by Ann Beattie
Two days ago his wife had hit another car on Rodeo Drive. One of the roofers had lost his footing and had broken his hand as he fell off a ladder. Bobby Blue wanted to hang from a rope over the beach at Malibu with Tatum O’Neal instead of Nicole. His other secretary, Zeva, had misprogrammed the computer; not only had the man who was going to write the novelization of Passionate Intensity not written a book on Venus de Milo, but he was apparently some unheard of chump, whose name wouldn’t dignify the project.
“I can’t believe it. How did this happen? What am I ever going to say to Nicole?”
“Is that the next of kin?” the doctor said.
Of course! Of course the doctor didn’t realize the magnitude of what had happened. He sat in the chair the doctor pointed to.
“That was Nicole Nelson’s mother,” Piggy said.
“Did she have a young daughter?” the doctor said.
“Nicole Nelson. You know, she’s fourteen.” The doctor’s face registered nothing. “Stephanie Sykes.”
“She has two daughters?” the doctor said.
“Passionate Intensity!” Piggy hollered.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Proctor. I’m not following you.”
“You never heard of Passionate Intensity?”
“It’s from Yeats,” the doctor said.
“It’s a big hit on television,” Piggy said. “Passionate Intensity is gonna scoop General Hospital.”
“I’ve heard of General Hospital,” the doctor said. “I don’t watch much TV.”
“You’ve heard of it!” Piggy said.
“Mr. Proctor, how are you feeling? Is there anyone I could call for you?”
“You know the guy who used to be the midget on Fantasy Island?” Piggy said.
“Yes,” the doctor said.
“Ha!’ Piggy said. “You know his name, right?”
“Herve Villechaize,” the doctor said.
“See?” Piggy said. “He’s not still on the tube, and you know that name, right? You may not watch much television, but the unusual gets your attention. Everybody knows who the midget was on Fantasy Island.”
“He sat next to me on a flight to Hawaii,” the doctor said.
“You mean you never saw him on Fantasy Island?”
“No,” the doctor said.
“Then how did you know who he was?”
“He told me,” the doctor said.
“You’d know Stephanie Sykes if you saw her,” Piggy said. He shifted onto one buttock and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. He flipped it open and handed it to the doctor.
The doctor looked, smiled, and handed it back. It was a picture of Piggy in a tuxedo and Nicole in a satin dress with rhinestones around the neck. The flashbulb seemed to be exploding on Piggy’s forehead. Piggy looked at the picture. He hated it that he was half bald.
“You’ve at least heard of Passionate Intensity,” Piggy said.
“I’ve only heard the line from Yeats,” the doctor said. “Are you feeling anxious? Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Yeats?” Piggy said.
“Yeats,” the doctor said. “The poet.”
“What are you talking about?” Piggy said, moving to the edge of his chair.
“ ‘The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity,’ ” the doctor said.
“You’re putting me on!” Piggy said. “Jack Dormett titled the show!”
“Mr. Proctor, if you’re able to concentrate now, I have a couple of brief forms that I’d like you to sign, and then if you wish to use the telephone, or—”
“How could it be a poem?” Piggy said. “I don’t know anything about that.”
The doctor stared at Piggy.
“Give me the line one more time,” Piggy said.
The doctor sighed. “It’s a line from The Second Coming,” the doctor said. “ ‘The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.’ ”
“The worst?” Piggy said. “Dormett wouldn’t dare put one over on me.”
“Mr. Proctor,” the doctor said. “Do you understand why I cannot continue this conversation?”
“Because I don’t converse,” Piggy said. That was what Jane always said; that he issued policy statements, talked to himself, cracked jokes, threatened violence, and used non sequiturs the way other people shook salt on their food. That he was so frustrating he was fascinating. Jane’s face was scratched and scarred from all the rocks and trees and bushes she had tumbled through when the motorcycle went off the road and plunged down the canyon. Jane was dead. Piggy put his face in his hands. He pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw yellow. As he pressed, the headache became worse. If Dormett had put one over on him, he would personally kill him. He looked up. The doctor was sitting behind his desk, his own chin cupped in his hand. He lowered his hand and looked as if he was about to speak, but he didn’t. The forms Piggy had to fill out were on his desk. Piggy reached for them. The doctor picked them up, stood, and brought them to Piggy. “Feel free to move your chair forward, or whatever is comfortable,” the doctor said. “I think I’m going to get a cup of coffee. Would you like a cup?”
“Thank you,” Piggy said.
“What do you take in it?”
Piggy did not drink coffee. “Milk,” he said.
The doctor got up. The doctor locked his top drawer with a little key before leaving. There was a phone on the doctor’s desk. As soon as he finished listing days and dates, he was going to have to use the phone. The thought came to him that it would be a good idea to call someone—call Hildon—and have him be at Lucy’s house when he called. His secretary had Hildon’s office number, in addition to Lucy’s, where important messages could be left for Nicole. He stood and picked up the phone. Someone on the phone was talking about an airline that had declared bankruptcy. He pushed a button on the bottom of the phone and got an outside line. He dialed his office.
Dora answered. “This is important,” Piggy said. “Get that book with summer numbers in it and give me Hildon what’s-his-name’s or what’s-his-name Hildon’s number for Nicole.”
“Mr. Proctor,” Dora said, “I have extremely urgent, terribly disturbing news for you. Zeva quit. She took things out of her desk drawer and threw them all around the office and turned the desk over before she quit. It will take me a minute to find the book.”
“Christ,” Piggy said, “find it as fast as you can and call me back.” He did not realize until he had hung up that he had not given her the number. Someone coughed, and continued by. Piggy looked at the form. He looked at the other one. Jane was dead. The worthless, reckless scum she had married was in a coma and expected to die. From measurements taken of the skid marks of the motorcycle, he must have been traveling at about the speed of sound. Jane had been thrown. She was DOA. He was alive, but just barely. Piggy did not want him to live, and if he did, he would personally kill him. From the picture Piggy had seen, the motorcycle, down in the canyon, where they had plunged, looked like an accordion with handlebars. What in the name of God was he going to say to Lucy? The newspapers were going to get hold of it, so he had better think about what he was going to say. They didn’t put it in the paper until the next of kin had been notified, though. He looked at the form in front of him. Next of kin. Jesus: Jane’s mother. She was already furious about the wedding—wait till she heard what they did for an encore. There was going to be an autopsy. He hated to think what that might reveal. He picked up the pen and was filling out the forms when the doctor came back in the room. Another man, probably a doctor, stopped in the doorway and said, “Did you hear that Air Florida filed for bankruptcy?” “That happened days ago,” the doctor said. “There goes that smart investment down the drain,” the doctor said.
Piggy was thinking about the ride on the Cyclone he had taken the spring before with Jane. Nicole was too frightened to go on it. They were on location, bored, and Piggy had rounded up half a dozen members of the cast to go with them. He could reme
mber Jane’s excitement as he closed the bar over their car. The way they were thrown against each other over and over, rocking left and right, and suddenly flipped upside down. They were both terrified, but exhilarated. His legs were shaking when they got off, and he could hardly hear. He could remember Nicole standing there, turning a pink cotton candy. She was always sulky when Jane had the nerve to do something she wouldn’t do. Cotton candy made her face break out. She knew it, and was pleased to be licking the wide plume of spun sugar. She might as well have been Lolita with her lollipop.
Piggy could not remember if Lolita had a lollipop. Sue Lyon was great in that movie. He remembered the heart-shaped glasses. It was a good thing to have a gimmick. Michael Jackson’s glove. Nicole needed a gimmick. As she grew up, she was going to be blow-dried into the same blond prettiness as everybody else.
The doctor handed Piggy a cup of coffee.
“Thank you,” Piggy said. The ghost of Jane made him say it.
The doctor nodded and went to the window and stood there, sipping his coffee. Piggy signed the form. It did not seem possible that he could be doing this. He had forgotten the title of the poem. He couldn’t remember what had happened to Sue Lyon after she did Lolita. A first-rate actress in a first-rate movie, and then what happened to her? He couldn’t let Nicole fade away like that. She was going to have to really concentrate on her career, get it together in spite of her sadness, and go on. Jesus Christ: how could Jane have done it?
“You don’t mind if I use the telephone?” Piggy said.
“Do you think you’d like something to calm you? Take a pill and wait a few minutes before calling?”
“Oh yeah,” Piggy said. “Give me a pill.”
The doctor unlocked his desk drawer. There were many pill bottles inside. He took the cap off one bottle and shook out a pill. He handed it to Piggy. Valium. A yellow one. That would be about as helpful as handing a child a penny. Piggy took it without comment.
“I’ll let you have some privacy,” the doctor said, finishing his coffee and throwing away the cup.
“Not necessary,” Piggy said. He was hoping that he could still win the doctor over, so that he could turn the conversation around to that poem. Piggy’s usual way, as Jane had pointed out to him, was to point his finger and demand information. Jane had tried hard, lately, to make him what she called “civilized.” Piggy had found that speaking bluntly to people usually worked fine, but Jane thought he was a bad example for Nicole. He created tension that was unnecessary, and he was a bully. She had a small Evian water spray that she would take out of her purse and spray in his face, when he made non sequiturs. Now she was dead, and he was going to have a dry face the rest of his life and never learn. He thought about demanding that his wife spray him in the face. It seemed unlikely. She was too tranqued-up to push a spray bottle, and she never listened to him when he talked, anyway. The doctor was halfway out of the room.
“No, no,” Piggy said. “Just a quick call. I’ll do the hard stuff from the office. Please sit down.”
The doctor sat in a chair. There were folders stacked on a table. He opened one and began to read.
Piggy wanted to impress the doctor favorably. He remembered to say hello.
“Hello,” Piggy said. “How are things at the office?”
“What?” his secretary said.
“I’m fine,” Piggy said.
“What’s wrong?” his secretary said.
“Do you have that number handy?” he said.
“Mr. Proctor, is this really you? If everything is all right, say, ‘I like New York in June.’ ”
“What the hell do you think?” Piggy exploded. “That I’ve been kidnapped?”
“Oh my God,” his secretary said. “Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Proctor, I’ll take care of everything. I understand.”
“Don’t hang up!” Piggy hollered. “Are you out of your mind, Dora?”
“Don’t do anything to make them suspicious,” Dora said. “I’m dialing the police on the other line.”
“I’ll kill you!” Piggy said. “I haven’t been kidnapped! You goddamn imbecile. Talk to the doctor. He’ll tell you I haven’t been kidnapped.”
The doctor, looking very taken aback, got up and took the phone. “Hello? To whom am I speaking?” he said.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Dora said.
“I’m Dr. Endicott,” he said. “Is there any problem?” He looked at Piggy as he said this.
“Tell her, ‘I like New York in June,’ ” Piggy said, suddenly remembering what she had said to say.
“Mr. Proctor, if everything is all right, I’ll leave it to you to chat with whoever is on the phone,” the doctor said, his hand over the receiver. He took his hand away and held the phone out to Piggy.
“Well, thank God War of the Worlds isn’t on the radio today, or I wouldn’t even have one numbskull to answer the phone,” Piggy said. “Will you give me that goddamn phone number?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Proctor. I couldn’t understand the way you were talking to me and I thought …”
“Hurry up!” Piggy said.
She gave him the number.
Piggy slammed the phone down so hard the desk vibrated. The doctor jumped. He started to say something, then looked down at the folder again. Piggy knew that he had made a terrible impression.
“Sorry,” Piggy said. “I guess everybody gets a little excited when they come in.”
The doctor hesitated a moment. Then he nodded.
“Christ,” Piggy said. “This is a real tragedy. I’m not myself, I can tell you that.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” the doctor said.
“I’ll just—let me make this one call and then I’ll be on my way,” Piggy said. He picked up the phone. The doctor gave him a half smile and went back to the folder. People were talking on the phone about buying Coleco. Piggy pushed a button and got an outside line and charged the call to his office.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice said.
“Hello,” Piggy said. “How are you today? This is P. G. Proctor, calling from Los Angeles. May I please speak to Hildon?”
“I must tell you that I am coming down with a cold and that you have disturbed my nap,” Maureen said. “It is within my rights to say that I consider my rest more important than continuing this conversation. I am going back to bed now.”
She hung up. Piggy looked at the desk top. He thought he was going to explode. He felt a murderous rage toward the woman who had answered the phone, toward his asinine secretary, and toward Jane, for dying. To say nothing of what he felt toward her husband, who drove them both over a cliff. He clenched his free hand and released his fist, then hung up and sat in the doctor’s chair.
“Terrible connection,” Piggy said. “Have to try later.”
“Mr. Proctor, are you going to be able to drive?” the doctor said. “Do you think it might be a good idea to call Mrs. Proctor, or a friend?”
“Mrs. Proctor already racked one up this week,” Piggy said. “Tailgating on Rodeo. Smashed in the front of the 450.”
The doctor nodded.
“Say,” Piggy said, ripping another piece of paper off the doctor’s prescription pad. “What was the name of that poet again?”
The doctor looked like he was about to speak, then stopped. Piggy thought the doctor wasn’t going to tell him. The two of them looked at each other, across the room.
“William Butler Yeats,” the doctor said. “Y-e-a-t-s. The poem is titled, The Second Coming.”
Piggy wrote it down. “All that money, and he plagiarizes,” Piggy said.
“It isn’t plagiarism to take a phrase from a poem for a title,” the doctor said.
“Sure it is,” Piggy said.
“No,” the doctor said.
“Maybe Yeats and Dormett both came up with the same idea. Coincidence,” Piggy said.
The doctor looked at him.
“Making a mountain out of a molehill, right?”
The doctor gave him his half smile again. He held out his hand. “Mr. Proctor,” he said. “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call.”
“Thank you,” Piggy said, folding the piece of paper and putting it in his pocket. “Hell of a day, huh?”
Piggy was confused in the corridor for a while, until he found the Exit sign. He followed it to the elevator, and rode to the basement. He had no memory of where he had parked. There were probably a million cars in the garage. He suddenly wanted to be in his car very much. He felt furious and exhausted, and he would feel better if he could sink down in the driver’s seat. He walked through row after row of cars, then remembered that he had parked far down one of the rows. He began walking vertically, instead of horizontally. It took fifteen more minutes to find the car. He took out his car key and opened the door and sat in the driver’s seat. A woman got in a car not far from his, started it, backed out fast and hit a car behind her. She pulled forward, cut the wheels sharply as she backed up again, and drove away. Her license plate said Lucky-7. Piggy started his car. The radio was on. He turned it off. He drove the wrong way down a one-way lane until he got to the booth.
“Did you see which way those arrows were pointing?” the attendant said.
“You see which way my finger is pointing?” Piggy said, holding up his middle finger.
The attendant laughed. “What do I want to fight for?” he said.
“Have a real life experience. Put it in your screenplay,” Piggy said.
“My screenplay’s about a whorehouse in a cave in prehistoric times,” the man said. “I want De Niro to play the bouncer. You think knocking your teeth down your throat would add anything?”
“I like that,” Piggy said. “A man who’s got confidence. You assume that you’d knock my teeth out. Confidence is the name of the game.”
The man gave him his change.
Piggy unfolded the piece of paper in his pocket and glanced at it.
“You going to be the new William Butler Yeats?” he said.
“Screw that,” the cashier said, as the bar rose in front of Piggy’s car. “I’m gonna be the next Robert Towne.”
Piggy made it almost all the way back to the office before it hit him that Jane was dead, and he had to turn off the street and dry his eyes in a parking lot. Through his tears he saw a neon burger with beads of light blinking around it. The lettuce that ruffled out from under the roll was blue. The bun was yellow. Piggy looked away, up at the sky. The sky was blue. He blew his nose. Thank God: the sky was blue.
