The Wisdom of Perversity

by Rafael Yglesias

  The seduction seemed to be a failure: Brian yanked his hand free and snubbed her. “You’re going to direct The Ice Pond?” he asked Jeff in an insulting tone of disbelief.

  “Fuck you,” Jeff said mildly.

  “Touché,” Brian smiled. “The only reason I’m surprised you want to direct The Ice Pond is that it doesn’t have any special effects. No cute furry monsters, no amusingly hideous aliens, no multifanged amphibians, no Nazis!” Brian added to his list with an emphatic exclamation that provoked a laugh from Grace who immediately covered her mouth. Brian wasn’t done. “No witches, no cartoon characters, no zombies—”

  “All right—” Jeff tried to stop him.

  Brian’s energy for his itemization seemed boundless. “No chase scenes! No hydrogen bombs, no Ebola virus—”

  “All right! You’ve made the joke. It was funny the first twelve times. Now you’re overplaying it. Don’t beat the laugh to death.”

  “Thank you, maestro.” Brian bowed his head. “Thank you for the note.”

  “I do know a thing or two about movies,” Jeff said, whining like when he was a boy, his voice rising an octave.

  “A thing,” Brian responded with an eight-year-old’s malice. “Not two.”

  “Now, boys,” Grace said, wagging a scolding finger. She adjusted quickly from femme fatale to tolerant mother. The deft transition increased Julie’s awe of the woman. “Stop squabbling. Everyone in Hollywood knows it’s time you two work together. If you’ll quit being babies about admitting you’re both brilliant at what you do, you’ll make a great film together. Everyone knows that.”

  At last she had Brian’s complete attention. He mocked: “Everyone? Every single soul in Hollywood?”

  Grace wasn’t fazed. “Yes. It’s going to be the greatest achievement of my career. I’ll be the producer who brings the world’s most inventive and humane director together with the world’s most perceptive writer about the human psyche. Both genius artists, who would be working together, who would have worked together years ago, if it weren’t for the amazing accident that they knew each other as boys and are still a teensy”—Grace screwed up her face, tasting a sour lemon—“bit jealous of what the other one doesn’t have.”

  Jeff and Brian looked at Grace as if she were raving mad. They answered her in a chorus. Jeff said, “You think I’m jealous of Brian?” at the same moment that Brian exclaimed, “You think he’s jealous of me?” Jeff then shut up, but Brian added for good measure, “You’re out of your mind. Jeff wouldn’t trade places with me for all the tea in China. For chrissakes, he already has all the tea in China!”

  “You’re wrong,” Grace said. Again, much to Julie’s irritation, she encompassed one of Brian’s hands with both of her own. I need a manicure, Julie thought, admiring how Grace’s long fingers captured and stroked the writer while the producer leaned in, close enough to kiss him. She cooed, “If Jeff could write beautiful, deep, complicated characters like yours, he’d give all the tea in China and all the Botox in Beverly Hills.” Julie’s admiration for Grace’s flattery grew exponentially. At first she had been awed by its shamelessness; now she was delighted by its self-conscious irony, a gentle self-parody that made swallowing the implausible praise easier and clarified that the brewer was no fool.

  “Is that true?” Julie asked of Jeff, genuinely curious.

  Jeff seemed startled that Julie had spoken, as if he had just been alerted to her presence.

  “Of course not,” Brian said, not an argument, supplying information. “But it’s a lovely thought, Grace,” he conceded, and much to Julie’s irritation, although he had seemed repelled by Grace’s presumptuous acts of physical contact until then, he covered her two hands with his free one. Thus encouraged, Grace captured this one too, fingers interlocking with Brian’s and squeezing affectionately.

  “It is true,” Grace insisted. “Will you do it, Brian? Will you adapt The Ice Pond and make me the happiest and luckiest producer in the world?” She gave his hands another, harder squeeze for good measure.

  Brian squeezed back. “Absolutely not,” he said. “And now, if you’ll forgive us, we really need to be alone with Jeff.” He brought her hands to his lips, kissed the air above them, and let go, casting her off.

  Grace’s eyes immediately fastened on the director, waiting on him to instruct her.

  Jeff said, “Go. We’ll talk him into it later.”

  Grace obeyed without further ado. She stood, saying to Brian, “I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Then take never for an answer,” Brian said. Julie winced at the spitefulness in his tone.

  “Great line,” Grace commented. She turned to Julie, “Nice to meet you. Enjoy breakfast!” she said, her long cashmere sweater billowing in the wake of her departure.

  At last the trio were together and alone. Jeff shook his head slowly and sadly at Brian as if he had made the gravest mistake of his life. Brian returned the disapproving look with a predator’s grin. Julie was acutely aware that, at this moment, she hardly existed for them.

  The silence became intensely uncomfortable. When Brian broke it, he added more discomfort by saying in a threatening tone, “You know why we’re here.”

  “I was going to call you,” Jeff said to Julie, turning away from Brian. “The test is tonight. Until then, I’m useless. So I was going to call after that.”

  “What is this test you keep talking about?” Julie asked.

  “Test screening of Helper II.” Jeff sighed. “In a New Jersey mall,” he added with disgust and doom in his voice.

  Brian turned to Julie. “Before a movie is released, the studios test them with audiences they select to represent key market groups.” He asked Jeff, “This a suburban-mall test?”

  “Yeah,” Jeff said gloomily.

  “So it’ll be skewed middle class, white, and young?”

  “Supposedly.” He focused on Julie. “Speaking of the young, I’ll be shooting a picture on the East Coast this summer. I think there’s a two-liner for a fifteen-year-old.”

  Brian snorted. Jeff reacted by turning his attention to him. “Speaking of actors, how’s your dad? He’s still working right? You know there’s the grandfather in The Ice Pond, a small but decent part for a man his age. He’s welcome to it. Okay!” Jeff announced as if that was settled. “Let’s get down to business.”

  “I thought you were already doing business,” Brian mumbled.

  “Cousin Richard is senile,” Jeff said, briskly, frowning regretfully. “He’s gaga. Totally out of it. Doesn’t recognize anybody. He’d be in an institution except Sam Rydel is paying for round-the-clock nurses. And you’ve heard the news about Sam Rydel, right? That he’s getting off. So there’s nothing we can do. It’s terrible, it’s disgusting, but at least the cops are hip to Rydel. He wouldn’t dare bother any kids again, and if he does, he’s sure to get nailed. Anyway, here are copies of the medical reports on Cousin Richard.” Jeff maneuvered gingerly on his pillow as he reached for something in his right pocket. He was in the dressed-down uniform of a successful director: stressed tailored jeans, retro Converse sneakers, brushed white cotton T under a black V-neck cashmere sweater. It took some squirming before Jeff produced a letter that had been folded in half. He placed it on the Four Seasons’ linen and pushed it in their direction, skimming on the arch of its folds. “That’s just a summary. I have the full eighteen-page report in the room. I didn’t want to schlep it out in front of Grace—I had promised I would have breakfast with her, and when I tried to cancel and she heard it was you, Brian, she insisted she come by. Anyway, we can go upstairs to my room and I’ll show you the whole report.”

  Brian angled the letter for Julie to read along with him. IS was embossed in huge gold print at the top. Just below, in normal size, the initials were spelled out: INTERNATIONAL SECURITY. Julie skipped the opening paragraph of self-congratulation on how much information they had gathered to read an itemized summary of confidential medical tests they had somehow copied, includ
ing a photocopy of a brain scan of Klein, a doctor’s chart with a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s and affidavits from three nurses who had taken care of Klein in the last year.

  “Cousin Richard doesn’t even know who Sam is. He wouldn’t know us from Adam,” Jeff said as Julie’s eyes reached the last lines. “In the reports from the nurses, they say he masturbates, or tries to, compulsively. But he had prostate surgery eight years ago and is impotent and incontinent.” Jeff took a long swallow of coffee and added, “So I guess in some cosmic way, he’s being punished.”

  Julie felt as if the building was shifting beneath her. She put both hands on the table to steady herself. There had been such a terrific struggle to become willing to tell the world about Klein. And it had been wonderful convincing Brian to help. She had felt more than mere relief, true joy that at long last she was going to be brave and do something tangible. Once she had heard Klein was alive, that she could at least shame him, maybe see him die in disgrace in prison, she had been thrilled to have a second chance to do right and to be right. But Klein was beyond her reach, as good as dead.

  In the background, she vaguely heard Brian ask questions about IS. They sounded off topic. One wasn’t even a question. He commented he didn’t realize they did this sort of investigative work. “I thought they only supplied bodyguards to pitiful helpless giants like Arnold Schwarzenegger.” She was dismayed to hear Brian make showbiz jokes as if nothing had changed the situation. What an idiot she was, demolishing or possibly demolishing her marriage for nothing.

  Brian shifted from meandering questions about IS to comment, “You know, Jeff, I think you should have stuck with the bribes. Was this really the best you could come up with? A bogus medical file.”

  She was still catching up to Brian’s meaning as Jeff said confidently, “I’ll go up right now and get you the complete file. It’s in my suite. It’s got everything. Even the MRI of his brain. I’m telling you, he’s gaga.”

  “The bribes were a much better choice,” Brian insisted. “Although I have to say it was idiotic to try both the bribes and a cover-up. Just like you to be over the top and indecisive in your storytelling. Either you’re paying us off, or you’re conning us. Pick one or the other.”

  “Look, wise guy, come upstairs, I’ll show you the originals—”

  Brian talked over him. “Seriously, the bribes were a much better choice. This cover-up is pathetically transparent. Makes me think your bribes aren’t big enough. What’s it really worth to you to shut us up?”

  Jeff, trying to contain anger, addressed the center of the table in a growl: “Come on up and look at the evidence.”

  “Please, stop bluffing,” Brian said in a pained voice while he dug in his pants pocket. He produced his iPhone. “I don’t know if it’ll load here, but thanks to Julie’s tip about your speech on the broadcasting academy website, I found a lovely clip of Klein’s reminiscing about his exciting career at NBC radio. In the clip, Sam Rydel is interviewing him and Sam conveniently introduces it by telling us they’re filming on the occasion of Klein’s eighty-third birthday. Just last year.” He paused. When Jeff said nothing, frowning at the tablecloth as if it had insulted him, Brian continued, “You were much better off with the bribes, Mr. Jeff. A big fat paycheck for me and prestige too, adapting a National Book Award – winning novel, while Zack gets a huge step up for his acting ambitions. By the way, just so that Julie can make an informed decision whether to accept your bribe, would part of Zack’s job be that if the studio is hassling you he has to let the president of production play with his dick so they won’t cut your budget?”

  When he came into the restaurant, Jeff’s face had looked boyish. No more. He stared at Brian with the cold, depthless rage of an adult, tossed his napkin on his plate, and stood up, about to go.

  Brian’s voice apprehended him. “You walk out and I’m going straight to the New Yorker, Vanity Fair, New York, Rolling Stone, every magazine still standing and pitch a long and very detailed piece about the curious connection between Jeff Mark, Richard Klein, and Sam Rydel.” Jeff had twisted slightly to depart, but he remained, feet rooted. Brian continued idly, as if musing aloud, “I’ll even offer to indemnify them against a lawsuit. Not that I think they’ll be all that nervous. After all, as I’m sure your lawyer can tell you, in a libel suit the truth is an excellent defense. I realize that as Harriet’s son it may be hard for you to appreciate this nicety, but my story is actually the truth. Well, perhaps ‘truth’ is too grand a word. But at least my story is factual. Not only factual. It qualifies as evidence. I’ve got Julie here to confirm every word I write about Richard Klein, the fascinating mentor of the great auteur, Jeff Mark.”

  Jeff’s torso remained committed to departure, but his eyes slipped back, like a hawk seeking prey, to fix on Julie. Brian’s eyes went to her too. “Right, Julie?” Brian prompted when her reverie went on too long.

  “You’re wrong, Brian,” she informed him, having had time to think it through.

  “What?” Brian looked as if she’d stuck a knife in his back. Jeff smirked.

  Julie said to Brian. “It wasn’t overkill of Jeff to offer bribes and also make up that Klein is gaga.” She looked up at Jeff. “You wanted to give me a way to rationalize taking a payoff to cover up for a sexual monster. I could take your bribe and kid myself I wasn’t doing anything really bad. That was a clever psychological ploy.”

  Jeff’s face fell. A busboy and waiter had hurried over to say “Sir?” in an anxious chorus. Jeff waved them away.

  Brian said, “If you’re going to take your paddled behind out of here, don’t forget your pillow. And send my best to Miss Katherine Stern next time you see her.”

  Jeff staggered, a hand steadying himself on the chair. “Oh shit,” he said.

  “Why don’t you sit down, Jeff?” Brian said. “Nice and easy, of course.”

  “You wouldn’t,” he whispered through gritted teeth.

  “Why not?” Brian snapped at him. “Why the fuck not? If you sue me for slander, then it’ll all come out. Every sordid detail.”

  Jeff straightened, face flushed. “Do what you want. You want to destroy my marriage, humiliate my children, go ahead. You want all my shit and all your shit to come out, fine. I’ll find out what’s up with you, a fifty-year-old bachelor. You want us both to be national jokes, go right the fuck ahead.” He picked up his suede pillow and left.

  Brian blinked. He watched his old friend disappear and blinked again.

  “Brian.” Julie tried to make her voice gentle, but she was angry and getting angrier. They had agreed that when it came to Jeff and his cover-up for Klein and Rydel they would be partners, not keep secrets. But he had kept something about Jeff from her. “Brian, you have to tell me right now what that was all about.”

  “I thought I had him.” He lowered his head. “I thought I had him,” he repeated, heartbroken.

  Mother’s Helper

  April 1966

  JEFF STUCK HIS head out his front door, letting it close against his neck, a decapitation.

  No one waiting for the elevator. No echoes from the stairs.

  He retracted like a turtle, a Ked wedged to keep the door ajar. He turned the Fox bolts so the door won’t shut behind him. Now GO!

  Runs at top speed. Past dark elevator porthole. Around stairwell to incinerator chute. Jerks black handle down, tosses in yucky Jockeys, and releases. He spins a one eighty, skids on black and white tiles. BANG! Chute closes as he passes barred window, black bannister, gray steps, tiles again, porthole again, front door propped by Fox lock looms, shoulder into door, BOOM! Shut and lock. Home free.

  “Jeff!” She sounded like the parrot in Treasure Island. His mother’s beak grew, squawking down the hall until it found him. “You just go out and come back in? Where are you? Come here.”

  He didn’t answer, walked slowly toward her bedroom, Keds toe to Keds heel, contemplating the paradox of February 29. Billy Zucker doesn’t have a birthday three years out of four. Sure,
his dumb parents celebrate anyway on the twenty-eighth, but that’s cheating. Like Mom said: “He’s really just two years old. And he acts like it.” A two-year-old in fourth grade. Crazy. What if everyone except for people born on February 29 disappeared on the twenty-ninth? What if, to make up for not having a birthday for three years, for twenty-four hours on the twenty-ninth they got to have the world to themselves? So boss!

  “Jeffrey, don’t play games. Get in here. Don’t make me get out of bed. I’m in agony.”

  No school, no parents, no stupid grown-ups: leap year kids could have a great birthday with everyone else gone for a day. Yeah, but no friends to have fun with.

  “What is it?” he asked as he crucified himself in his mother’s doorframe. He was like Samson chained to the temple columns in The Illustrated Bible. He could pull down the pillars. Mom would die, smelly Mrs. Greenblatt, and the ugly little dog in 2A too.

  “I’m telling you to clean your room today, no arguments, move that castle or whatever it is you and Brian built and put it in your closet—”

  “It won’t fit in the closet!” Jeff shrieked.

  “Then take it apart neatly or Hattie will have to break it up. She has to vacuum your floor. It’s like the Sahara of dust in there.”

  “How do you know that?” Jeff asked. “You haven’t been in my room since the Cretaceous period.” He had learned that phrase at the Museum of Natural History when he visited with Cousin Richard—the only good thing about that day—and used it whenever possible.

  “I went in there just now and nearly choked to death,” his mother said. “What is that thing you and Brian built supposed to be?” She was wearing her neck brace today. The cream-colored hard plastic rested on her shoulders, covering her bosom, ending right up against her chin, where it pinched some loose neck skin. She looked like a weirdo version of an armored knight. When she wore her neck brace, she was in an even worse mood than usual.