‘If that’s the way you want to go, Miss Howard, no problem. I’m not trying to shill for more business here. You tell me what you want, I’ll make sure you have it. And I’ll be here from now right until the end of the cremation to make certain that everything happens as smoothly as possible.’
Once we had agreed some basic things he approached the woman at the mortuary reception desk and informed her that we were ready for the viewing. She dialed a number. After a few minutes, she received a call back and then said: ‘You can go in now.’
Anthony guided me through double doors, down a series of long, chilly corridors to a frosted-glass portal marked ‘Viewing Room’. As he knocked on this door, he put a steadying hand on my shoulder.
‘You ready, Miss Howard?’
I nodded. An attendant opened the door – and we followed him inside.
I had been preparing for this moment all the way down from Cambridge. As I had mentioned to Anthony, having seen her in the last throes of the cancer had indeed prepared me for the ravages that she had suffered. But once I was brought inside this plain unadorned room and looked down at the tiny shrunken figure on the hospital gurney – a blue sheet brought right up to her chin, her features so emaciated, her lips half-eaten away by the cancer, her eyes closed tight, never to open again – all I could think was: here is the woman who gave me life, who brought me up, who sacrificed so much for me . . . and who could never tell me that she actually loved me, if indeed she ever did. And I, in turn, could not tell her that I loved her . . . perhaps because . . .
Well . . . I always wanted her love. But when that love wasn’t reciprocated, when it became clear to me that she saw me as the agent of her unhappiness . . .
Anthony Sabatini saw me lower my head and stifle a sob. It was the only moment that I came close to crying during the next few days. I didn’t cry when, later that afternoon, I let myself into her house and sat on the narrow single bed in what had been my room and remembered how many times I had shut myself away here during my childhood and adolescence, thinking about a way to escape all this. I didn’t cry when I saw her local lawyer and was informed that Mom had remortgaged the house twice over during the past few years as her hours in the library had been severely cut back. With no savings to act as a safety net, she had to keep borrowing against home equity in order to simply survive.
‘She knew I had money,’ I felt like telling the lawyer. ‘And I had, against her will, helped her out in the past. Why couldn’t she have asked me . . . ?’
But I knew the answer to that question.
I could have cried when the Episcopal priest who conducted her sparsely attended funeral (were there really only twelve people who cared about her?) referred to me as ‘her much-loved daughter, Jane’. I could have cried when the tacky curtains opened in the tacky chapel of the crematorium and the coffin moved through ceremonial flames towards the furnace. I could have cried when a box was delivered the next day to her house and I drove out to Todd’s Point Beach and scattered her ashes onto the angry waters of the Atlantic. I could have cried when I packed up two boxes of personal memorabilia – what little jewelry she possessed, some family photos, some of her prized Mel Tormé albums (she always went on about his voice being akin to a ‘Velvet Fog’) – and informed the lawyer that he should hire someone to pack everything else up and give it all to charity, then put the place on the market. I could have cried when the lawyer told me he doubted the house sale would actually cover all the mortgages, let alone the $23,000 in legal fees he had let ride with her over the past few years. And I could have cried when – on the way back to Cambridge – a public radio station played Mel Tormé singing ‘What Is This Thing Called Love’ . . .
Yes, there were ample opportunities to break down during the four days I ended up spending in Old Greenwich (Christy insisting that she could hold the fort until late Sunday morning). Though I could feel immense sadness for that which had been absent from our relationship, I found it very difficult to cry for someone who held on to a self-deception so skewed and sad that it corrupted everything to do with her one and only child. But if life teaches you anything it’s this: you can never dispel another person’s illusions. No matter how much empirical proof you have to the contrary, they will hang on to their false beliefs with a vehemence that might baffle and infuriate you, but which (you realize much later on) is their only defense against a truth that would undermine everything they hold dear. Once they have embraced the lie, nothing you can say, do or prove will shift them away from it. The lie becomes the truth – and it can never be challenged.
Halfway home on Interstate 95, my cellphone rang. It was a voice I didn’t want to hear. Adrienne.
‘Hi, partner,’ she said loudly over the speakerphone, pronouncing the last word with a faux-Texas twang, as if we were characters in a western.
‘Hello, Adrienne,’ I said, my tone suggesting the thinnest veneer of civility imaginable.
‘Well, don’t you sound bummed!’ she said, following this comment with another of her hyena laughs.
‘Maybe Lover Boy failed to tell you, but my mother was cremated two days ago.’
‘Oh, stupid, stupid me,’ she said. ‘What a total goof I am. No wonder you hate me.’
‘Is there any point to this call, Adrienne?’
‘Look, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for your loss, OK?’
‘Which loss are you talking about? The loss of my mother or of the man with whom I allegedly live?’
‘Theo hasn’t left you, has he?’ she said, sounding all shocked.
‘You know, Adrienne, I can take a modicum of hypocrisy, but not the sort of gold-plated bullshit you hand out.’
‘Think what you like, Jane. But the point of this call is to reassure you that you will be receiving a transfer of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars from Fantastic Filmworks within the next four weeks.’
‘Can I have that in writing, please?’
‘You really don’t trust me, do you?’
‘You’re sleeping with my guy . . . so, yeah, I really don’t trust you at all.’
‘I just wanted to bring you this good news. I hope you’re pleased.’
‘I will be pleased when I see the money – and I want an email from you confirming it will be paid within the month. As for Theo . . . I don’t really care if I do – or do not – see him again. And you can pass that comment on to him. As far as I’m concerned we’re through.’
‘I don’t know why you’re blaming me exactly.’
‘Because you’re a ridiculous person, that’s why.’
The line went dead. Our conversation was over.
I never did receive the email from Adrienne. For several weeks after this call, I didn’t hear from Theo either, though I did run into one of his colleagues from the Film Archive on Brattle Street one afternoon. He seemed nervous in my presence and haltingly confirmed (when I pressed him) that he had recently heard from Theo by email, and that he was ‘chilling out’ for a couple of weeks on the Amalfi coast.
‘You wouldn’t happen to know where exactly on the Amalfi coast – and what hotel he might be staying at?’
‘Uh . . . he didn’t, like, share that with me.’
Liar. But I didn’t feel the guy merited my anger, so I simply said that it was nice to run into him and quickly said my goodbyes. As soon as I got home, I Googled ‘Amalfi Coast Five Star Hotels’, figuring that Adrienne’s need for extravagance would mean they wouldn’t dream of staying anywhere but something palatial. There were nine such hotels in and around Amalfi. I hit pay dirt on the fourth call and was put straight through to ‘Signor Morgan’s suite’. And guess who answered . . .
‘Buon giorno, buon giorno,’ Adrienne said after picking up the phone, her voice at least three decibels too loud.
‘The smoking gun,’ I said in reply, my voice reasonably calm.
‘Oh, hi there, Jane,’ she said, trying to mask her surprise. ‘I was just stopping by Theo’s room to discuss some—’
‘Sure you were. And it’s a suite, not a room.’
‘And it’s all being charged back to the film.’
‘Well, that’s reassuring. What isn’t reassuring – besides the fact that you are now evidently an item, and don’t you dare try to suggest otherwise – is that, three weeks after our last call, I still haven’t received the initial repayment of my fifty-thousand-dollar investment in your company.’
‘You haven’t? But I arranged for the transfer of that amount over ten days ago.’
‘Sure you did.’
‘I’m telling you the truth.’
‘Sure you are.’
‘I’ll get on to my bank straight away and make sure you have that fifty grand in your account by the end of the week.’
‘Can I have that in writing?’
‘Of course, of course. I’ll send you an email right away.’
‘You promised me that email weeks ago.’
‘Do you have any idea how busy we’ve been? I mean, the movie’s sales have gone through the roof. And as I made very clear to you last time we spoke, not only will you be getting back your initial investment, but I can safely predict that another hundred and fifty thousand will be en route to you before—’
‘Before when? The Twelfth of Never?’
A silence – during which I could actually hear her fuming.
‘If you read through the letter of agreement that you signed with us, we are not bound to pay you any profits for another nine months. The very fact that I am willing to forward you the initial fifty thousand right now—’
‘Please don’t tell me how big-hearted and charitable you are. If that money isn’t in my account this week, I’ll be taking legal action against you.’
‘I’m supposed to be scared by that? Oh, please . . .’
She concluded this sentence with a cackle. Again I had the urge to throw the phone across the room.
‘You don’t want legal trouble, Adrienne . . . especially if I decided to leak it all to the entertainment press. I’m sure all your investors wouldn’t want to read about—’
‘This is the film business, hon. In the film business everyone plays fast and loose. And if you think a stuck-up third-tier academic cunt is going to get away with threatening me . . .’
That’s when I did throw the phone across the room. Again Emily’s face registered shock as the cordless receiver ricocheted off a wall.
‘Mommy’s angry again,’ she said.
I immediately had my arms around her, my fury quickly morphing into massive guilt.
‘Not at you, my love,’ I said. ‘Never at you.’
An hour later, an email did arrive in my in-box from Fantastic Filmworks. But it wasn’t the repayment guarantee that Adrienne had promised me. Rather it was a terse three lines from Theo.
Please pack up all my things at the apartment.
Tracey will come by tomorrow to collect everything.
I want nothing more to do with you.
It was unsigned.
I shot back the following reply:
And I want nothing more to do with you.
This too was sent unsigned.
I received this kiss-off on a Saturday morning. Had it come the day before I would have had to face my students and somehow maintain a veneer of stability at a moment when I felt that everything was coming apart. But instead of giving in to sorrow, I let my anger motor me through the next two hours, during which I raced around the house, dumping all of Theo’s clothes into assorted suitcases, emptying his bookshelves, his desk, his DVD collection, and packing up his computer.
Emily watched all this with concern.
‘Is Daddy going away?’
‘Yes, Daddy’s going away.’
‘For ever?’ she said, her face falling. Again I lifted her up in my arms.
Already my daughter was being damaged by her parents’ inability to put her interests above their own. Do we ever get anything right?
‘It’s not your fault. It’s just that Daddy’s very busy right now and won’t be around much. But you will be seeing lots of him.’
‘Promise?’ she asked quietly, as if she could see right through my weak assurances.
‘Yes, I promise. And I promise not to get upset again.’
In the weeks after Theo and I ended it I actually stopped feeling permanently upset. Perhaps all my rage had been vented before the final break-up. Perhaps I was so prepared for it to be over that, when the final kiss-off came, there was no sense of shock or distress; just a resigned acceptance of that which was bound to happen. I could no longer dodge the knowledge that this had all been one huge mistake from the outset.
But whenever I looked at my daughter I also knew that the ‘mistake’ had given me the biggest gift imaginable. Perhaps the reason I could accept all the attendant merde in our so-called relationship was because Emily was so damn wonderful.
Weeks passed, then months. I didn’t hear a word out of him. Part of me was astounded at his callousness. Surely he’d want to maintain some ongoing contact with his daughter . . . even the occasional email just to see what was going on in her life. But another part of me was actually pleased that he had so cut us off, so gone into hiding. It made it all the easier to write him off.
I taught the summer term at New England State. Emily and I spent a week in a rented cottage on the shores of Lake Champlain. Though it took a little convincing I managed to coax my daughter into the water on a particularly warm day and helped her float on her back for the first time. She was understandably nervous at first. But I assured her I wouldn’t let her go under.
‘You’ll keep me up?’ she asked.
‘I’ll always keep you up.’
Because, truth be told, you’ll always keep me up.
It was a very low-key, pleasant week – yet it was only a week, and I promised myself that, next year, I would take the full summer off and run away with my daughter to Paris for a couple of months . . . especially if I ever got the money back from Fantastic Filmworks.
Of course Adrienne’s promise of reimbursing me the money came to nothing. I sent her a few stern emails. No reply. So I paid a visit to Mr Alkan at his one-room office down the street from me in Somerville. He listened to my story and looked over the letter of agreement I had signed with Fantastic Filmworks.
‘I wish you’d brought this to me before you’d signed it,’ he said.
‘I wish I had too. Is there anything you can do to get them to honor the return on the investment they promised me?’
‘I could send them a letter saying that – as their success in selling the film has been widely publicized in the entertainment press – they should now reimburse you. But contractually speaking they do have until December 1st to settle up. Still, if you’d like me to send them a wake-up call . . .’
‘Yes, I’d like that very much.’
The letter that Mr Alkan sent was stern and legalistic. Not only did he demand prompt payment – especially as ‘Ms Clegg had verbally promised my client the full reimbursement of her investment over three months ago’ – but he also stated that, as an officer of their company, I was entitled to see their books and to monitor their expenditure to date.
Adrienne’s reply was short and not very sweet.
Dear Mr Alkan
I do not remember promising your client any reimbursement of her investment before December 1st of this year when it is legally due. On that day I will also supply her with full company accounts. Any further attempts to demand money from Fantastic Filmworks before then will be ignored as your client has no legal right to demand anything more from the Company until the first of December.
Alkan told me he could try to tie her up in assorted writs (‘There’s always a way of putting the squeeze on people’), but asked whether I really wanted to run up thousands in legal fees when the prospect was that I still wouldn’t see any money until the contractual date.
‘I sort of knew it would end up like this when I handed over the
money,’ I said.
‘I guess it’s hard not to invest in your other half.’
‘He was never my other half,’ I said, the anger suddenly showing.
Alkan took this in.
‘If it’s any consolation,’ he said, ‘I won’t be charging you for all this. And I’d like to keep the pressure on them to get the money to you as soon as possible.’
‘Be my guest . . . and thank you.’
Good God, a moral lawyer. I wasn’t prepared for such decency – any more than I held out any hope that Alkan could strong-arm the money out of Adrienne before its official due date.
But I decided to let him play the bad cop and hope that, just maybe, he’d surprise me with good news.
Two weeks later I received a call from him at my office. He had news . . . but it was anything but good.
‘Fantastic Filmworks went bust three days ago,’ he said.
Nine
‘I DON’T UNDERSTAND,’ I said.
This was an understatement. I was baffled.
‘The company is broke, bankrupt, dead in the water.’
‘But . . . how?’
‘The way all companies or individuals go broke. They run up a mountain of debt which they cannot pay.’
‘But the only way they run up all that debt is if they run out of funds.’
‘That’s the way it happens – and that’s the way it has happened here. Since you’ve gotten me involved in this, I’ve been using a search engine to keep an eye on Fantastic Filmworks . . . and, you know, only a couple of years ago I’d never heard of a search engine. But I digress. According to a story in Daily Variety yesterday, Fantastic Filmworks have run out of money and are now facing debts of over half a million dollars.’
‘Hang on . . . Theo told me they had signed contracts for more than a million dollars in film sales.’
‘The Daily Variety story said the figure was closer to a million and a half. The problem was, the film they had . . . what was it called?’
‘Delta Kappa Gangster.’
Leaving the World Page 27
