The Wisdom of Perversity (23 page)

Julie attempted to turn her head in the direction of the other adults, intending to join in the conversation, get them to look in her direction, sure that would stop him. Klein leaned his chin on her shoulder, blocking that move. His forearms tightened about her waist. Two fingers pressed on either side of There, a squeeze that almost pinched, almost tickled. She froze. He wasn't going to hurt her There, was he? Her legs tensed, monitoring: the pressure intensified, then relaxed; he pressed harder still and departed; and again, returning more insistently.

She felt wet. She knew she hadn't peed because that kind of wet had happened once before, in the tub when she rubbed in a way that felt good. For a while she had assumed the wet came from the bathwater, not her, and almost asked Nancy about it but got too shy.

One finger slid right on top of There. And stayed.

She wasn't gagged. Her arms hung loose at her sides, free to strike at his face. But how could she explain?

Klein made a fist at her groin, pushing for her legs to part. They yielded. She ordered them not to, but they complied. Then she realized if she were to shut them now she would be trapping his hand tight to There.

Klein opened his fist, a fan of fingers pushing her legs wider apart until they rolled open on the slopes of his thick thighs. Then he cupped all of There, holding her like a handle in his heat of his palm. “You're wet,” he whispered as faintly as any one could possibly speak but not faintly enough for her comfort. Her heart pounded. What if her father heard? One finger slid inside There. “Goes in easy now,” Klein whispered. “You really like this.”
What's the matter with me?

Her Mary Janes swung free; she could dig their sharp heels into his slacks. Instead she prayed he wouldn't whisper more things about her. She looked at the boys. Jeff was twisted away, trying too hard to see only the TV. Not so the dark-headed boy with china blue eyes: Brian was watching Klein's hand—he could see what she could only feel.

She looked to her prince. She had Sam's profile while he talked about famous people. He was so beautiful.
Look at me. Save me.
The young man's voice faded into background noise while she worried about what was going on There, overwhelmed by the restless fingers—rubbing, tickling, sliding in and across. She couldn't delineate what Klein was doing—waves of sensation drowned their individual action. She looked down to check. Her skirt hid his maneuvers from her sight. But then she saw in Brian's fascinated eyes, glowing like a cat's, she saw that she must be thoroughly exposed to him.

Shame warmed her cheeks, mixing with the discomforts and pleasures below. She decided to endure it.
Don't feel.
Then one finger briefly, but distinctly, went very deep inside her.

She jerked her head up. She shouted through her eyes to the room. The boys were too young, they were useless, but Sam was tall and strong. Her father was telling a story about his one celebrity patient, a violinist in the New York Philharmonic whom he often bragged on at home, so Sam was free to linger on her. His gray eyes dropped to her skirt. She looked down with him. Klein's hands were busy under the pleats: his left tented her skirt to show Sam some of what was going on. The little boys could see everything: Cousin Jeff's eyes spookily shifted sideways to watch without turning his head; Brian stared.

Sam looked into her eyes fully and frankly. And the miracle she had wished for happened: Klein's fingers departed.

It's over!
Her heart soared.
I'm free.

Then she felt her panties being nudged down, the cool air highlighting her nudity. On both sides of There, Klein's fingers pulled her skin apart in a way she had never, no one had ever done. Klein held her open, displaying her.

She couldn't speak, but she talked in her head to Sam. She pleaded for him to stop this.

The prince watched without expression. Her father asked him something. Sam looked away to answer, but the absence was brief. When his indifferent gaze returned, he was in no hurry. His eyes moved down to the tented show below, inspecting her, then up to study her dispassionately until, after a long long time, so long that she felt it would never end, Uncle Saul announced that everyone should move to the dining room for a big surprise.

To Tell the Truth

February 2008

BRIAN STARED AT
the entry for Jeff Mark in his once beloved Hermès black leather address book, buried two years ago in the bottom drawer of his desk in favor of his even more cherished smartphone. He hadn't transferred Jeff's numbers into his electronic contacts. In the discarded Hermès there were two numbers, for an office in LA and his home. They had appeared in Brian's mail not long after his first movie premiered, embossed on a thick linen card with the heading:
JEFF MARK'S NEW LA NUMBERS
.

At first, Brian had puzzled over why Jeff chose to inform him of his home number. He had searched for a clue in how it was addressed. Not in evidence were the extra four digits on the zip code that business correspondence, such as talent agencies, liked to include. Brian deduced that an assistant had been handed Jeff's address book of friends and was told to mail this more personal information to them. That would explain why Jeff's home number was included.

So he kept me listed as an intimate,
Brian thought at the time, with a teaspoon of self-satisfaction added to the cup of bitterness labeled Jeff Mark he carried everywhere.
He thinks we might be friends one day.
Brian had marveled at that piece of emotional stupidity and nearly tossed the numbers. Nearly, because on reflection Brian reminded himself that Jeff was one of the most successful box-office directors in Hollywood and that in the face of some tomorrow of penury Brian might no longer be able to afford today's virtuous shunning.

So he had copied the numbers into the Hermès. Whenever his eyes had happened to light on them he regretted that he had. But rather than tear out the offending page Brian had devoted an entire therapy session to why he chose to keep the Mark contact info, seeking two hundred dollars' worth of insight from his shrink. “You want to be reminded,” the doctor pointed out in a bored tone. Brian was bored too. It was merely another example of what was plentifully illustrated in their sessions—Brian had not, could not, would not, and will not discard his past.

Moving on had at last seemed to be accomplished, at least when it came to discarding contact info, after Brian started taking Paxil, which, as his psychiatrist had predicted, along with killing his bothersome sex drive, tugged him clear of wallowing in the rut of his past. So when he purchased his iPhone, Brian had decided to live in this Brave New World without Jeff Mark's phone numbers in his pocket.

But he hadn't thrown out the Hermès and now he was grateful. He couldn't ask Julie for the number she had successfully used because he had promised her that he wouldn't call Jeff. Another way would involve asking his LA agent or Gregory Lamont, and any lie he invented to explain why he wanted to speak to Jeff would lead to awkward questions. Worse, with his agent it would provoke a greedy excitement that Brian was finally making profitable use of the connection, a sore point between representative and screenwriter ever since Jeff had told Brian's agent that they used to be best friends. From then on, Jeff's name was raised by Brian's agent repeatedly as a possible buyer for Brian's story ideas until Brian supplied what he liked to think of as a lie full of truths: “It's really my problem. I can't imagine taking notes from the same guy who used to wet his bed and scream at spiders.” His agent laughed and never again raised sending scripts or pitching to Jeff. Brian could hear him conclude:
My client's too proud to accept his childhood buddy's being his boss.
Brian had long ago learned the trick to a successful lie: don't bother to seem to be telling the truth; provide your listener with a false insight to discover for themselves.

The time had come. Julie, in her innocence, had handed Brian the perfect opportunity to break the nearly thirty-year moratorium on calling the great Jeff Mark. He lifted the receiver while glancing at his desk clock, subtracting three hours for the coast and noting that at two forty-five they should be back from lunch. A young man answered after one ring: “Satisfaction,” the irritating name of Jeff's production company. Brian had read in Jeff's
New Yorker
profile that it was a reference to the Stones' iconic hit; presumably Jeff's movies were providing a satisfaction obtainable nowhere else.

“Jeff Mark, please,” Brian said. “Brian Moran is calling.”

There was no human reply. He heard another immediate ring, as he was relayed from switchboard to a female assistant with an English accent (hiring a Brit was the latest pretention these days). She announced briskly, “Jeff Mark's office.”

“Jeff Mark, please? This is Brian Moran calling.”

Hollywood assistants were all aspiring filmmakers, or at least aspiring studio executives, and knew the names of currently employed screenwriters (an increasingly rare specimen), so he was not surprised by the lowered register of respect with which she said, “Please hold, Mr. Moran. I'll see if he's available.”

He steeled himself for actual conversation with Jeff. She was gone for more than a few seconds, another hint Jeff would be coming on as soon as he finished zipping up or whatever other important task . . .

“Uh, Mr. Moran?” The assistant sounded cowed, as if she'd been scolded. “I'm terribly sorry. I completely forgot Mr. Mark is traveling today and tomorrow. In fact, he'll be unavailable through the weekend. May I have your cell—we don't seem to have that on file—and we'll get back to you on Monday?”

Brian was stunned that Jeff was deliberately avoiding him. Not merely avoiding him, Jeff was hoping to prevent him from calling until next week. Why? Would the cover-up be complete?

“Bri? Where are you?” his father demanded from down the hall.

“In the study!” he shouted with his hand over the receiver, and then uncovered to say, “My cell is . . .” He rattled off the number and hung up abruptly, flipping the Hermès shut as if he were hiding porno.

He certainly didn't want his father to know he was calling Jeff. Twenty years ago, after the first of Jeff's box office hits, Danny Moran had become obsessed with why Brian wasn't in touch with “your dear old buddy, best buddies you were, until your mum messed that up with her self-righteousness about that lunatic Harriet. Just like your mother, causing more trouble where there's already plenty to go around.” For the next ten years, Brian had to deflect weekly questions about why he hadn't resumed the friendship, mostly because Danny felt his son ought to be reminding Jeff Mark that Danny Moran was a damn good actor. His father finally blew up at his evasions. “You don't want him to hire me, that's it! You're afraid I'll be the More Famous Moran,” he said, turning sideways as if modeling for a bust.

“Are you writing?” his seventy-eight-year-old father said from the hall as he approached. Danny appeared at the doorsill, panting as if he'd been jogging. “You're not working,” he accused, once he had a clear line of sight. “So I can talk to you about my idea, then.”

Despite the always high color in Danny's ruddy, vein exploded cheeks, Brian was struck once again by the overall grayness of his father's face, alarming in a old man who had survived a heart attack ten years ago. Danny leaned against the doorframe, too weary to remain on his feet while nagging his son. Because of these symptoms of rapid deterioration despite all the medications he was on, Brian had arranged for his father to see a cardiologist who Gregory Lamont insisted was “the most brilliant heart guy on the planet.” The showbiz endorsement seduced Danny into agreeing. “Since he's a doctor to the stars, I'll see him. If I can't be a star, at least I can die like one.”

“You feeling all right, Dad?” Brian couldn't stop himself from asking, although he knew any suggestion of infirmity would provoke a nasty reply.

“I tell you I feel fine, Brian. Stop being such a biddy. You like the lads, all right I accept that, but does being homosexual mean you have to turn yourself into an old Irish biddy?”

As always when his father brought up his sexuality, Brian changed the subject. “Dad, why don't you come in and tell me your idea?”

“Don't mind if I do,” Danny said, propelling himself across the room with a push off from the doorjamb. He staggered to the couch, landing so heavily its feet squealed and slid on oak floorboards that Brian had walked, in one New York apartment or other, all his life.

Brian couldn't forestall “Jesus, are you okay?” from escaping.

“Stop that,” Danny said, putting up his hand like a traffic cop. “I mean it. It's very boring.” The palm of his father's hand was usually very pink, flushed with the pulse of his restless energy. This was a ghost of that hand.

“Sorry. So what's your idea?”

“It's really quite a stunning coup. It came to me while I was rereading your very stunning script for Aries and the glorious Miss Stillman. While marveling over your characters, I had the most thrilling idea for a brilliant stroke of casting.”

Brian braced himself for his father asking to play the elderly chief justice of the Reconciliation Tribunal in
Sleep of the Innocent.
The part consisted of merely two scenes, but two featured scenes was a lot in this day and age of fewer big-budget features and almost no parts for actors over the age of sixty. There was talk of casting Anthony Hopkins or any number of world-famous elderly actors, especially Brits, happy to work with Aries for a few weeks in Paris. They wouldn't even hold auditions for this part—it would simply be offered to one of the greats. “What is it, Dad?” he asked faintly.

“You should cast me”—Danny paused to drop his chin, speaking from under a lowered brow, a mannerism he affected whenever he wished to grant a portentous authority to a line—“as Veronica's husband.”

Brian blinked, replayed the words. Even for his father, this had to be a joke. He waited for a clue that he was allowed to laugh.

“Think of it.” Danny gestured to the heavens. “Women like that, serious intellectual political women, often marry men twenty, thirty, years older, especially successful lawyers like the chap in your script. And you get the father – daughter subtext of her wanting to be taken care of emotionally in some way because of the rape.” He leaned forward. “Then the character of the husband, who seems to me a little underwritten, gains some authority if he's my age, which lends more credence to the polemical aspects of your stunning, just stunning, dialogue.”

Brian spoke in a deliberately measured monotone, to keep mockery at bay. “Dad, you're forty years older than Veronica, not thirty.”

“Don't be silly. Makeup, toupee, and Spanx”—Danny sucked in his cheeks and presumably his Guinness stomach, although it didn't shrink an inch—“and I won't look a day over fifty-five.”

Brian was enraged. He knew that to be an insane reaction. He couldn't wait to be able to laugh about this, probably by telling the story to Pamela Wright, his cattiest and closest friend in the business. Pamela was a gifted and unusually modest actress who, after a good laugh, would console him by saying, “Darling, please forgive your father. He can't help himself. He's a toddler. Like all of us actors, he's just a child who wants to play.”

“Dad . . .” Brian paused to inject some gentleness into his crabby tone. “We can't get financing for the movie unless we have an international movie star playing opposite Veronica. Presales to foreign markets, cable, that kind of thing—we have to have a big male star in that part.”

Danny raised an eyebrow. He could lift the right one a full two inches while keeping the left down. He used this mannerism when cast in one of his small off-off-Broadway roles, usually playing an officious bureaucrat or a shocked grandparent. “I thought when you got Veronica to sign the contract last week that meant you had all the financing.”

Brian was ready for this; in fact he had led Danny to believe he had uncovered an inconsistency in order to refute it and end this humiliating discussion. “Because with Veronica in hand, the financiers assume we'll have no problem getting a big star. All the biggies want to play opposite her. If, by some miracle, we don't get George Clooney or Matt Damon or the like, then you're right, we'll lose our financing.”

Danny goggled. He retracted his double chin, jaw hanging open, rheumy eyes opening wide, brows shooting up—a parody of a horror double take. This was his favorite mannerism, in life and on stage: Danny Moran astonished. “Well . . .” he sputtered, “I, for one, don't think Clooney or Matt Damon are up to the demands of this part. They'll ruin your script.”

Brian's iPhone buzzed in his jeans pocket. Brian's heart skipped: Jeff had thought better of dodging him. “I'll take this in the other room, Dad,” he said as he hurried out toward the kitchen, the room farthest away from Danny's nosiness.

When he whispered hello, “Brian,” he heard Julie say his name with alarm in her voice. Hers was part of a chorus coming through the earpiece of his iPhone. He heard an urgent American news broadcast in the background, that peculiar combination of resonant, measured voices speaking with the hurried staccato emphasis of someone on the verge of hysteria. “Have you heard?” she asked.

“What happened?”

“They're dropping the charges against Rydel! It took even Gary by surprise that they're just dropping them altogether. No psychiatric supervision, nothing. All the witnesses, they . . . I can't think of the word, damn it! They took everything back.”

“They recanted,” he said.

“Right! And there's nothing about Klein. Not even that there were witnesses against him. Turn on your TV . . . Rydel's lawyer is reading a statement. He's resigning from the Huck Finn board, which doesn't make sense if he's innocent. There! You can see Sam. Turn on your TV.”

“I can't right now.”

“Why can't you turn on your TV?”

“My father lives with me, remember?” he said, irritated.