The Chrysanthemum Palace

~ ~ ~

ON THE WAY TO WORK, I phoned the Chateau.

No answer in the room.

I tried Clea’s cell—10:00 A.M. on the dot — nothing.

I feared the worst.

This time, as I drove through the studio gates, she picked up. Boisterous laughter on the other end affronted my ear. They were in Thad’s trailer, having breakfast with some of the cast. I was ordered to join them, “warp speed.”

When I got there, Clea, Cabott, the captain, and X-Ray were enrapt by one of Thad’s gossipy pornographic anecdotes, this, regarding a Broadway diva of “uncertain age.” He looked cheerful and wide awake, eyes clear as bells. Just as the story ended, we heard the A.D. walkie—“OK, everyone, we are back”—and the raucous laughter continued in choppy waves while actors drifted out. Nick Sultan, tucked out of sight in the kitchen nook, was the last to leave. The director gave a thumb’s-up and smiled as he brushed past, heading for the set.

“Bertram!” said Thad, giving me his full, warm attention.

I was amazed by his powers of recovery. Though I wasn’t exactly Dr. Phil, it occurred to me his ebullience might have been masking a dangerous mania, soon to show a savage, darker side. Still, I clung to the possibility Thad’s lightness of mood was some indicator of mental health, say, the nimble instincts of a survivor that had allowed him to flourish, more or less, through the years of horrible abuse. At first, I thought the celebratory air was due to Clea’s earlier announcement he’d been “green lit” to adapt Chrysanthemum to film.

But that wasn’t it — that wasn’t it at all.

“Did you tell him?” he asked Clea.

She shook her head pridefully, like a child who’d kept the biggest secret in the world.

“Tell me what?”

“You will not believe how perfect this is!”

“It’s incredible,” said Clea. “And it was Miriam—Miriam’s idea! Miriam is a genius.”

“Tell me.” I was a child now too.

“Miriam is a genius,” said Thad, peremptorily.

“She called this morning with this amazing concept.”

“A brilliant fucking stratagem.”

“Bertie, you won’t believe it…”

“You guys are killing me—”

“Tell him,” said Thad, coolly delegating.

“She was up half the night — ohmygod, I love her! She was so pissed. Miriam really hated what Jack did—”

“Beware Miriam, when pissed,” Thad intoned. “There’s hell to pay!”

“—I mean, with the will.” Clea was loaded. Lag-timed.

“Total fucking warrior. A killing machine!”

“She kept thinking there was some way around it.”

“And she aced it! She totally fucking aced it.”

“But how?” I said, beaming — happy they were happy.

“She went online, right?” said Clea. “And looked up all the New York Times’ bestseller lists — for like the last ten years. And you know what’s there?”

“Can you guess?”

“What’s on the list?”

I shook my head, stumped.

“There are twelve Starwatch: The Navigators titles! Twelve!”

I wasn’t comprehending.

“Don’t you see?” said Clea. “The total genius of it? If Thad novelizes ‘Prodigal Son’—there’s no way they’re not going to let him — and if ‘Prodigal Son’ gets on the list…”

“Miriam found the cosmodemonic loophole, honeychile!” Thad jigged, arms akimbo, crooning: “Supercali-fraga-listic-expi-ali-doh-cious, pay-day on the Fell-crum Outback won’t be so a-tro-cious!”

“It’s the Vorbalidian Quick Pick! The Great Dome Super Lotto!”

“Wham! Bam! Thank you, Dad!”

“Bertie, can you believe? Can you believe how genius that is?”

“We’re in the money! We’re in the money!” He hooked his arm in hers as they polka’d round the cramped trailer, knocking into paper plates, sending breakfast burritos spilling to carpet, disgorging scrambled eggs and onions like the innards of a wormy piñata. “We’ve gotta lot of what it takes to get along!”