Memorial

LXXIII.Joan

wanted to go back to visit the old man but there was just too much to take care of. She and Barbet already agreed that after what her partner was calling “the Freiberg fiasco,” Joan would take an immediate “sabbatical.” (That’s what she was calling that.) Mercantile Road tugged at her but there simply wasn’t time. She was incubating a baby. (She did have time to order online, Tummy Rub from Mama Mio — which supposedly erased stretch marks — plus Resilient Belly Oil, Cellex-C, and Basq’s lavender/pear-scented Sweet Dreams.) She still hadn’t told anyone except Barbet and Pradeep, hadn’t even been to her gynecologist, though she’d come close to telling Marj because she thought it would make her happy.

She needed to get a few things straight with Lew. Joan didn’t want to bring in a lawyer — yet — but had sought advice from a honcho, a friend of the former consul’s, in the Bay Area. Knowledge was power.

She decided not to inform her brother about Raymond Rausch. Chess was too volatile right now; she didn’t want him racing over and scaring the old guy. Besides, he was acting weird. She wasn’t sure what was wrong but aside from that he was way stoned, all the time. He reeked. The nurses were pointing fingers at each other for taking money from the kitty without leaving receipts, and Joan soon put it together — Chess was the culprit. She didn’t have the energy to confront. He would never do anything to hurt their mom but she didn’t exactly trust him either. He was fairly grandiose and continued to speak of a pending “7 figure” settlement related to his back injury. She thought of asking her brother if he needed a loan but didn’t have the energy for that. No, bad idea to throw Father into the mix. Let Chester keep seeing Mom (who really did enjoy his visits), smoke his ganja in the backyard, fuck his hippie girlfriend, and swipe his petty cash — more than that, Joan didn’t want to know from. At least this way, she could keep half an eye out.

AN attorney from Guerdon LLC called to say he wanted to discuss a “personal matter” between Joan and Mr Freiberg. She haughtily said that if it was related to the maquette fee, “you can contact my partner, Barbet Touissant, at ARK, in Venice.” The lawyer told her it was a “separate, personal issue,” and she hated the sound of the words in his mouth. “You listen,” said Joan. “If it’s so separate and personal, have Mr Freiberg call me himself, understand?”

She almost added motherfucker but hung up instead.

(Probably a good thing, she thought.)

(But, man, that pisses me off.)

She was so rattled, she called Lew’s private line.

(Every therapist Joan ever worked with told her not to act on impulse — her Achilles’ heel. Even Pradeep compared her to Sonny, from The Godfather. It was her ferocious and unyielding nature to go off on people, her weakness and her strength. Barbet once taped a Chinese proverb to her G5: “If you are patient in one moment of anger, you will escape 100 days of sorrow.”)

“Hello?”

“It’s Joan.”

“Hello sweetheart.”

“One of your attorneys just called.”

He was in a jovial mood.

“Did he slap you with a maternity suit?

“Look, Lew, I don’t want to deal with lawyers, OK?”

“Fine by me.”

He sounded like he meant it.

“I don’t know exactly how we’re going to do that, Joan, but I like the concept.”

“I want to have this baby — you know that.”

“It’s yours to lose,” he said, both wry and cruel.

“I’ve had 3 abortions and 3 miscarriages in my life and I really don’t think I’m going to get another shot. So I’m going to do everything I can to keep it.”

“They were just trying to arrange a blood test, or whatever they do. For the paternity thing. You don’t object?”

“Of course not. I was already on that, I just got busy with my mom.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Much better.”

Both of them sighed, and could hear each other breathe.

“It’s yours, Lew. I know that it’s yours.”

His tone grew serious but not unfriendly.

“We just need to be sure, Joan. I need to be sure. That’s the only reason he was calling.”

“I’d appreciate it, Lew, if the next time, you’d pick up the phone. Is that too much to ask? Would that be so painful?”

He laughed. “Everything’s painful.”

She didn’t feel like sharing his whimsy.

“Just call and tell me who I should see: who, where, and when. I don’t want to hear it from an attorney. OK?”

“That’s fine, Joanie.” He laughed again. “Now may I please, please leave the principal’s office? Please?”

“I’d prefer it to be someone down here — because of my mom. I don’t want to have to get on a plane.”

“Got it.” Short pause. “Look, darling: I just don’t want to be a new daddy. I have 3 already and it’s gonna be awhile before I do my Tony Randall/Larry King thing.” Short pause. “How does that grab you?”

“I don’t need you for this one.” Short pause. “I’ve decided to go in another direction,” she said, throwing his own words back at him. “I’m going with Santiago.”

When he heard that he roared, and she laughed, and that broke the ice.

“Do you want to have this conversation now?”

“Love to.”

“If it’s mine, I’ll give you 5,000,000, straight up. Which should more than amply cover his or her education, lifestyle, whatever comes down the pike. That offer will come in the form of a contract, so eventually you’re going to have to deal with one of my guys. I’ll make it as painless as possible. But I do not wish to be named, Joan, in any private or public context. A breach of that would negate any and all agreements. I have my reasons, and I expect you to honor them, as I’ll honor yours. So: if it turns out to be mine, I will write you a check for $5,000,000 straight up but in turn, you will have to sign a confidentiality agreement stating you will not disclose the child’s patrimony until he or she is twice the voting age. I will also make you sign—”

“Ask me to sign,” she interjected, with astringence.

“Ask you to sign,” he assented, “an ironclad rider stating in explicit terms that this child has no claims, nor do you, in any way, shape, or form, upon my present or future estate, or assets related to Guerdon LLC and myriad holding companies. Another thing. If you’ve already spoken about this (I don’t begrudge you that), if you have brought up my potential paternity to, say, a close friend, or Barbet, I would politely yet firmly request that you inform them, at the right moment, that the blood test came back revealing otherwise. They will believe what they will believe but you will stick to your story, on and off the record. I don’t care who you say the father is, we can even provide you with an entity — I just don’t want it to be me. Does all that sound reasonable?”

“ ‘Reasonable’? That’s a funny word.”

“All right, Joan: does that sound fair.”

Pause.

“I’m glad you’ve given this some thought, Lew.” She wanted to steady her nerves by sounding neutral before she pounced. “Do you want to know what I think sounds ‘fair’? Do you really want to know? I mean, are you interested.”

“Yes. I really am.” Short pause. Breathing. “I’m all ears.”

“If we’re going to have this conversation, let’s have it. I mean, for real. It’s 2006. Do you know what $5,000,000 is? I’ll tell you what it was a few years ago. The judgment against a British tabloid for leaking Catherine Zeta-Jones’s wedding photos.”

“That was 2,000,000. And it was overturned.”

“$5,000,000 is what certain friends of yours spend on bar mitzvahs. $5,000,000 is a bone you throw your alma mater.”

“I didn’t do college, hon. Remember? I’m a dropout.”

“OK, your brother’s alma mater. $5,000,000 is the call you get from your curator because she’s got a deal on a French commode.$5,000,000 isn’t even enough for the fund you draw on to pay off the chef who slices a tendon while cooking for you and Al Gore, or Billy Joel, or Tiger Woods, or Grand Duke Henri, or whomever. Lew, I’m a big girl. I’m gonna go away and I mean it. I want to go away. I don’t have any fatal attractions — I just have natal attractions.”

He laughed again. All good.

The warmth returned to their negotiations.

“I finally figured out who you remind me of.” Short pause. “Maureen Dowd.”

“I’m already out of your hair, right? I mean, what could possibly have been easier? You’ve got $11,000,000,000, or whatever it is you have, which will probably triple by the time our daughter reaches voting age.”

“It’s a girl?”

“I don’t know. I have a feeling.”

“Have you thought of a name?”

“Guerdon.”

“Ha! I guess that’s better than ‘LLC.’ So: how much, Joanie. What are we talking?”

“20. Isn’t that what Barkin got? Sans enfant.”

Long pause, then:

“That was a marriage, Joan. Long-term.”

Long pause, then:

“I don’t know what she got.”

Long pause, then:

“Done. Sold. Signed, sealed, undelivered.”

She began to shake.

“I don’t want to sound cold, but if you don’t carry to term—”

“Don’t even go there.”

“They’ll call—I’ll call — when everything’s ready to go. With the doctor, then the agreement.” (She could tell that his pulse had remained steady throughout; that was the thing about him that turned her on.) “Did Barbet tell you I want to keep the model?”

“I told him. You told me.”

“He wants a hundred-and-50,000 for it. Can you believe the gall? That’s a dealbreaker, Joan.”

“I’ll take care of it.” That’s it, then. That was the caveat. Home free. “What are you going to do with it? You’re not seriously going to put it in the Gluckman gallery?”

“I don’t know yet. The Lost Coast. I love that title.”

“It’s only a model, Lew. It’s inchoate.”

“I like looking at it. It reminds me of you.”