NOW HE WAS SIXTY-FIVE, THE SHOW’S EXECUTIVE PRODUCER, AND his limousine took him from his studios to his home in the hills above Los Angeles. As a young man, he had never quite believed the success of Anything for Money, the way his longing formed itself physically into homes, boats, cars. He used to wake up with his heart pounding as though he were running an immense race. His daughter and wife were mere shadows to him, for he needed to get to the studio with a breathless craving. He was there from eight in the morning until eleven at night.
Thirty years ago, his wife, Lola, left. He blamed his wife’s leaving on her excessive demands; many of his colleagues’ wives had left them, too. The few times he had seen her since she left, she looked entirely unfamiliar to him. It seemed that he had not been married to her but to a lookalike who resembled her. She had come up to him at a party and said softly, “You never knew anything true about me.” When she said this, he felt deeply wounded, felt his honest attempts at goodness had been misunderstood. All his attempts at romance had been clichéd—he bought her diamonds, midnight cruises, silk gowns. “All I wanted,” she said, “was a poem written about my eyes.” He stood before her like a little boy. Did this mean they had not loved each other?
His memories of his daughter were glazed with exhaustion. Charlene stood, naked in the bathtub, water streaming down her tiny body, a pale angel absolutely convinced of her own glory; he could not believe she had come from him. Sometimes Charlene clung to him with such fierceness, such pure trust, he felt himself crumble inside. He was afraid she would see in his eyes the weakness of a lame dog and laugh at him. She was a toddler running, stiff-legged, across the lawn, then she was six and running, legs outstretched, like a small antelope, in gaudy, colorful clothing; then his wife left and he could not see his daughter running.
CHARLENE BELIEVED THAT HE HAD KICKED THEM OUT OF THE house. That was what Lola had told her. He tried to explain to her that this was not the truth, but she said, bluntly, “Mom said she asked you thirty times to stay at home for my fifth birthday. And you did not.” He did not remember any of these requests. He had thought he belonged to a family, but suddenly they accused him of misdeeds and crimes that made him—and them—unknowable.
Charlene called him only to request money, which he always gave her. He once heard her on a talk show denigrating him with a fictional story: “My father was so self-centered he had a special mirror only he could look into. If anyone else did, he’d tell us it would crack.” Much audience laughter. Lenny would not hear from her for months, and then he’d get a long letter, dissecting injuries done during her childhood; she had been arguing with him in her mind the whole time. Then, when he called her to discuss the letter, she would hang up on him.
The calls came more frequently immediately after Lola’s death. His ex-wife had died in a car accident fifteen years ago; she was gone, and his remnant feelings for her were interrupted—he still had not divined whether they had loved each other or not. Charlene seemed to hope that, as her only living parent, he would have the capacity to read her thoughts. He sensed then how remote she felt from other people. When he could not read her thoughts, she reacted with anger so forceful it was as though he had told her he hated her.
Over the last fifteen years, he heard about her mostly through gossip items in the paper: Charlene Weiss sub eatery sinks. Charlene Weiss briefly hospitalized for alcohol abuse. Charlene Weiss has fling with Vance Harley, sitcom star. Charlene Weiss has daughter, Aurora Persephone Diamantina Weiss. A quote from the happy new mom: “I have reached a pinnacle of joy.”
She did tell him about Aurora. She had become pregnant from one of her many suitors and decided to have a child on her own. He received an elaborate birth announcement, a silver card with a photo of the baby girl swathed in white robes like a tiny emperor. The inscription below the picture said: Aurora: A Child Who Will Be Loved.
For thirty years, he lived alone in his mansion on top of the Santa Monica Mountains; he had told his architect that he wanted to feel he could put his hands on the entire city. He could see all the way to the Pacific Ocean, the expanse of ocean like black glass, all the way to the luminous blocks of downtown, to the cars pouring, twin rivers of red and white lights moving east and west, north and south. His loneliness had buried itself deep within him, and he experienced it as the desire to be in the seat of every car. The architect had set his living room at the edge of a hill, so that when Lenny looked out his twenty-foot-high glass windows, he almost believed he could fall into the trembling party of lights. He stood there many nights, full of longing so deep he could not name it; he was aware only of his quiet desire to thrust himself into the dark air.
THE CALL CAME IN HIS LIMOUSINE FOLLOWING A MEETING WITH the producer of the talk show Confess! His maid’s voice floated over the speakers.
“Mister Weiss,” Rosita said. “Come home.”
“Why?” he said to the air.
“A child is here.”
“I don’t know any child.”
“Her name is Aurora.”
He stared at the speaker.
“Yes,” he said. “I know her.”
When they reached his house, Lenny stepped out of his limo. His home was made of pale marble, and clear white wavelets from the swimming pool shimmered on its empty walls. Black palms, bathed in blue light, swayed in the warm wind. The bushes in his gardens had been trimmed to the shapes of elephants, giraffes, bears, and they made a silent, regal procession through the darkness. He stood for a moment, in the quiet he had made, before he went inside.
The girl stood at the top of the stairs. He would not have been aware of her but for the ferocity with which she stood there, as though she had dreamed herself in this position for years. She was gripping the railing, staring at him. Her face was dim, but he could see her fingernails holding the rail—they were an absurdly bright gold. She ran down the stairs so fast he thought she might fall.
“Hello,” she said.
His legs felt as insubstantial as water. He looked at Aurora. He believed she had to be about twelve years old. Her face had the hard, polite quality of someone who had been scheming quietly and fervently for a long time. Her auburn hair reached halfway down her back. She had Lola’s eyebrows, two arched Us that gave her an alert, surprised expression. She had Charlene’s navy blue eyes. They were the color of steel and moved around restlessly, but they had a hard gaze when they settled on something. He knew because they were also his eyes.
“Hello,” he said. He offered his hand. She grabbed it. He still wore the Bluetooth headset he usually wore so as not to miss any calls.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I was sent.”
“By who?”
“My mother.”
She handed him a letter. The letterhead said:
BUENA VISTA REHABILITATION CLINIC
Your secrets are ours.
Dad—
I am here for the next three months.
Take care of Aurora.
She likes chocolate.
I’m so tired.
Charlene’s signature resembled a tiny knot.
The letter’s tone was so polite he knew that she had been trying to please someone watching her as she wrote it.
“Is this where your mother is?”
She nodded and stepped carefully toward the enormous living room windows. “This was in a magazine,” she said.
“House and Garden,” he said.
She nodded. “It’s bigger in real life.”
He wanted to stop her. She was standing against the window, pressing her fingers against the glass. He saw her make a breath on the glass, a pale oval, and the intimacy of the action made him want to walk away.
Two large suitcases sat in the foyer. He gestured to them and said, “Carlos can take them up for you.”
Aurora rushed up to one and grabbed the handle. “No!” she said. “I want to do this one myself.”
The bag was not actually a suitcase, but a larg
e green canvas sack. It bulged, oddly, with unidentifiable objects.
“You can’t carry that yourself,” he said.
She looked pleased, as if she’d predicted he would say this. “Then you help me.”
He could not even remember the last time he’d carried anyone’s bag, including his own. “Rosita, call Carlos,” said Lenny.
“No,” said Aurora. “You.”
Rosita brought him a dolly, and he pushed the bag into the elevator. The girl walked beside him, fiercely gripping the bag handle. The elevator rose to the second floor. When they got to the guest room, he stopped.
“You can stay here,” he said.
She walked in, dragged the bag into a corner. “Thank you,” she said.
“Good night now,” he said.
Her eyelids twitched. “I’m not sleepy.”
He began to back away. “Hey, look,” he said. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to entertain yourself. You know.” He lifted his hands helplessly. “Sweeps. Nielsens. I don’t have time for babysitting. Rosita,” he said. “Aurora will be visiting us. Bring her hot chocolate.”
Aurora stepped back and stared at the floor. She looked as though she had fallen from the sky.
He felt he should say something more to her, but did not know what.
“Rosita, put some whipped cream on her hot chocolate,” he said, and he fled.
LENNY WOKE WITH A SHUDDER IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. HE sat, his heart marching, in his bed. Then he got up and went to the kitchen. He sat in the blue midnight and drank a glass of milk.
He heard footsteps—peering through the doorway, he saw Aurora in the foyer. The girl was walking barefoot, in her pajamas, through the enormous room. She made almost no sound and moved through the darkness in a careful, fevered way. She went up to the statues, lamps, couches and touched them tenderly. She walked quickly, from room to room.
He fled back into his room. He was shaken, furious, wondering if he should wake Rosita, call the police. The girl was walking through his home. Now it seemed that anything could happen—the clock could walk off, the curtain could burst into flames. He lay awake for a long time.
HE WOKE UP AT SIX, FAR EARLIER THAN HE BELIEVED THE GIRL would be up. After he made his way down the stairs, he realized that his headset was gone. He had left it on the kitchen table after his midnight glass of milk, and its absence made him feel anxious, excluded from the news of the day. He ran to Rosita and asked her to look for it. He would give himself twenty-five minutes for breakfast. About ten minutes into his food, Aurora walked in. She stood, a little tentatively, in the doorway; her face was carefully blank.
“Hello, Grandfather,” she said. She said this title loudly, as though they both should know what it meant.
“Hello.”
Her face was heavy with exhaustion. She sat at the other end of the table. Before she did this, she moved a large crystal urn of flowers to the floor.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I want to be able to see you when we talk.”
He eyed her and ate a forkful of eggs. Rosita placed a croissant before her. Aurora was staring at him, drumming her fingers on the tablecloth.
“I have a question.”
“Yes?”
“How does it feel to be syndicated in forty-three countries?”
“Forty-four. Somalia just signed on.”
“Forty-four.”
“Very good.”
“Your first episode of Anything for Money had the biggest television audience ever.”
“That is true.”
“How did you get Ringo Starr to do a guest spot?”
“He asked to come on.” He looked up. “Is this an interview?”
“I’ve read 127 articles about you. In all the major magazines. More on the Internet. On the authorized sites.” She went through four slices of bacon. “Is it true that you only stock water in the back of the set so that contestants will get hungry and meaner?”
“No.” He lifted the paper in front of his face. “Anything you need, ask Rosita.”
“I would like an office.”
He lowered the paper. “For what purpose?”
“The production of my feature film.”
He folded the paper.
“I am currently in preproduction.”
“You are twelve years old,” he said.
“I know,” she said, as though that were a compliment. “I have read many books on the subject. I am writing a script. If you want to know the title, I can—”
He marched out of the dining room; she followed. He was not used to waiting for another person, and he could sense her trailing behind him, trying to catch up.
He pushed open two doors embossed with a gold pattern identical to the doors of Il Duomo in Florence. The room overlooked the rose gardens.
“Your office,” he said.
She seemed surprised that her request had been obeyed so swiftly; then she walked in, hands clasped behind her back like Napoleon inspecting the troops. She went to the windows and looked outside. The morning sun fell in wide bright strips across the lawn, so that the pink- and cream-colored roses gleamed like satin.
“Do you require use of a phone?”
“No,” she said.
“A fax machine?”
“No, thank you.”
She rose up on half-toe and then down again—later, he realized this was the gesture she used when she had more on her mind that she wanted to talk about, trying to make herself physically taller to give herself stature to ask for what she wanted.
“Your office,” he said. “Now. My headset.”
“Your what?”
“My headset. I need it.” He tried to smile, attempting to appear more relaxed than he felt. “Now.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, curtly, so like her mother in fact it confirmed she knew where it was. She sat in the dark vinyl chair and leaned back in it. “Now. Tell me your opinion. I want to describe the sky over a new planet that has been created by the explosion of a supernova. Should it be pink or yellow or blue or a combination?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Pick.”
Her stubbornness made it hard for him to think. “Blue,” he said, helplessly.
She spun the chair. “Thank you. I have to get to work.”
LENNY DRIFTED THROUGH HIS DAY AT WORK, LISTENING TO HIS writers knock around ideas: How about having contestants drink a concoction made by a four-year-old out of items he found in the refrigerator and medicine cabinet? What about telling people they had to walk down the street dressed like a chicken, slapping every third person on the face? That’s Anything for Money! When he left, the sky was dark and furred with purple clouds. He told the chauffeur not to drive him home immediately. He was glad for the sensation of motion as the car floated over Beverly Hills, West Hollywood, Silver Lake; he did not want to be still.
When he got home, he found the staff assembled in the living room. They were clutching pieces of paper. Rosita was wearing a large pot holder on her head. Carlos was wearing a cape. He saw other employees, whose names he did not remember: a gardener wearing a chiffon scarf around his neck, the pool man. Aurora was standing on a chair in front of them. They were listening to her.
“Rosita!” Aurora commanded. “Your turn!”
“You! You have cursed me!”
“It is what the forces said to do,” Carlos said, in an eerie voice.
“Hello,” Lenny said.
There was a silence. Rosita took the pot holder from her head. Carlos removed his cape and smiled brightly.
“What is going on?” asked Lenny.
“We’re rehearsing,” said Aurora.
“For what?”
“My movie.” She smiled. “They’re all good in their parts. I didn’t know they all wanted to be actors!”
He had not known that they had any other aspirations at all. He studied them. They looked away, trying to erase the animation in t
heir faces.
“Thank you all,” she said. “We’re done.”
Carlos picked up Lenny’s briefcase and walked, stiffly, up the stairs.
“Rosita! My dinner,” Lenny ordered.
“Can I have mine, too?” Aurora asked.
“You haven’t had dinner?”
“I wanted to wait.”
“Children shouldn’t eat at nine o’clock,” he said. It occurred to him that he had no idea when a child should eat dinner.
“I always wait for my mom to come home.”
“When is that?”
“Six. Nine. Never.”
“What do you eat when it’s never?”
“Whatever’s around. Yogurt. Ritz Crackers. Raisins. Chips.”
“Rosita, give her some dinner,” he said. He went to his room.
HE ENTERED HIS BEDROOM AND CHANGED INTO HIS SILK SWEAT suit. Then he looked for his favorite comb. It was not in his bathroom or his bedroom; nor could he locate his cologne. Standing in the middle of his bedroom, he wondered what the hell was going on. He went to the balcony and listened; he heard the clatter of a fork and knife; she was eating. He went down the hall to Aurora’s room and opened the door. The large green sack was on the floor; he unzipped it. It was full of small brown paper bags. One was marked MY GRANDFATHER LENNY; inside was his headset and his comb and cologne. He peered into the other bags. One was marked MADAME FOURROUT, and inside was a postcard of Paris, a snapshot of a friendly baker, and a wooden spoon. Another bag said SAM FROM OXFORD, and inside was a snapshot of a college student and a silver pen engraved with the initials SNE. There were men and women of all ages and nationalities, and their toothbrushes, cosmetics, office supplies. The people represented in the bags were from Paris, Milan, Athens, Buenos Aires, everywhere that Charlene and Aurora had lived.
He zipped up the sack and walked out of the room, embarrassed by what he had just done. Embarrassment was an unusual feeling for him—he mostly encountered others experiencing it—and he did not know what to do. His chest felt empty, and he had to sit down, waiting for the feeling to go away. He did not know why she had taken these objects from these people, but he believed he understood in some way as well.
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