The Chrysanthemum Palace

~ ~ ~

CLEA LATER TOLD ME THAT the lawyers had indeed called and because of Thad’s schedule, made arrangements to drop by the Chateau after dinner. We took their thoughtful urgency as a good omen.

She added that while her lover said he was trying not to fantasize about any provisions his father might have made (cash or real estate seemed unlikely), a bequest of books, paintings, or correspondence would still be of enormous value. It was a revelation that over the last few years father and son had come to terms during late-night bimonthly phone sessions — squeezed in, Thad joked, between Jack’s calls to David Foster Wallace — in which the old man showed distinct signs of mellowing. With the pending powwow, Thad couldn’t help but allow himself to imagine paying off the IRS or at least getting a handle on that part of his life. He even apologized to Morgana for his behavior on the soundstage, laying it off to the stress of “recent financial pressures.” Again, he asked if she had any inkling of what the attorneys were going to say, but she claimed ignorance.

I made it a point to talk to Clea about Morgana’s scabrous, trailer-trashed diatribe. I felt like an asshole for letting her get puked on like that. At the time, Clea was visibly shaken but now just shrugged it off. “Morgana didn’t like me from the gate,” she said. She always assumed it was one of those incesty, jealous mom deals. Moreover, “Mad Morgana” had long suspected her of a dalliance with Jack, as she suspected everyone (for good reason). She was the queen of ball-busters, Clea reiterated — the only one left standing when “ol’ BJ” decided to finally take a wife. “Rage is her thing,” said Clea. “Stick around long enough and she’ll come after you.”

No thanks, I said.

I had the afternoon off (Thad and Clea were shooting their big scene at the Chrysanthemum Palace) and went shopping at Maxfield’s. Gita’s birthday was coming up. I got her some vintage Hermès jewelry, which she loved more than anything on Earth. I hit the gym and was done around 7:00 P.M. I headed for my parents’ to spend time with Mom. Her doctor had either reduced or increased the strength of her meds and she’d been having a tough time of it. Carmen made us authentic Trader Vic’s “snowball” sundaes (a woman of many talents) that I brought to Gita’s bedroom with leopard-spotted caviar spoons. We wound up dishing minor celebs and talking the usual shit about Dad. We watched Investigative Reports awhile before I split. I was going to hop on the 405 but instead, as if guided by unseen hands, hung a left, heading east — straight to the Chateau.

Arriving at Thad’s door, I suddenly remembered the suits from Century City. I stood outside and listened for a sign but all I could hear was Norah Jones. I knocked, waited, knocked again. In time, Clea answered, fully dressed. Gave me a hug. I smelled liquor and Listerine on her breath.

The lawyers showed up a few minutes later, apologizing for their tardiness. An “emergency” had come up.¹ Introductions and pleasantries were endured while Clea served a choice of sparkling or flat. One of the men actually consented to a beer — an elder partner — and I thought that a good sign too. Mr. Michelet appeared from the dark recesses in his expensive bathrobe, fastidiously shaven, without the usual trace of makeup at the collar. He had a buoyancy about him, a lilt in step and spirit, like he’d slapped on hopeful aftershave.

There was a lull, then the visitors’ eyes cued me to leave — ready to get down to business. I stood but Thad overruled their motion. Our ménage à trois was thus decreed street-legal. I was family now, privy to the conditions of probate.

“The will is a bit unusual,” said the key man, clearing his throat.

“Dad was an unusual guy,” said Thad, trying to be cool.

The lawyers assented and laughed uncomfortably.

“Essentially, he has left you a very large amount…”

“A very large amount,” affirmed a cohort.

“But there’s a strange provision, which may be prohibitive.”

Thad’s smile brightened like the surface of a balloon before bursting. “Prohibitive?”

“Your father’s will stipulates that you receive ten million dollars—”

“My God,” said Thad, as Clea and I stopped breathing.

“With a condition. The condition being that the amount is triggered when one of your books appears on the New York Times bestseller list.”

Thad glanced at Clea, then me, as if having heard a joke he couldn’t parse. “Can you repeat that?”

The key man did, to the same effect.

His cohort, wishing to take the edge off the moment, said, “I guess your father’s intentions were that you use your gifts to write something either very commercial—a John Grisham, or what have you — a Da Vinci Code—or something artistic, with crossover appeal.”

“Bergdorf Blondes?”

Another colleague chimed in. “Not Bergdorf Blondes. Like The Corrections. Remember the guy who pissed Oprah off? Didn’t that make the list?” He turned toward Clea as if she might know. “Some years back? I’m pretty sure it did. My theory — it’s only a theory! — is that Jack was thinking of this as an incentive, a goal to work toward. A reward, if you will.”

Thad started to laugh. It was a dry laugh, nearly a retch.

“I’m a big fan of your films,” said one of the men. “But I have to say I wasn’t aware you wrote books. When I jumped on the Internet, I was very impressed. Now, I’m not exactly sure how many you’d have to sell to get on the Times list—”

“I’m having a paralegal research that.”

“It’s a bit of a labyrinthine process. I mean, they definitely have their own logic.”

“They have their own country over there!”

“But I think it’s actually doable.”

“Did he specify fiction or nonfiction?” said one to the other.

“Fiction — I believe.”

“It was definitely fiction,” said the one who referenced The Corrections.

“I don’t think it’s as high as you would imagine — in terms of sales.”

“To get on the list.”

“It’s definitely doable. God knows your dad was on that list enough—”

“Though not as much as a person might think. It’s not a cakewalk.”

“It was clearly his fervent wish that some of his good luck and good fortune rub off.”

Though after midnight on the East Coast, I phoned Miriam on the way home. She was enraged when I recounted what happened. She said Jack Michelet was a sadist who looked forward to striking yet another blow at his son — this one, from the grave. We didn’t talk very long because she wanted to call the Chateau and check up.

As I walked inside the house, my cell phone rang. Miriam had spoken to Clea (“Thank God she’s there”) and Thad was fast asleep — his traditional reaction to upsetting news. Luckily, he didn’t have to be at the studio until ten.

In the morning, I went for a jog on the beach. Black Jack’s ghoulish machinations put Dad in a better light. (No shit.) Perry had his callous side, to be sure, but was never willfully cruel, which I’ve always considered among the most deplorable of sins. I couldn’t conceive what it would be like to have a parent as full-time predator. It reminded me of someone who spoke at AA a few months ago, a man who trained attack dogs for a living. He said he wore protective gear but when the dog bit down it was important to keep your arm moving; that way, the animal tended to refocus and attack elsewhere. If you didn’t stay mobile, the teeth sank dangerously down, even through wadded layers — point being, it was a fair metaphor to describe growing up in an alcoholic household. I imagined Thad dodging and feinting, tooth and muzzle upon him year after year, still dodging, still feinting, reeling from roughhouse burnout, adrenals spent — taking the infernal, foul-breathed blows even after a gaggle of vets had supposedly put the miserable beast down.

¹ In Hollywood, whenever agents or lawyers are late, they play the “emergency” card.