The Wisdom of Perversity

by Rafael Yglesias

  Veronica’s supple features transformed in a instant from skepticism to wonder. “To heal himself . . .” she whispered.

  “To heal himself,” Brian repeated.

  Her eyes glistened with tears. Brian felt a heart stopping stab of pure pleasure. I’ve moved her. I’ve moved her with my words, he congratulated himself, then immediately conceded the possibility: And she’s a great actress.

  “Well . . .” Veronica looked contrite. “I thought I was cutting my fee in half because you can’t expect a big audience for a political drama. I didn’t realize I was doing psychotherapy. Now I’m ashamed I’m asking for any money at all.”

  Brian chuckled. Tears in her eyes and steel in her heart. “You should bill Blue Cross,” he said.

  She grinned. He noticed a single freckle nestled below the strong line of her jaw, as dark as chocolate. Oh, no, he thought with horror. I’m starting to memorize her body. He averted his head, pretending to look for a waiter. What should I ask for—a side order of saltpeter?

  Instead he saw their producer approaching. The legendary Gregory Lamont strode with the harried confidence of a man who had been head of a studio at twenty-four, four-time Oscar-winning independent producer by thirty-three, bankrupt by forty-five, and now in the up-ramp of a comeback at fifty. He was wearing a blue blazer over a gray crew neck cashmere sweater too tight for his swelling belly. He completed his out-of-date semicasual Hollywood look of the cocaine eighties with tailored jeans and gaudy cowboy boots—a handcrafted souvenir of his top-grossing picture, The Yellow Rose.

  “How’s lunch so far?” Gregory asked as he sat down in an empty chair between them at their table for four. He smoothed his eyebrows with the index finger and thumb of his right hand, then pinched his nostrils, and lastly stroked his mustache—a nervous tic that was irritatingly familiar to Brian.

  “Thanks to our brilliant writer, lunch is excellent,” Veronica said.

  The producer turned from Veronica to Brian, following the flight of the movie star’s compliment to its object. “He is brilliant.” Although seated, he buttoned his blazer as if the announcement demanded a more formal dress code. “I have good news,” Gregory said. “Aries is available to have our video-conference call now. We can do it from my office, two blocks crosstown. I’ve arranged a car.”

  “Okay. But we haven’t had our entrées.”

  Gregory nodded, took a moment to consider this information, and declared, “And, of course, you want your entrées.”

  “I know I’m supposed to keep my figure, Gregory, but even for a light lunch this is the anorexic special.”

  Gregory announced grimly, “I’ll see about them.” He stood and walked confidently toward the swinging service doors.

  “He’s actually going into the kitchen?” Brian wondered aloud.

  “Maybe he’ll make our food. Gregory’s a good cook. Used to make lasagna for Scorsese no less. By the way, speaking of directors,” Veronica said, leaning in again. Those shoulders and long arms—he imagined how they would looked raised above her in handcuffs. Ah, but in his arty script, there were no tasteless flashbacks to her torture. “I just finished doing ADR on Mother’s Helper II,” Veronica said with a mischievous look.

  “Oh. Right.” His back ached. His stomach fluttered. What does she know? Surely Jeff had kept his mouth shut.

  Lamont burst through the swinging doors like a gunfighter, heading their way.

  “Guess who went out of his way to ask me to say hello to you?” she teased.

  Hurry up! Say it! He nodded to encourage her. Unfortunately, Veronica paused for him to guess. “Your director?” he whispered.

  Too late. Lamont arrived in time to overhear Veronica say, “Exactly. Jeff Mark told me you were BFF as children. In fact, he told me a funny story about how you used to tape-record his parents without them knowing . . .”

  “What?” Lamont, still standing, frowned down at Brian with the irritation of a boss who hasn’t been kept in the loop. “You and Jeff Mark were what?”

  Veronica looked up. “Our entrées?”

  Lamont sat down. “They’ll be right out.” He snapped at Brian, “Did you order the vegan salad?” Brian nodded. “Didn’t you have a salad for an appetizer?”

  “I’m vegan,” Brian said. “Everything else here is cooked in butter. Or worse.”

  “God, you’re even more of a fag than I thought.” Lamont could use the F-word because he was openly gay. That is, openly gay since his bankruptcy and release from the Betty Ford Center.

  Veronica defended Brian’s diet: “Well, it’s good for you. You look great.”

  Lamont stroked his eyebrows, pinched his nose, caressed his mustache and said to Brian, “What the fuck is this BFF bullshit about Jeff Mark and you?”

  Veronica grinned, proud to have information the all-knowing Lamont didn’t. “They grew up together. They were ‘bestest of friends,’ Jeff said. He was adorable about it.” She turned to Brian. “Jeff said you used to put on shows together, that’s how you both learned to be storytellers.”

  So now Jeff thinks of himself as a storyteller. Oh really.

  Lamont made a face. “Brian Moran, I’ve known you, what? Ten years. We’ve done three projects together. You never said anything about knowing the Mark Man.”

  “I don’t know him. I haven’t seen him since I was eleven.”

  “That’s what he said!” Veronica announced triumphantly. “Even though you and Jeff were best friends, he said you haven’t spoken or seen each other since you were eleven.”

  “You just finished ADR on Helper II,” Brian tried to steer off this course. “Isn’t that late to be doing ADR?”

  “We did some reshooting after the first previews. The studio is very nervous. They’ve got three hundred and sixty million in it.”

  “Jeff can’t fail. He’s a genius,” Gregory grumbled, as if that were a damning fault. He shifted in his chair to confront Brian. “You’re in the movie business. He’s the top box-office director and the most powerful and active producer in the business—the little prick. Why the fuck aren’t you in touch with him?”

  Brian shrugged. “I don’t not talk to him. I just don’t know him.” He saw their entrées coming. “Ah, lunch.”

  “What happened? You fought? Please tell me you punched his lights out. Of course I love Jeffrey. He’s a genius, there will never be another like him, but it would be a gas to think that, just once, a writer decked him.” Jeff was notorious for hiring Pulitzer Prize – winning playwrights and novelists, pampering them during their first drafts, firing them after the second, replacing them with more compliant screenwriters who composed the script he actually shot and then later, during awards season, Jeff would only mention the famous writers because their names lent more prestige to the project. So far, although nominated four times for Best Director, Jeff had yet to win the Oscar. Brian believed Jeff would win in a landslide if the category was Best Fucking Over.

  “No,” Brian said. “I didn’t punch him. My parents divorced and we moved away.”

  Lamont gave up on Brian. He turned to Veronica. “What did Jeff say our writer did to offend him?”

  “Nothing. Jeff said they lost touch. In fact, he spoke fondly of our writer. Said to say hello.”

  Lamont tried Brian again. “Spoke fondly? Lost touch?” He shook his head as if trying to wake up. “This is the fucking movie business. Movie people work all over the world, but they live in a small town. You’re an A-list screenwriter—”

  “Let’s not exaggerate,” Brian interrupted. “I’m no better than B-plus.”

  “Fuck off. If I say you’re A-list, you’re A-list. And Jeff! My God he’s an A-plus hyphenate. And you were BFF as kiddies. How the fuck could you not know him today?”

  Brian ordered his muscles to form as pleasant a countenance as possible given that he wanted to kick the producer in the mouth. “Doesn’t seem so weird to me,” Brian commented. “We were kids who lived a million years ago two floors apart in Rego Pa
rk, Queens. My mother moved us to the Upper West Side in ’69, when I was eleven. Jeff’s right: we just lost touch.” He smiled at the skeptical producer and sympathetic actress, and beyond them the Four Seasons audience neglecting their lunches, wondering who was this ordinary, balding middle-age man that the great Veronica Stillman was listening to so intently. “We were just childhood friends,” Brian said to the famous and the bankrupt, “and let’s face it, Jeff and me, we’re not children anymore.”

  Grown-up Secrets

  April 1966

  “I’M GOING, KIDS. I’m going now,” they heard Hy call out. “Be back later.”

  Jeff gripped Brian’s forearm. “Mom’ll go to the bathroom. She always needs to pee after guests leave. I can get the tape back!” He nodded at Julie and Noah. “Keep them here.”

  Noah made a run to follow Jeff. Brian caught him around the waist. The five-year-old strained against the hold, shoes coming up off the floor. “Lemme go!” he protested. Brian held fast and watched Julie for a reaction. Since confessing that they had hidden the tape recorder under Harriet’s bed, she had responded with doubtful looks, not explicitly agreeing to maintain their secret.

  Noah’s Buster Browns kicked Brian in both shins. He lifted Noah as high as he could and dumped him on the floorboards. The little boy looked astounded that he had been treated so roughly. “That hurt,” he declared with more surprise than outrage. Evidently Julie was not a violent older sister.

  “Keep quiet,” Brian said, “or I’ll really hurt you.”

  “Okay,” Noah agreed. He sat up and rubbed the back of his head.

  The door banged open, propelled by Jeff’s foot. His arms were full, carrying the recorder: one reel empty, the other fat with tape, its end flapping loose. Brian was impressed: We recorded a whole hour.

  “I just made it,” Jeff reported, lowering the machine on his twin bed. “I heard the toilet flush and I got the hell out. Plug it in. I’ll fix the tape.”

  Noah badgered Jeff, “What are you doing? What are you doing?” while Jeff concentrated on the delicate operation of threading the heads and Brian found an outlet.

  “He has to rewind the tape,” Brian explained. Julie was at the door, her hand on the knob. “You going?” Brian asked.

  She froze. Her hair draped the length of her back, black and straight. He noticed the bare backs of her knees; their different, tender texture was interesting to look at. He never used to find girls interesting to look at. Last Wednesday, Nina Goldfarb, who was fat and her skin too red, was two steps ahead of him on the stairs. As she stepped up, he could see her white thighs and powder-blue panties. He wondered about what was under them. Was it like the sculptures his mother had taken him to see—a smooth nothing? Don’t be stupid—how do they pee? And his mother had hair . . . He let this speculation lapse. He wasn’t happy about these new worries; he didn’t want to start acting dumb about girls, like men in movies.

  “Fuck,” Jeff said. The slippery tape had squirted out of the notch.

  Noah giggled. “Bad word.”

  Brian walked up behind Julie and whispered in her ear. “You leaving?”

  She turned. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “Somebody’s mother is sick,” Brian said. He glanced at the bumps under her bright red sweater. He was instantly ashamed. He looked up quickly. “Somebody’s mom is sick,” he repeated.

  “Sick with what?”

  “We heard—”

  “I heard,” Jeff corrected.

  “Who cares who heard,” Brian said. “Jeff heard his mother talking to my mother about one of them being sick with cancer.”

  “Oh my God . . .” A hand covered her mouth. “Cancer,” she repeated through fingers. “Who is it?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “I think it’s Brian’s mom,” Jeff said in the same casual way he might predict “The Mets will lose a hundred games.”

  Julie put a hand on Brian’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

  “It could be Jeff’s mom who’s sick.” Brian stepped away from her. Why was she touching him? And he was offended that she was in such a hurry to believe Jeff.

  “She’s not sick.” Noah shook his head from side to side and repeated, “She’s not sick.” He insisted to Jeff a third time: “Your mom’s not sick.”

  “How do you know my mom’s not sick?” Jeff asked as he succeeded in threading the tape into the notch. He spun the reel manually once to ensure it would hold, then depressed the black Rewind button. Noah, Julie, and Brian were hypnotized by the spinning reels and the flow of shiny brown tape through silver recording heads.

  Jeff rapped Noah on his head. “How do you know my mom’s not sick?”

  “Ow!” Noah complained.

  “Why did you say my mom isn’t sick?”

  “Because Dad said Aunt Harriet’s never sick. She’s always in bed, but she’s never sick.”

  “Noah!” Julie scolded, but she smiled. “Say you’re sorry.”

  “Tell Dad to apologize,” Noah said.

  “It’s okay, Noah,” Jeff said. “We’re gonna find out who’s sick.” A fascinated silence overcame them while they watched the tape transfer from the right reel to left, listening to its gradually changing melody, a breathy whisper becoming a rasp as it neared the finish. When the Rewind button shut off, it made a loud click. How come Harriet hadn’t heard that, Brian wondered? Maybe she was too busy talking.

  Jeff pressed the Play button. A lurch of distorted, warbled noise resolved into the clear sound of Harriet shuffling in on her slippers. She said, “Oy vey,” and sighed loudly, which was followed by a moan from the bedsprings as she settled on her bed.

  “Ugh,” Harriet groaned. She talked unselfconsciously to herself in a low but distinct voice. “I have to call her. No way out of it.” The springs creaked, and there was a clattering sound, followed by the rotary whirring of her bedside phone as she dialed. She interrupted after the first three numbers to comment, “God, I hope that fool Danny doesn’t answer. I’ll have to listen to stories of his pathetic auditions.”

  Jeff looked stricken. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled to Brian.

  “Who’s Danny?” Noah asked.

  “My father,” Brian snapped. “Now shut up so we can listen.”

  “Hello, Rose? How are you?” Harriet’s voice rose an octave, growl replaced by a singsong lilt. “It’s been so long. We never talk anymore.”

  “Is she talking to your mom?” Noah asked.

  “Shut up!” Jeff said.

  “Noah, please try to be patient and just listen.”

  Harriet coughed, the bedsprings creaked in sympathy, and then she continued, “So Brian tells me—you know, he’s a lovely boy, your son. He’s here every day. I feel he’s almost mine, the little brother Jeff always wanted. I bet I see as much of him as you do. Maybe more! And he’s such a good boy. So polite. And a little shy. He’s a little shy, isn’t he? Where does he get that from? Danny is so big a personality.” She paused to listen, then laughed and said, “I don’t think you’re shy. Anyway, Brian tells me you have this wonderful new job. He just mentioned it today. I could kill him for not saying something sooner. He said you’ve had this job for months.” Jeff looked an apology to his friend. Brian shrugged. “So what is the job? Brian makes it sound like you’re running Time magazine all by yourself.”

  “Jesus,” Brian mumbled.

  “You’re an editor?” Harriet sounded amazed. “Oh . . . you’re not an editor? What’s an assistant editor? So how do you assist an editor? Isn’t that being a secretary? I’m so confused! What do you do exactly?”

  All that made Brian intensely uncomfortable. His mother must hate this conversation. She was sure to express her unhappiness to him by wondering aloud if Brian ought to be spending so much time at Jeff’s. Jeff was embarrassed too. His index finger tapped the recorder’s green power light impatiently.

  “Reading? You read books all day? That’s a job?” Harriet asked.

  Jeff
hit the Stop button.

  Noah protested, “Hey, don’t!” and reached for the Play button. Jeff grabbed the little boy’s wrist and twisted. “Ow!” Noah complained, feebly punching Jeff’s shoulder with his other, tiny hand.

  “Don’t touch!” He released Noah, pressing Fast Forward. He mumbled for Brian’s benefit, “This is boring. I’m skipping it.”

  Brian was glad. He wished life would allow him to fast-forward through all conversations with Harriet, especially about his parents.

  “Stop!” Noah nagged as the tape sped through the heads. “You’re going too far.”

  “Shut up,” Jeff said, although he did stab the Stop button and press Play. There was an electronic wail as the recorder came up to speed that resolved into human grief, Harriet mumbling incoherently between sobs. At this distressing noise, the four children got very quiet. “I’m sorry, Rose . . . I’m sorry,” Brian eventually understood Harriet to be saying. His heart sank. Harriet’s pitying his mother could mean only one thing: Mom is dying. “No, honey, no, you don’t have to do that. How sweet,” Harriet continued, atypically affectionate. “The doctors don’t know a goddamn thing.” Harriet returned to her normal sourness. “Except how to charge. I don’t how we’re going to pay all the doctors’ bills. Even if this new treatment works, it could be a disaster. What good is it if we end up broke . . . living like animals on the street? Jeff and Saul will be better off with me in the grave.” She gasped out, “Oh God, oh God, what’s going to happen to my little Jeffy. His father can’t take care of him after I’m gone.”

  Jeff hit the Stop button hard. Relieved for himself, Brian watched his friend stare at the still reels, cheeks sucked in, lips rolled together. Julie put an arm around her cousin’s shoulder. Brian patted him on the back. He felt like a big fat phony. Under the circumstances, he was glad Harriet was dying. Jeff was grim, intent. “I’m going to rewind to hear what we skipped.”