“Well, in all honesty I don’t know all that much about the real one,” Craig said. “But the movie was overly long.”
“Are you thinking of Lawrence of Arabia?” Thaddeus asked, suddenly overwhelmed by a furious dislike for the birthday boy. For Mr. Pajama Bottom. For Mr. Peanut Butter Out of the Jar. For Mommy’s Built-In Focus Group. How could Arlene give this boy such power and adoration? Arlene may have been a bit of a barbarian, but she was smart, she was savvy—how did motherhood abscond with her brains? How was this lump in pj’s given such respect for merely existing?
Another man might have been slack-jawed with shame over confusing T. E. and D. H., but Craig took the cultural correction in stride. He merely nodded. “Did I make a boo-boo?” he asked, with a smile.
“You know D. H. Lawrence,” Arlene said to Craig, in her encouraging voice, like someone urging a child to take his first steps. “Narrow face, that little beard.”
“I don’t remember,” Craig said.
“You wrote a terrific paper about D. H. Lawrence for your English Lit class at Dartmouth,” Arlene said. “I kept it. I have it right upstairs if you want to see it.”
“You kept it?” Craig said. He smiled beautifully when he meant it.
“Yes. It’s brilliant. Well organized, right to the point.”
“D. H. Lawrence, D. H. Lawrence,” Craig said. He closed his eyes and tilted his head, as if to rearrange its contents.
“Well, there you have it,” said Arlene, with a tinkling flourish of her arm. “Here’s a college-educated moviegoer, one who studied Lawrence at an Ivy League college, and the name means very little to him. Basing a movie on a classic guarantees you bupkis. At this point. All those classic novels—they have their roots in the nineteenth century. Maybe the novel itself does. But look at us. We’re almost in the twenty-first century. The nineteenth century is going to be just for a few nostalgia buffs.”
“What’s 20th Century Fox going to do with its name?” Craig wondered.
Arlene laughed merrily. “Oh, they’ll be fine. The studios always survive.”
“So based on this, you think doing Chatterley is a bad idea?” Thaddeus asked, in a somewhat lawyerly tone.
“It’s a dainty little book anyhow,” said Arlene. “Doesn’t she put flowers on his pubes? I mean, fuck me with a chainsaw. We’re just not there anymore.”
“I’m starting to remember him,” Craig said.
“I’m going to show you what you wrote,” said Arlene. “It’s good. Really good.”
“You and your son are super close,” Thaddeus said. “It’s really amazing.”
Arlene narrowed her eyes.
“I mean that in a good way,” he said.
“I’m sure you do,” Arlene said.
“Freud said that a man secure in the love of his mother can never be a failure,” Thaddeus said, his grin like a piece of shipwreck.
“Well, we’re a team here, Thaddeus. Teamwork is what makes the world run. If you don’t understand that you got bupkis.”
Oh spare me your Hollywood Yiddish. Thaddeus narrowed his eyes, hoping that their being windows to the soul was an empty cliché.
Near the door to the back patio, Kosoff was talking to a middle-aged man who might have been Paul Anka. The man was frowning thoughtfully as Kosoff’s voice rose to deliver his joke’s punch line: “Out of what?”
“I don’t think there’s very much champagne in these mimosas,” Christine said, when they were alone again. “The original recipe from the Ritz calls for half orange juice and half champagne. What we may have here is the infamous Buck’s Fizz, which calls for twice as much juice.”
“I used to be so fucking hungry for all this great food and drink and now everything is starting to make me sick.”
“Stick to the Buck’s Fizz. Vitamin C.”
“I don’t know how much more of this I can stand.”
“No one quits the mob,” she said, in an Edward G. Robinson voice.
“I think Neal is going to be very unhappy he brought me here.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Christine said with a vague gesture.
“I think I really just went one toke over the line with Arlene and the birthday boy.”
“Ah, the birthday boy,” said Christine.
For a moment, his annoyance turned on Christine. Did she ever say what she meant? Her deftness, her deep sense of expediency, her instinct for the neutral all seemed like symptoms of insanity, an incurably subtle madness.
“You want to know what I know, chum?” Christine said. “Eagles can tell how much food is going to be available in their habitat over the next six months and if they see it’s going to be slim pickings they break a couple of their own eggs so there won’t be too many mouths to feed. We’re connected to our environment, too. We’re aware of what’s going on with our species, with our whole world, we can feel it like you can feel a river under a road.”
The server with the mini-quiche and the server with the mimosas converged on Thaddeus and Christine. Food declined, orange juice and champagne accepted. Thaddeus was seized by a sense of urgency. He needed to place himself between Grace and whatever door from which she was aiming to exit. He needed a phone. Up to this very moment, he believed people who carried around portable phones were delusional douche bags, but right now he wished he had one.
Now the question was: how could he approach Arlene and ask if he might use one of her phones? In private. He began to wander the room, aimlessly. He tried to arrange his features into something that might appear purposeful. He knit his brows, pursed his lips, and glanced occasionally at his watch. (Yes, Father, I have a Rolex and it doesn’t need to be wound.)
His second time around the room, Thaddeus was suddenly arm in arm with Kosoff.
“I saw the great lady granted you an extended audience,” Neal said.
Thaddeus saw it all so clearly now: they were all of them in some elevated barnyard, nosing each other front and flank for a better shot at the trough. And the slop in the trough took the form of cars and vacations and extra household help, and tailored suits, education for your children, first-rate medical care, and a comfortable retirement.
“Yes,” Thaddeus said, “and I can’t say it went very well.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, what the fuck? Right? How are we going to have the balls to do justice to the sit-down strikers of Flint if we can’t stand up to the Arlenes of the world?”
“What did you say to her?”
“It’s that birthday boy.”
“Craig? Why in the world would you care about that putz?”
“Listen, Neal, do you have a phone by any chance? I’ve got problems at home. Big problems.”
Kosoff frowned sympathetically, as if compassion had been there just beneath the surface all along. Did this mean Neal was a pretty decent guy after all, or was the compassion a pose? What difference did it make? Thaddeus believed in the Jewish path to morality, believed if you do the right thing and say the right thing, eventually you will come to feel the right thing. Thaddeus’s problem was that he could not sustain the right thing, it came, it went, it floated sometimes just beyond his emotional reach, it filled him with righteousness, but, in the end, he simply could not sustain it. Driven by desire, ambition, and a debilitating attraction to ease and comfort, he was buffeted about, with one thing leading to the next, and with no discernible path. He lived and took what came, his decency and his failings tripping over each other at every turn.
“I’ve got that phone in my car,” Neal was saying. “But you have to start the engine.”
“Would you mind?”
“Of course not. No one’s sick, I hope.”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Anyhow, reception is terrible up here. You should use one of Arlene’s land lines; there’s one in the hall.”
Kosoff led Thaddeus to the phone, with his hand on his shoulder. His kindness was making Thaddeus wonder if he had the look of a
doomed man? He felt a shooting pain in his chest. My God, what a terrible place this would be to die. What a terrible place. The phone stood on a tall, narrow green table, with a small cast-iron Buddha on one side of it and a bowl of M&M peanut candies on the other. The phone itself was made of see-through plastic and its circuits and ringer were visible. He picked it up; the dial tone was harsh and unstable, like the buzzing of a large housefly trapped in a lampshade.
Grace answered on the first ring. So: she was waiting for someone to call.
“It’s just me,” Thaddeus said. Neal had returned with a mimosa, which he placed on top of a monogrammed cocktail napkin.
“Hello, Just Me. What time is it out there?” Grace said.
“I don’t know.”
“But you always know what time it is.”
“It’s about one or something.” He was gripping the phone too tightly to look at his watch.
“That’s my boy.”
“Wow. I would have thought it was impossible, but you’ve turned knowing the time into a personal failure.”
“Sorry. So? How’s it going?”
“Grace, I can’t take these personal crises when I’m out here. It’s hard enough.”
“Did room service overcook your eggs Benedict?”
“All right. Just tell me what’s going on. With you.”
“With me? With uneducated, unsuccessful little me?”
“Right.”
“Well, I didn’t kill Muriel. I think that was an accomplishment.”
“Muriel? What can you possibly—”
“She’s a complainer. And I miss my brother.”
He heard the going-down-the-drain glug of wine being liberally poured; it took that for him to realize she was drunk. Drunk drunk drunk drunk drunk.
“Are you alone?” he asked her.
“No, the place is crawling with gallery owners and art dealers and everyone is—”
“Please. Grace. I’m begging you.”
“I caught Emma with a loaf of bread.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You want an obese daughter? You want type B diabetes?”
“It’s type 2, not type B. If you’re going to be a food Nazi at least get your facts straight.”
“Oh my God, you are such an asshole!” Grace said, and with that she hung up the phone.
Thaddeus took a small, steadying sip of his mimosa. Nonsensically, he held on to the phone for a few moments, as if the broken connection might somehow be restored.
He heard a burst of laughter from the next room, as sudden as an explosion. Oh what rich fun! He recalled reading something Evelyn Waugh wrote to a friend back in London while laboring here in L.A., how the worst thing about being in Hollywood was seeing the Jews enjoying themselves. What a prick Waugh was, a funny, brilliant, vexing, petty, sniping sonofabitch. He would have been right at home with the river folk in Leyden, with their smooth chests and cleft chins, their flyaway hair, forever boyish, until one day they woke up looking like Auden. Thaddeus strolled into the party again. He didn’t know what to do with his face so he decided to look . . . curious. His brows were knotted, his head was cocked, as if all these people and their laughter and their lovely Sunday clothes were of considerable anthropological interest, that he was here like that U of Chicago professor who was constantly in the Kaufmans’ bookstore looking for anything about circumcision rituals, not because he was necessarily fixated on his own foreskin but because foreskins were his bread and butter.
The laughter had subsided. Evelyn Waugh would be relieved.
The guests were filing into the dining room. Neal was with Christine, and Thaddeus had the sense they might end up working together—perhaps on The Strike: who knew? Things moved with the swiftness of assassination in this business, assassinations so casual as to be practically whimsical.
“Hey, Mom says your folks fought in Spain.” It was Craig, his hand on Thaddeus’s arm.
“Over what?” Thaddeus asked.
“In the war? The civil war? That’s what Mom said.” His breath was heavy with peanut butter, burnt, sweet, oily, intolerable.
“First of all, no. They did not. And, Craig? Why are we talking about our mommies? Look at you. You don’t even have fucking pants on.”
“It’s my house and it’s my birthday.”
“Grow up, Craig. Act like a human being.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m giving you some unasked-for advice. Don’t go parading around in your goddamn pajamas.”
“How’d you like an unasked-for punch in your mouth?” Craig asked.
“I’d be fine with it, Craig. But first thing, I think you better freshen up.” And with that, Thaddeus Kaufman tossed his mimosa into Craig’s face. Who knew it was so easy? This thing, reality, your life, your future, your reputation, how flimsy it all was, how conditional, how circumstantial, a universe of spun sugar. Nothing was carved in stone. Things were barely scratched in wet sand. Everything could change with a flick of your wrist.
“My eyes!” Craig screamed, stumbling backward, rubbing his hands over his face. “My eyes!”
EXPELLED FROM THE BRUNCH, THADDEUS waited in Arlene’s driveway for the taxi. He had hoped Kosoff would drive him back to the Four Seasons but Neal, who was good enough to call for a cab, let him know that if he were to leave with Thaddeus it would give the appearance of support, and it would be best if he stayed at the brunch and did whatever he could to clean up the mess. Thaddeus, feeling the full force of the mimosas, would have liked to sit down, but the hoods of the cars were scalding, even Arlene’s BMW, parked in the shade beneath a wisteria-laden carport, was too hot to sit on. Waiting for the cab’s arrival, Thaddeus had ample time to consider his options. He needed to empty his bladder, but even in his compromised state he realized that luck was not running in his direction today and the last thing he needed was for Arlene, or Craig, or anyone else in the house to see him taking a leak. He considered letting himself back into the house and using the bathroom, but that seemed tempting fate, and fate had already made it clear that today was not Thaddeus’s day. As he thought about what was preventing him from relieving himself, the urgency to do so increased and before long he was desperate. What did homeless people do when nature called? Every bar and restaurant posted signs warning noncustomers away from their toilets; under the cover of night, the parks and bushes could suffice, but what about the daylight hours? Without the right to relieve yourself you had less status, less comfort, and less safety in the world than an animal. How the homeless must envy the Central Park carriage horses. The dogs. The pigeons. Thaddeus tensed and relaxed his calf muscles, believing that this would somehow lessen the urge to urinate. Was there anywhere near Arlene’s house that he could take a nice long undetected piss? Perhaps he could walk to the end of Arlene’s driveway, find some tree or agave plant to shield him. But the houses here were built close together and for all Thaddeus knew he could end up being seen by a neighbor. Maybe he would be pissing in full view of Benjamin and Prentiss, who lived close enough to walk over to Craig’s birthday. What might their reaction be? They were obviously not huge Craig and Arlene fans, otherwise they would have stayed at the brunch for more than two minutes. Would they somehow see in Thaddeus a kindred spirit?
His thoughts, circular and increasingly frantic, were brought to a sudden stop by the arrival of the taxi, a light blue Chevy Nova. A cloud of dust followed it up the driveway, twisting and turning like a massive caterpillar. The driver was an ascetic-looking man in his forties, with a narrow face, sunken cheeks, watery brown eyes, a bristly mustache. His name was Noori Hasseini.
“Howdy,” Thaddeus said, slamming his door, wanting for some reason the people at the brunch to know he was leaving, that the monster was gone, and they could all go back to their mimosas and quiche and whatever else Arlene had in store. “The Four Seasons?”
The driver nodded, made a three-point turn.
“I don’t suppose the air conditioning i
s working,” Thaddeus said.
“Not today,” said the driver.
Thaddeus slunk back and released a long sigh. The urge to urinate had subsided; he wondered if that meant toxins had been absorbed into his bloodstream. A slash in the backseat released a ridge of pumpkin-colored foam.
“We are doing this without running the meter,” the driver said. “Forty dollars.”
“Seems fair. God, I am so glad to be out of that place.” Thaddeus closed his eyes for a moment and leaned back. No. That was not relaxing at all. More like being dangled over the side of a high balcony. He straightened up, pressed the heels of his hands against the sides of his head, as if to reshape it. “I hate this life.” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
He saw the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror, the quick worried glance. The stress of serving the public. How was this guy supposed to know what kind of lunatic might plop down in his backseat? Thaddeus thought it might be a good idea to put the driver at his ease.
“I see your name,” Thaddeus said. “Are you Iranian by any chance?”
“Yes. I am here with my family for many years.”
“Well, the odd thing is, I’m here—I mean in Los Angeles—mainly because I wrote something that was more or less about your country.”
“This is my country,” the driver said.
“No, Noori, Mr. Hasseini. Am I pronouncing that correctly? I realize this is your country now.” His bladder was once again on high alert. “And what I wrote wasn’t really about Iran.”
River Under the Road Page 32
