Katy looked embarrassed. Not the subject matter she relished confronting with Harry. The goals part was okay, the sexual part frustrating, with the added impact of her own enigmatic disappointment. She lived with her private set of unexpressed, impossible expectations.
Lamely, she said, “Deal with it. Sometimes you have to grow up fast.”
THIRTEEN
H arry’s parents appeared unexpectedly. There was no theater event, they hadn’t written or called, no inkling of advanced notice. One Saturday morning they knocked on his door, waking him at ten o’clock.
“We need to talk,” his father said imperiously. When he did that, Harry knew to broach no protest. Imperious was his father’s style, submission to his desires absolutely expected. Harry had never learned to object and would not do so now.
“Okay, what about?” He felt more grown up, independent enough to ask for clarification if not justification.
Louis Allen Schiff was well known in and around the Hollywood scene. His law firm was often tapped to represent a vulnerable celebrity hoping to shrug off voracious litigants asking for millions of dollars. People in the public eye were fair game for all sorts of phony accusations. L.A. Schiff, in fact, was so respected that in the inner circles of entertainment he was referred to as Mr. L.A.
Harry’s mother, Miriam Gannet Schiff, was less celebrated, but nonetheless a highly successful Beverly Hills pediatrician. Her manner was more calculating, not as confronting as her husband’s, though her expectations for her son as pointed and unbending. Together, they were a formidable ruling block. At times, Harry thought of his mother as the craftier of the two.
While Harry was still in high school, his parents made the decision to move to a new and fashionable real estate enterprise called Lake Sherwood, some forty-five miles from downtown Los Angeles in the larger community of Thousand Oaks. The home they purchased was a three million dollar baby, overlooking a lake, on the edge of a golf course, and they invested another half million in re-designing it to meet their tastes. They negotiated the distance into their offices each day, though, with their status, were not pushed to arrive at work until ten or so. Each took Wednesdays off, regularly meeting for a golf game, afternoon martinis, and evening gourmet dinner at their “club.” They had cultivated their immediate neighbors, Kip and Penny Augustine, and soon considered them best friends, a common reverence for abundance part of the attraction.
For some appreciated reason, at least by Harry, since he was rarely invaded by their presence, they considered the extra few miles to their son’s school a nuisance. This event, then, had to be tripped by something disturbing.
Louis began: “As you might know, we have been very giving parents and we ask little or nothing in return: gratitude, civility, a semblance of loyalty, that’s all.” His stare was piercing, unwavering, calculated, as always, to intimidate.
Yeah, yeah, so far, for Harry, the same old, same old: look at all we do for you, we don’t expect a lot, your success is our only goal—okay, so what do they want now? He was thinking “they” though his father was doing all the talking; in his experience, his mother’s silent acquiescence was her always successful ploy, her husband the front man with the agenda, she the modest, pliable, oh-so-supportive partner. He knew better. Strategy was her métier, so that if Louis mishandled the agreed-upon plan, her soft, penetrating logic would set things straight. Her smile was a soporific, designed to seduce with subtle affection.
As a consequence of his recent emotional growth, Harry was disposed to listen keenly, absorb the deeper message, and perhaps—he’d see if he had the guts—take a stand if he disagreed.
“A rarity has occurred,” his father continued. “We need your assistance on an issue which I will outline as clearly as I can.”
Miriam smiled her loving smile.
“You want my assistance?” Harry asked, disbelief peppering his voice.
“Oh dear,” his mother said, “it’s nothing nefarious. A simple favor, that’s all.”
Harry was in his terrycloth bathrobe, hair rumpled, teeth, explored by his tongue, feeling un-brushed and grimy, childhood fiats about cleanliness and neatness kicking in.
“Okay,” he said, wary and expectant.
“In my work,” Louis said, “I come into contact with hundreds of people, some holding rather powerful positions, others in the wings of power, their hope to use my firm as a vehicle to accelerate their ambitions. Our request of you involves a power person and some of his appendages, who are looking to enhance their power.”
For the life of him, Harry had no clue how his father’s high-altitude law firm could have any use with him. Patience, he thought; remember what your high-school drama coach persistently taught: “Digest your character, read his emotions, listen for feelings behind words, don’t believe the surface, imagine the eyes, the heart, dig for the camouflaged meanings, be a master psychologist.” His father, he decided, was setting him up.
“You have,” Louis said, “a young man in your classes, the son of a business adversary, a man we consider unscrupulous, who is applying pressure in a critical indictment. We have an urgent need to get something on this man, and discovered his son’s presence as a drama student. I’m sure you know him; his name is Galen Thurston.”
A small glow of pleasure began to rise in Harry; the simple fact that he knew more about something, anything, than his father, stirred his juices.
“What do you want me to do with Galen Thurston?”
“Well,” his father replied at once, “do you know anything about him? Are there things you can tell us concerning his home life, how his father treated him, anything at all about his father? It doesn’t have to be earthshaking. If we know some inside anecdotes we can make use of them. Let us decide their importance.”
Harry, feeling the strategic tug of his position, held his parents for a long moment with a charged silence. At last he said, “Galen dropped out. He quit school in December, over three months ago. I haven’t seen him since.”
His mother and father exchanged urgent glances, after which his mother said, “No matter. Surely, you knew some information that could help your father. There is, I’m certain, a lot of personal self-disclosure in a theater class.”
“He got a part in a movie. That’s all I know. I think his father was bankrolling it.”
His defiance was not lost on Miriam. “Now son, it isn’t a betrayal. We’re not after the boy. It’s the father who is trying to do damage.” She paused, and tacked on, “Trying to hurt us, to hurt our family.”
“We know the father was funding an independent film. We don’t know how much he invested and we don’t know his status. Is he a silent investor, does he stand to profit from it?” Louis stared at Harry as if seeing him in a new light.
“Listen,” he added, “I’m in a vicious business. We protected you from the sordid details while you were growing up, but law can be nasty, filled with ultimatums and financial blackmail.”
Harry’s theater training fairly shouted at him: He’s not telling you everything, there’s more to this, he’s got nasty secrets of his own!
“So,” he said, “I only know what I know. I wasn’t Galen’s confidant.”
“Who was?” his mother asked, dropping the sweet façade.
“Nobody. He had a girlfriend for a while, but they broke up.”
“Her name? What’s her name?” Miriam asked bluntly, as if tolerating nothing less than full disclosure.
Now Harry’s dilemma ballooned. He certainly did not want his voracious parents confronting Juliet, yet he knew their tenacity, how resourceful they could be. Would it be better if he invited Juliet to meet with them in his presence, where he could be an ameliorating influence? He decided to verbalize his concern.
“She’s a super girl. I’m worried you’ll overwhelm her.”
“Not at all,” Louis said. “We’ll ask a few questions and be through with her. You say they broke up. She can’t be too fond of him.”
Revealing more than he intended—it gave him a sense of power—Harry blurted out, “Nobody was too fond of him. He was pompous, a first-class phony!”
“There, you see, that tells us a lot,” Miriam said. “I’m sure the girl knows more little tidbits like that one.”
Frustrated, Harry sorely wanted to re-trench, to lasso the words he had tossed out and reel them back in, but he knew it was too late. His parents forgot nothing, built on every scrap of information, used it to control him—from the time he was a small child to the present—and they would again, as always, persist until they got what they wanted.
His mother touched his arm. “Come, Harry, throw on some clothes and we’ll take you to breakfast. How about if you call this girl and invite her to join us?”
For an instant, Harry wondered if his father ever got as heated up about his mother’s work issues; her passion implied considerably more than a caring partnership. Galen’s father had to pose a severe threat of some kind to both of them. In due time, he imagined, he would learn what that was.
He felt himself cave in. As in so many past instances, his parents’ combined influence made him feel inept, utterly controlled. His burgeoning independence aside, he saw no way to stand up to them.
What the hell, he rationalized, it will give me an excuse to see Juliet.
Juliet agreed, not because she cared that much about breakfast, but what a turn-on to see the parental artists who crafted the talented and too-good-to-be-true Harry Schiff!
She suggested they meet at an International House of Pancakes half way between their two apartments, not an eating-place of choice for the Schiffs, but in their hat-in-hand situation, they decided not to protest. In some inexplicable way, Harry felt wicked, his intimate connection with Juliet a delicious secret, his sense of worldliness so relished that he was tempted to throw it up into his parents’ faces: There, how do you like that? Your obedient little boy with a glamorous lover, your controls shaky, your male version of Galatea in total rebellion!
He could tell they were surprised by Juliet’s perky good looks.
“Ah, my dear,” his mother said, as if about to tell a patient a snippet of good news, “I can certainly see where you and the theater are made for each other. You are adorable.”
It was not in Juliet’s repertoire to blush, unless, of course, a character required it. She did say, with what Harry deemed manufactured modesty, “You’re so kind. Thank you.”
“Juliet,” Louis said, “what a perfect name for an actress.”
Harry had refrained from telling Juliet on the phone his parents’ reason for wanting to meet her. Let it be their responsibility, he decided, their burden to phrase it in a way that would not send her in full retreat, middle finger erect, her manner defiant.
In an odd way, Juliet’s style, slyly self-assured and dominating, triggered a dozen historical moments of trying to make sense of his mother’s actions. Some playwright, he couldn’t remember which one, insisted that men tended to pursue women who were prototypes of their mothers.
The parents ordered their eggs and bacon and sausage and pancakes, Juliet choosing French crepes, Harry settling on oatmeal and raisins, all over small talk about theater, movies, good and bad performances.
When their meals were consumed, Louis said, “There was a young man in your class, and we understand you knew him rather well, though now he has moved on to film-making.”
“Galen?” Juliet said.
“Thurston,” Miriam put in.
“What about him?” Juliet was smiling; it was her actor smile and Harry prepared himself for a performance.
“Nothing bad. My law firm has some dealings with his father.” Louis stopped, plastered on a smile of his own, and while nodding, added, “What a small world.”
Juliet flashed on Disneyland, and the lyrics, “It’s a small world, after all.” She said nothing, but continued to smile as if in the afterglow of a stand-up comedian’s litany of jokes.
“Did you like this Galen boy?” Miriam asked.
“Not a particularly skilled actor, but leading-man good looks,” Juliet said, aware by now of a subterranean agenda beginning to surface.
“You never met his father?” Louis asked.
“Uh uh.”
“But surely he spoke about him,” Miriam said.
“He surely did. Mostly neutral stuff. Dumb to bite the hand that feeds you.”
“Neutral?” Louis echoed.
“Without judgment. Like investment info. The movie Galen’s in, those things.”
“Tell us about the investment info,” Miriam asked.
Juliet hesitated, looked at Harry and, in her saucy way, said, “Look, what’s this all about? What are you digging for?”
“It’s the father we’re interested in,” Louis said.
Juliet was silent, and Miriam said, “You’ve got to know more than you’ve told us. It shouldn’t be too hard to…”
“Hold on!” Harry said fiercely, startling folks at a nearby table, stunning his parents, who seemed to lurch backward in amazement.
“That’s enough. Juliet’s not one of your witnesses under oath. You won’t say what’s the real situation, so why should anyone give in to your grilling?”
Harry had never taken this tone with them. Contempt for their authority was in his voice, an intolerable disrespect.
“What…?” Louis began, but his wife cut him off: “Gallant of you to protect Juliet. You must have quite a little drama going. All that aside, this affair with Bruce Thurston is not a game. We have a deadly serious issue to deal with, and we need some insights from one or both of you.”
Juliet found herself enjoying this family brabble, and decided to ride it out, see where Harry was willing to go with it.
On his part, Harry was emboldened both by Juliet’s presence and his own assertiveness. In a cold and uncompromising tone, he said, “Take off the gloves, Louis.” It was the first time he had ever called one of them by his or her given name. “Lay it all out. What is this vile threat you’ve been so vague about? Unless, as they say in the scripts, you come clean, this breakfast is over.”
FOURTEEN
“We never told you,” Miriam began, “because it seemed unnecessary, ancient history. But the past often has an ugly way of intruding itself into the present.”
They were in their car, practicality and family pride having instructed them to thank Juliet and ask her to leave them to their business. She departed the pancake house with some reluctance, but understood that Harry would catch her up on the inside reasons for his parents’ crude cross-examination.
Parked in the shade of a huge ficus tree outside Harry’s apartment, his parents, somber as rain, began their urgent tale of woe.
“This Bruce Thurston,” his father, inserted, “has an unfortunate connection with us, a better-left-dead historical contact which, I’m sorry to say, he won’t forget, and has begun to use in a murky way to hurt us.”
“It became imperative,” Miriam said, “that we learn what we could about his present situation, hoping to level the playing field. That’s where you and Juliet came in, by way of his son, Galen.”
Harry listened respectfully. This mea culpa type revelation was new in his family memory. Don’t burden the child, was his parents’ usual mantra, so that he rarely knew the motivation behind their sometimes-oppressive rules. This promised to be different.
“Twenty-five years ago, when I was twenty-two, and before I met your father, I was in a serious relationship that I thought was a keeper. He proposed marriage, I said yes, and we set about to make plans—all that despite a caution from a mutual friend that my fiancé, who was twenty-four, was hardly ready to settle down.
“I saw no real evidence to back up the warning, though I had observed him acting flirtatious at parties. But then—and I know this may stir comparisons with the runaway bride story—an event occurred that turned my heart cold, and I couldn’t go through with the wedding.
“I was actually walking
down the aisle, a hundred people in attendance, a judge ready to perform a civil ceremony, and just before I reached the dais where my fiancé stood, I caught something so blatantly disrespectful that I literally screeched, threw my bouquet at him, and stalked out.
“This wonderful, best-catch-of-the-year, soon to be my loyal hubby, winked at my girl friend, Jennifer, who was the most stunning woman in the room, and discreetly, but obviously not discreetly enough, puckered his lips toward her in a lewd little display of promised seduction. I don’t know if anyone else caught it, because all eyes were on me, except my own, which were on him. All eyes, that is, if you don’t count my girlfriend’s.
“So I ran, gave him back the engagement ring, told him he was a horse’s ass, and disengaged myself from him forever. My beautiful girlfriend, by the way, married him eight months later. They had one son, whom they named Galen.”
She stopped to allow Harry to absorb the information, but when he said nothing, she began again, “Bruce Thurston threatened and cajoled, told me he’d ruin me, said that nobody walks out on a Thurston, said I humiliated him. I replied that he was the one who broke our commitment bond and that his behavior was like a non-wedded adultery.
“What detoured his vengeance all these years was probably his conquest of that same Jennifer Knight, the object of every man’s lust. I’m sure her body and full attention gave him what he wanted, or at least until a month ago. I’ll let your dad tell you the next part, a story of pernicious vindictiveness—the cause buried for so long I had almost forgotten it, and so couldn’t believe what was actually happening.”
“I had run into Thurston a few times at attorney gatherings,” Louis said, “but showed no awareness of his history with Miriam. For me it was dead stuff, not worth resurrecting.
“About a month ago, my firm received a deposition from his, filed with the district attorney’s office, accusing me, in particular, of obstructing justice and physical assault against their female client. None of it is remotely true, the cited evidence a monstrous hoax, the motive a clear intent to destroy your mother and me.
Famous Page 6
