The Boy Who Never Grew Up (45 page)

“I have a good, steady income from my investments,” Carlo said. “I’m not rich, but I’m comfortable. My house is paid off. My girls are all married. Would you like to see their pictures?” He pulled out his wallet and handed it over to Matthew, who leafed slowly through a collection of color snapshots, his eyes glazing over.

“We still spend as much of our time together as we can,” Bunny said. “We talk, eat, watch television. Every time I told you I was out playing golf I was here. I’ve never been on a golf course in my life. I put the clubs in the car. I take them out of the car. I was here when Mr. Zorch was shot. I—I couldn’t tell the police that, for fear it would get back to you. So I was vague with them. They got suspicious. I was afraid I would have to tell them the truth. But I didn’t. Your friend Hoagy, he insisted I tell you. He was going to do it if I didn’t.” She patted Carlo’s knee. “I feel as if a huge burden has been lifted from my shoulders.”

“Only because it has been,” I observed.

She gave me a hard, cold look. “Yes, I suppose it has,” she admitted, thawing a few degrees. “I’ll make us some coffee, Carlo.”

“Fine, dear,” said Carlo, beaming at her. “I picked up some of that decaf you like. I had a coupon—saved seventy-five cents. It’s in the cupboard over the sink.”

“Thank you, dear.”

She went bustling off to the kitchen to make it, Matthew observing their little snippet of domestic routine in stunned silence.

Carlo shifted on the sofa and looked at his famous son warily. I was starting to notice the resemblance now. The snow-shovel jaw. The gawky arms and legs. The small, freckled hands. “I’ve always been proud of you, Matthew,” he said. “Not just because of what you’ve accomplished as a film director, but because of the way you’ve always taken care of your mother and sister. Your family is all you’ve got in this world. A man who takes care of his family is a man I respect—even if he only digs ditches for a living.” Matthew nodded dumbly at this. I’m not sure he heard any of it. “I know I can never be a father to you. It’s much too late for that. But now that we’ve finally broken the ice, I hope we can be friends.”

Matthew looked at me. His eyes were really glazed over now, as if he were coming on to a tab of orange sunshine. “How, Meat?” he wondered. “How did you know?”

“Certain things are a little more obvious to an outsider than they are to a member of the family. That’s why they invented family counselors and therapists and—”

“And people like you?” asked Matthew.

“Not exactly, Matthew. I invented myself.”

The House of Wax story didn’t exactly die with Pennyroyal Brim. It just got bigger and uglier. The police, under considerable media pressure, released the transcript of my tape recording of her confession.
People
devoted an entire issue to it. The cover said simply, “HER OWN WORDS.” The tabloids, meanwhile, dug into Dirty Penny’s childhood with a zeal that crossed over into the truly sick. The
Enquirer
found a girlhood friend who swore that when Penny was ten years old she’d savagely murdered several neighborhood dogs and mutilated their corpses—strictly for kicks. Lulu didn’t care for that one at all. The
Star
found a male cousin who claimed to have been raped by her at age twelve. Toy Schlom, her old running mate, was pursued relentlessly for gory details about their nasty days together. The press even camped out in front of the Schlom’s swank tear-down on Hazen Drive, forcing her into seclusion at the exclusive Golden Door Spa in Escondido.

People were utterly fascinated by Pennyroyal Brim. They couldn’t get enough of her story. And they couldn’t stop asking that same question—how could someone so pretty do such monstrous things?

I don’t know how. I don’t want to know. I know what she tasted like. I don’t need to know anything more.

Cassandra Dee truly lucked out. She alone had Penny’s authorized story. The public was clamoring for it. Her publisher was rushing it into print. She stopped by my bungalow a few days later. I was at my Olympia, working on a new first chapter.

“I’ve had offers like ya wouldn’t believe, Hoagy,” she informed me in a surprisingly quiet, somber voice. “Six figures for the exclusive story of our last days together.
Good Morning, America
wants me on,
Today
,
Tonight
…” She flopped glumly down onto my sofa bed. Lulu growled at her from under my chair. She jumped back up. “I guess you been through this shit. I never have. I never been this hot before. Not ever. I’m
made
, Hoagy.”

“Congratulations.”

“So how come I’m not happy?” she complained mournfully. “I mean, why am I not happy?”

I took a good look at her. She wasn’t wearing her usual Betty Boop makeup that day. She seemed younger and more vulnerable without it. She also seemed profoundly depressed—she hadn’t tried to sneak so much as one glance at the manuscript pages stacked on my desk. “I don’t know, Cassandra. Why don’t you think you’re happy?”

“I guess on account of the whole time I was woiking with her I had no fucking idea what was going on. I mean, not a
clue.
So what kinda reporter does that make me, huh? I’m a damned good one, Hoagy. At least I always thought so. Now I don’t know. I mean, I blew this story. Totally.” She shook her head at me. “I can’t get no satisfaction from any of this—the bucks, the heat. I gotta earn it. I gotta be satisfied with myself as a professional. And I ain’t.”

I went over to her and kissed her full on the mouth.

“Gaaaawd, Hoagy,” she cried, shuddering. “A shiver just went through my whole body.”

“You earned that.”

“Does this mean you’re proud of me?” she asked, coyly, nasally.

“It means there’s hope for you, Cassandra.”

“I hope we get a chance to woik together again,” she said, her goggle eyes gleaming at me hungrily.

“I told you—we’re not working together. We just happen to be on the same story.”

“So maybe we’ll be on the same story again, huh?”

“There is always that possibility.”

She went to the door and opened it. “Gimme a call when you’re back in New York. After ya finally get over it, I mean.”

“Get over what?”

“Merilee dumping ya, silly.”

“She didn’t dump me,” I insisted.

“Yeah, yeah, shewa.” And then Cassandra Dee went out the door, cackling.

But how could I think otherwise? I still hadn’t heard from her. Not one word. Even Lulu the Wonder Dog hadn’t heard from her. It was over. It was really over. I didn’t know why. I didn’t know how. But it was over. For good.

And I couldn’t get used to that. I didn’t want to get used to that.

I wish I could tell you that Norbert Schlom was ousted as president of Panorama City Communications and was now selling rug shampoos door to door. Not so. The sale of Panorama to Murakami went through. Final sale price: five point eight billion. Schlom, it was estimated, personally cleared three hundred million. And this without Bedford Falls as part of the package. Schlom was in no position to include it. Pennyroyal’s claim to one half of the studio died with her. The studio was all Matthew’s, and Matthew wasn’t selling. Bedford Falls was safe and snug once again, provided the studio was able to right itself financially.

And Sheldon Selden vowed that it would.

“Now that the management situation is stable the top creative people will want back in,” he explained to me confidently over family dinner at Casa Selden, “We’re still here. We still treat people like human beings. We’re still their best hope. I’ll be green-lighting quality projects before you know it.”

Dinner was red snapper that Mrs. Shelley grilled on the barbecue and topped with salsa. We ate out on the patio at a weathered teak table. Matthew, Bunny, and Sarge were there, too. The kids were inside watching TV with Georgie and his nurse. The atmosphere was strained. Matthew and his sister were still rocked by the news that their mother had been leading a double life for the past forty years. It was a bit much to take on top of everything else that had gone on. This one would be the hardest to come to grips with. It would take all of them a long time.

“Besides,” Mr. Shelley added, grinning at Matthew, “we’ve still got our ace in the hole, right?”

“I’ve decided to take a long trip,” Matthew announced, as he carefully cut his snapper into small, bite-sized pieces. “Soon as Meat and me finish. Before I do anything else.”

Sarge glanced at him sharply. Clearly, he hadn’t told her about this.

“A trip to where, kid?” Mr. Shelley asked, frowning. Clearly, this wasn’t part of his plan—he wanted Matthew back in production immediately.

“I’ve been living inside my own head for too long,” Matthew explained intently. “I want to expose myself to new places and new people. I want to go to France. I want to go to Italy, Greece—”

“For how long?” Mr. Shelley wanted to know.

“Six months,” Matthew replied. “A year maybe. However long I feel like. I think it’ll be good for me. What do you think, Meat?”

“I think it will be great for you.”

“Sure, sure,” Mr. Shelley agreed, jumping on board. “Take some time off. Do you good to get away from all of this. If anybody deserves a vacation, it’s you. Go have yourself a good time.”

“And don’t worry a bit about Georgie,” Mrs. Shelley chimed in enthusiastically. “We’ll be more than happy to have him here while you’re away.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Matthew countered vehemently. “Georgie’s coming with me. Absolutely. He’s a big part of why I’m going. I want to expose him to the world right from the start. I want him to see things. Experience things. I don’t want him to grow up in the dark the way I did.”

Bunny’s mouth tightened. She said nothing.

“But will you be able to handle him all by yourself?” Mrs. Shelley asked gently. “He does need a lot of attention and care.”

“I’ll take somebody,” he promised, turning to Sarge. “Wanna come?”

“What you doin’ on me, man?” she growled.

“I want you to come with us,” Matthew said earnestly. “You’ll be on full salary. I’ll pay for everything. Come on. It’ll be neat.”

“No, thanks,” she said, eyes on her plate. Her back was very stiff.

Matthew seemed genuinely astonished. “Why not?”

“Because changin’ diapers ain’t part of my job description. And I got too much to do here as it is. And it’ll look like you and me are … It’s just no, that’s all. Forget it. No.” She threw down her napkin and started clearing the table. She no longer needed crutches, but was still hobbling.

“Sit, Charmaine,” Bunny commanded. “I can do that.”

“I’ll do it,” she barked. “Doc said not to favor it.”

“But what happens if I have to take care of some business while I’m over there?” Matthew persisted.

She snatched his plate away from him. “You’ll take care of it,” she replied curtly.

“What if I get an idea for my new script?”

“You’ll write it down.”

“I want you to come,” he said stubbornly.

“Just drop it, Matthew,” she huffed. “I ain’t comin’ wit’ you!”

“Please?”

“What the fuck is your problem, man!?” she demanded. “What do you care if I go or if I don’t go?! Huh?! What do you care?”

Matthew reddened. “Because I don’t think I could stand to be away from you for that long,” he said forthrightly. “I’m totally lost without you.” His voice didn’t even crack a bit. God, I was proud.

She softened, her eyes shining like wet stones. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Does anybody know what he’s talking about?”

“Maybe you two would like to be alone,” I suggested, getting up from the table. The others started to do the same.

Matthew waved us off. “No, no. Sit. Please. Everybody.”

“Charmaine?” Bunny spoke up. “I know this is none of my business, but if I might be allowed …”

Sarge nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Don’t worry about how it might look. Or about what people might think. No good ever comes of that. Just listen to your heart—that’s the only truth there is.”

Sarge was silent a moment. “Mind if I think it over?” she asked Matthew, her voice husky.

“Not as long as you end up saying yes.”

“Probably will,” she murmured.

“Good,” he said happily.

They gazed across the table at each other, glowing.

“This new script of yours,” I said to him. “What will it be about?”

“Me,” he answered promptly. “A guy who discovers at middle-age that he has a father he never knew. It forces him into this amazing new relationship, and also forces him to reflect back on his life. His relationships with his family, with women, with his dog …”

I tugged at my ear. “His dog?”

“I was thinking of making his best friend a basset hound,” Matthew said, his eyes twinkling at me brightly.

Beneath me, Lulu stirred and made small, litigious noises.

“The lead part’s perfect for Trace,” he added enthusiastically. “I’m gonna make him this ex-jock who’s down on his luck. A guy who was somebody once, and now’s just sort of a beach bum. It’s
him
. I really miss Trace. He’s my man. And so are you, Meat. I want you to write this script with me. I want you by my side.”

“Sorry, Matthew,” I said. “I move on after our business is done.”

“To do what?” he wondered unhappily.

“My own stuff, for better or worse.”

“Will you at least read my first draft?” he asked. “Tell me what you think?”

He awaited my reply anxiously. So did the others. It meant a lot to Matthew, therefore it meant a lot to them. This much hadn’t changed. Never would.

I reached for my wine glass. “Just send it to me in a plain brown envelope—marked personal.”

I was spending long days and nights at the typewriter now, pausing only to walk with Lulu through the studio to clear my head. Usually we walked late at night, when it was quiet. The charred ruins of Homewood were gone. So was the church, which had been taken apart section by section and carted off to a warehouse. There were no more benches in the town green. No more town green. The bushes had been removed. Even the grass had been rolled up and trucked away. It was simply a vacant space now. A place to build new dreams. Matthew’s dreams and the dreams of others who sought refuge here inside the gate of the fort. Norbert Schlom couldn’t touch them here. I suppose I could take some small satisfaction in that. But I didn’t. I was too busy wondering where I was going from here. The first and only stop on my itinerary appeared to be nowhere. Back to a novel that wouldn’t yield to my touch. Back to that drafty fifth-floor walk-up on West Ninety-third Street. Back to the worst kind of aloneness—the kind without Merilee.