And, Tommy thinks, about what might have happened to him if his mother hadn’t found out what her son was enduring—or hadn’t chosen to sacrifice their security to take him far away. Morty’s books are filled with boys out in the world on their own, some by choice, others by chance. And when they’re not alone in the world, they’re often alone in the sanctuary of their imagination.
As for Morty’s “legacy,” what she won’t be telling Franklin about—why bother?—is the tantrum Morty had (and it really was a tantrum, belligerent and shrill) when he found out that the children’s wing of the book museum had been reconceived to give as much weight and stature to the work of Stuart Scheinman, a man Morty regarded as a “closeted Nazi” and a “barely literate comic-strip dweeb.” This was, no coincidence, not long after Stuart won a MacArthur.
At too many recent book festivals, Tommy saw Morty eye the much longer lines of fans waiting to have a signed Shine. Not that Morty’s star had fallen, but Stuart’s ascendance looked as steep and sure as the takeoff of a jumbo jet, and he cultivated a physical presence that led critics to call him “one of a kind” or “an off-the-grid visionary” or even “a hip-hop Shakespeare for Generation Tattoo, the last remaining hope for the future of the book.” There was also no denying that Shine’s characters, though they occupied a narrow range of experience (street smart, tough, rebellious to the core, frequently even homeless), were varied in their ethnicity, earning him praise for, as one reviewer put it, “addressing a refreshingly diverse audience, a pomo-punkster-grunge fantasy rainbow.”
“Oh for God’s sake, let’s all sacrifice a few goats at the shrine of political correctness” was Morty’s reaction.
“Stuart didn’t write that review,” said Tommy.
“But I’m sure he’s crowing all over town about it,” Morty fumed.
Whenever Shine’s name came up, or whenever he and Morty were at the same literary function, Tommy could feel the tension in Morty, as if he were a boy whose girl had been stolen, as if he were literally itching for a fight.
The crowning insult (in Morty’s eyes) was when Stuart, at one of those festivals, had bid him farewell with “See you at the next one, pops!” Tommy had no luck persuading Morty that Stu meant it fondly, even ironically; that he was, underneath his blowhard shtick, a well-meaning guy.
“Right. And Hitler loved dogs!” bellowed Morty.
Tommy knew better than to argue with Morty when he worked himself into a humorless lather, but she had never seen him so vitriolic about a fellow author. “I suggest you keep associations like that to yourself,” she said. “I mean, not from me, but from…you know, friends of yours who might not feel the same way.”
“I’m no poker player,” he said curtly.
“Yes, but you garden,” said Tommy.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Tommy said, “You have faith in the seasons. That what goes around comes around—what’s properly planted and tended will always steal the show.” She had no idea where this came from, but it seemed to appease Morty.
“Tommy,” he said, “will you marry me?”
Morty had begun to issue these mock proposals after Soren died. Tommy didn’t find them as endearing as he might have assumed, but she let them go. (She had, at some point, become a master of letting things go.)
Tommy pushes back from the computer. “Want a sandwich, Franklin?”
“In fact, I do,” he says heartily.
“What I don’t get,” she says as they leave the studio, “is how he ever thought I’d be up to this.”
Franklin holds open the door to the kitchen. “Not to insult you, but he didn’t. His long-term plan was to set it all up for you—with my help—letting you bask in the glow of his goodwill from the grave.”
“He told you that?”
“Well, it’s what I told him he’d have to do. Or we’d have to do.” Clearly reading her expression, he says, “You know he loved you. Like a daughter.”
Franklin can’t know, and wouldn’t understand, how this wounds her. Was she, after all, as Soren had mocked her, Lear’s “little Cordelia”?
—
“Two nights,” says Nick. “Maybe three. I’ll put the driver at a B and B in the village, so I have him on call. The place is a trove of—”
“Three nights?” says Silas. “Andrew wants you out there the minute your cummerbund hits the floor on Monday morning. He thinks you’re avoiding him. They’re working out the kid’s schedule, and Andrew wants the two of you to meet.”
“Avoiding Andrew? Rubbish. I do know what’s good for me, Si.” Why does Nick go on the defensive like this? Why does he so easily, instantly feel like a child when others question his judgment? Literally, it might be true that he’s avoiding Andrew—just putting him off a bit—but to a worthy end! Yet stating his plan out loud does make it sound like a private folly, absurd and self-indulgent.
Nick and Silas sit in a corner booth of the hotel bar, its twilight halogens obscurative enough that Nick, who faces the wall, feels relatively safe from intrepid fans, at least till the two of them go their separate ways for dinner. He’s made no concrete plans, and right now he’s tempted just to eat in his room, though it makes him feel like a social refugee. Friday night alone in front of the telly? He needs to ring Tomasina from somewhere quiet, somewhere he won’t be interrupted. He promised he would ring her as soon as he confirmed dates with his manager. And then there’s the e-valanche, the digging out from under the messages that pour through the pipeline every time he clicks on the envelope icon. Sometimes he feels like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, heaving buckets of water against a flood. Most of the e-mails are from his agent in London, who needs answers yesterday on the Stoppard (a dream, but the schedule’s pretty impossible) and the Edinburgh Hamlet (he could go down like a minor Titanic on that one)—and by the way, isn’t it beyond high time he employ a personal assistant? (Since the Kendra flame-out, he’s felt the need, however irrational, to handle his private life as independently as he possibly can.)
“Look. Here’s a plan: I head to L.A. first thing Monday, then make a quick turnaround for a weekend at Lear’s. You’ll know exactly where to find me.”
“And if the wrong person peeks through a hedge, so will the rest of the world.”
“It’s not like I’m made of bone china,” says Nick. “Or like I’m Tom Cruise.”
“Lord, let’s hope not.” Silas glances at his phone, frowns, and pushes it away.
“I’ll keep the room here. In case I have to flee.”
“I suppose you’re a grown-up.”
“Some people think so.” Nick winks at his manager.
“An incredibly stubborn grown-up.”
Evidently not enough of a grown-up, thinks Nick, to employ a manager who wouldn’t dare talk to him like that. Or who wouldn’t dare answer his buzzing phone—not that he doesn’t have other clients to deal with.