

  “He what?”

  I wasn’t sure if he was joking.

  “We asked what one of the shows would be like—you know, we always try to get some idea of a typical show—with you, it’s different, you gave us an entire season!—anyway, it’s not something that needs to be carved in stone. So I said, Tell us about the pilot. Walk us through. Which is something I don’t always do, depending on the talent in the room. Right? And Thad, like, turns around—does a one eighty . . . we all thought he was turning around to like get into character! And when he turns back, his dick is out, and he says, ‘I’ll walk you through!’ And then he like starts to whack.”

  “Are you serious? What did everyone do?”

  “Jane totally walked out—and she’s completely hardcore. I mean, Jane’s the one who’s always pushing David to go further with Dead-wood. Clea told him to put it away—‘Put it away!’—it was so surreal! She sounded like Joan Rivers! And then they got into this slapping thing—”

  “Jane?—”

  “No!” he said, laughing again. “But that wasn’t so far off! Clea and Thad. They start to like slap each other, it was so David Sedaris! Then he runs out and Clea stays behind and someone calls security and we all felt really terrible. I mean, for her. And one of us—Patrick, I think—rushes into the hall to make sure Thad wasn’t like going after Jane. I’m not even kidding. I think Jane locked herself in her office. I mean, there was never anything ‘threatening’—it was more like burlesque, whatever. But it was off-the-wall enough that people were really disturbed. And Clea . . . I didn’t know what to say to her other than I was such a fan of her mom’s—and of her, too, and that I really liked her movies—and it’s true, I think Clea did some really good work. And she just seemed so grateful that we weren’t like telling her to leave. Get the fuck away! Because she’s kinda great, right? And she like tried to turn it around and said, ‘Well . . . could we at least maybe do a movie about my mom like that Judy Garland thing you guys did?’ (That wasn’t even ours.) Something she could produce. ‘I love you guys so much’—that kind of thing. Half crying. So sad. Because she does have access to all this stuff about her mom no one knows about. That’s what she was saying, she was like pimping at this point. Vamping. We couldn’t really respond to the biopic thing so I just kind of put my hand on her shoulder and she started full-out bawling and talking this—stream-of-consciousness—about this other idea, how we could maybe do a game show—this Hollywood Squares thing with the children of famous people . . .”

  Elevators whooshed open just like on the Demeter. The agents and HBO execs, who’d been having their own cliquish postpitch huddles, converged for friendly good-byes. As the metal box whisked us to valet level, the ground beneath our feet moving softly, ever downward, Dan said he was almost certain we had a deal.

  THAT NIGHT, I WENT OVER to Clea’s.

  She answered the door in darkness then retreated to the bathroom. When she emerged, I could see the freshly applied foundation covering a darkish bruise on the delicate line of her jaw. I asked about it and she said she got loaded and fell in the bathroom. Before I probed further, Clea assiduously volunteered that her boyfriend hadn’t struck her. I wanted to believe it. Then she disarmed me by tearfully asking for help—would I take her to the Pacific Group on Wednesday?—a brilliant strategy that worked like a charm. Not only was it impossible to turn her down but Clea’s helplessness made me begin to think she was telling the truth about her injury. After things settled, I brought up the weenie-wagging incident—we both began to laugh. Without elaborating, she said HBO could go fuck themselves because Fox and Showtime were practically in a bidding war over her idea.

  She poured herself a glass of wine and slunk into my arms. Ah—so this is how it’s going to be until one of us goes quietly or unquietly to our grave . . . that warm, fuzzy, incestuous, tortured family feeling, the blurring of lines, the love and sex jumble, the caretaker thing, the quick-fix embrace, the sacred Denial. We were like bystanders you see on television
after suicide bomb attacks, numbly clutching each other in front of splintered buses and orphaned cell phones. I get it. This is how it’s always been and always would be between us—

  She lay like that in the crook of my soul and I smelled her treacly breath, and the scent of her tears too. I did decide to go see Thad, though; I couldn’t have lived with myself without investigating. I knew that Clea was a big girl and there were things I couldn’t protect her from, but now was the time to show my colors—as her oldest friend, former lover, brother-protector. Thad needed to know I was her ally, a force to be reckoned with who would stand up for her in this world and the next. What Clea told me a few minutes later only strengthened my resolve.

  She was going to have his child.

  THE FIRST THING I SAW upon sitting down (Thad skittered to the bathroom after letting me in, just as Clea had the night before) was a “personalized” form letter on the coffee table:

  HOW TO PREEMPT THE IRS “9/11”—AND WIN!

  Hi Thad,

  I’m Leonard Mednick. Even with their $3,856,978 tax lien, Thad, the IRS still remains equipped to vilify . . . shame . . . and crash planes into your income and hard-earned nest egg—but they won’t succeed when you learn how to PREEMPT THE IRS’ LEGAL “9/11”!

  I’ll wager if you’re like thousands of other taxpayers I’ve helped “liberate” in my 28-year taxpayer advocacy career, you will be more than curious to know the impact that lien will have on you. I’d also bet your bottom dollar (the IRS will want that too!) you’d like to learn the location of whatever “sleeper cells” the IRS has in your city limits and how to respond effectively. Let’s start with a little analysis. Ready, Thad? Then get on the couch!

  THE IRS LIEN OPERATIVE

  Your tax lien is a key IRS “Sleeper Operative.” While I consider the lien the mildest of these terrorists, it’s still a major PAIN IN THE BUTT! It ruins your credit rating and the IRS winds up with a security interest in what you currently own, as well as in any future assets you may come by. It is as if you and your loved ones have been annexed by a country that does not share your beliefs.

  Worst of all, this lien applies to your home, car, collectibles and any other asset where you’ve built up equity. Eventually, when you sell or transfer assets, the IRS “sleepers” grab the proceeds or the property! In most cases, even despite bankruptcy, the IRS can and will keep your lien on the books indefinitely! You may as well be told to wear a “burka,” Thad! Worse, your tax woe’s become public. It is as if “bearded” IRS “Qaeda operatives” spray-paint your home, telling the world they know who you are—and they don’t like your “beliefs” or your “freedom”! “Thad Hasn’t Paid the Tax—Let’s Give Him a Dose of Fiscal Anthrax!!” . . .

  OTHER LEGAL TERRORIST TOOLS

  If the lien isn’t enough to make you “pull out your troops,” the IRS then resorts to BEHEADING you through intimidation and confiscation. They achieve these goals with the Administrative Summons and either the Levy, the Seizure or both.

  The Administrative Summons is a “fatwa” signed by an officer of the IRS “sleeper cell” forcing you to turn over embarrassing information exposing income and asset details. Defy the Administrative Summons and you can go to jail! Leonard Mednick is here to tell you, THAD, you will find yourself in your very own personal Abu Ghraib Prison, with close to all the “hoods,” “unmuzzled dogs,” and “genital humiliation” of the real thing. . . .

  He entered the hallway impeccably groomed, but as he came closer I noticed the familiar residue of makeup at his collar. He had only one major scene left: the showdown at the Fellcrum Outback in which the ensign mortally wounds his evil twin. The choreography was complex but Thad said he was looking forward to fighting—and defeating—his own princely self.

  “Everyone’s fantasy, isn’t it?” he said jauntily.

  I told him I wasn’t sure.

  I had the feeling Thad knew why I’d come. There was a formality about him, not only in dress but in manner. He seemed completely sober and suggested we take a drive. I thought it a good idea, as long as I was behind the wheel. The airless suite felt messy and close—like an impoverished theater hosting a mediocre drama at the end of its run.

  He asked after Clea as we pulled out of the garage. I told him I saw her the night before and she hadn’t been well. He said, with indifference, that he knew she’d “taken a tumble”—meaning figuratively and literally. We small-talked while he stared at traffic. I asked how the “pitch” was going, devilishly suppressing a laugh at the image of him masturbating in the sanctum sanctorum of HBO. Apathetically, he said there seemed to be “interest.” The man’s hauteur was beginning to grate. Then, for the first time, he spoke of Miriam. She was “quite fond” of me and he wondered if those feelings were “reciprocated.” I felt like we were in an old movie—his prim, folksy inquiry begged serious response. It was funny how he’d turned the tables; suddenly, he was Robert Young. Adopting his own aloofness, I said I wasn’t sure where the relationship was going. He sagely replied that sometimes it was best not to have a destination. He knew she wanted to have kids and asked if I too had those “aspirations.” I told him I might though not at this time. In life and career. And what have you. He said he understood—that he more than understood. I kept my mouth shut. Rightly or wrongly, I assumed Clea had refrained from telling him she was in the family way. But maybe she’d lied to me—or maybe it was true and Thad already knew, and was putting me on as well. He said that having children for the wrong reason was the worst thing people could do. He said he knew that from “experience.” Miriam and I had a wonderful time together. Wasn’t that all that really mattered? Now he was James Mason.

  We went to Musso’s for a drink. At the end of the hour, he got the idea to go up to the Observatory. I told him the place was closed for renovations but Thad insisted. (He’d never been.) It was a while since I’d visited and it took a moment to retrace the familiar route in my head: Franklin to Los Feliz, Los Feliz to Griffith Park. There was just no way I was going to consult the car’s GPS.

  On the way, I told him I’d finished reading The Soft Sea Horse.

  “I was talking to Miriam—about how much I enjoyed it. And one of the things that interested me . . . do you mind talking about this?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I was intrigued when she said that you were actually there—in Capri—when your brother passed on. And I—I wondered why you wrote about it . . . ‘differently.’ Because the book seemed so fearlessly honest. Fearsome. I just wondered why you chose to distance yourself. Why you left the character of that boy behind, in the States.”

  The question came from nowhere—instead of confronting him about having struck Clea, my subconscious played out its hand.

  “They thought I killed my brother. Did Miriam tell you that? Strange! He loved to swim—to hold his breath. Years later I heard something that put me at ease, in a funny kind of way. A kid drowned in Hawaii, the son of a friend. He was sixteen years old, a surfer. Wanted to be a free diver—that’s what they call it. Guys who take a big breath then go deep as they can. In the ocean. Ride down on a cable, four or five hundred feet. There was a film someone made about it—Le grand bleu—‘The Big Blue.’ French. Never saw it. The way you train is by holding your breath in a swimming pool. They compete by using eighty-pound weights. They take a breath and these weights pull them down; a balloon brings ’em up. You’re never supposed to train alone cause apparently it’s very seductive to hold your breath for such a long time. You can black out, even in shallow water. They say you just want to let go. And this kid, the sixteen-year-old, he’d sent an e-mail or something to a friend only a week before saying how euphoric it was to be under, feeling himself drift away. That’s why you’re supposed to train in pairs. The ol’ Buddy System. And I think maybe that’s what happened to Jeremy. He was always so proud of how long he could hold his breath—shit, I could go maybe thirty seconds but Jeremy was an athlete! That day . . . I saw him go down . . . t
hen disappear under the boat. They were in the middle of shooting: I remember hearing the director, the voices of the actors during the scene. They were very strict about noise during whatever shot they were getting. I didn’t want to call out. I didn’t want to interrupt because I thought they’d get mad—Jack would get mad. It was the big scene between Alain Delon and Sophia Loren. Le grand bleu-job! I wasn’t sure anything bad was happening down there, anyway. With Jeremy. So I swam to the other side of the boat. Didn’t see him, couldn’t find him. The engine was off (they were shooting) so I wasn’t worried about him getting caught in the rudder. I thought he’d gone back around but it turned out he got stuck beneath the hull. His suit got caught on something, whatever, he took in water. That’s what the geniuses later said. The CSI aquatic unit—hey, that’s not a bad idea! CSI: Marine. Le grand autopsy. I couldn’t see too well, I was looking under there, completely myopic. The water stung my eyes if I opened them. Jeremy used to tease me because I needed goggles even when we were in the hotel pool. Anyway, they found bruises and thought—good old Dad suggested, that’s why they thought!—that I hit him. Do you know what that was like? To be accused? The police talked to me, les gendarmes, it wasn’t exactly an interrogation. I can’t even remember what the fuck it was. You know, I still can’t watch The Bad Seed. When she drowns the kid who won the spelling bee? So she can have his medal?”

  We drove in silence. A few minutes from our destination, he announced that Miriam had nearly closed the “Prodigal” novelization deal. The money wasn’t much but the psychological boost came just in time: he wound up at L’Orangerie with Morgana who, adding perennial insult to injury, had extended her stay to take photos of Paul Auster while he passed through on a paperback tour. Auster was one of her son’s pet peeves and she knew it. In retaliation, Thad said he was working on a “sweet little play” that would filet the Michelet dynasty in all its pornographic sound and fury. He acted out a barbaric monologue at the table, loud enough that surrounding patrons were captivated. Morgana, predictably appalled, stormed out. Thad received a letter the next day by messenger, warning that if he dared embark on such a venture, he would be excised from the estate—which he took as an idle threat, knowing in his heart of hearts this had already been done. As perverse parenthetical, he said he’d come to dinner with the sole purpose of soliciting her financial help in the matter of the lien. His hunch being, she might have agreed to help if he finally conceded to burial alongside Jeremy in the family plot, a desire which seemed to grow stronger in the old woman each year for reasons destined to remain cryptic, though the irony (happy family in death, if not in life) was not lost. As usual, things had conspired to undo him—so there he stood in the middle of that august salle à manger in crapulous soliloquy, shirt spattered in red wine–shallot reduction.