The Man Who Cancelled Himself (20 page)

“Like I said, he has that effect on most people.”

We waited for the light to change at Amsterdam, where there was traffic, the cars’ tires hissing on the wet pavement. The rain was falling more steadily now. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Or it may have been a subway train. It’s always hard to tell in the city.

“What do you know about shock treatment, Vic?”

He glanced at me sharply. He had done heavy trank time twice at the Veterans Administration hospital. Sometimes he just sees red and wigs out. I don’t know if it’s the steel plate or the pieces of shrapnel that are still in there. He looked back at the street. “They don’t call it that, Hoag,” he said quietly. “They call it ECT, short for electroconvulsive therapy. Know a couple of fellows who had it. Did Hudnut?”

“When he was seventeen.”

“That’s young. That’s very young.”

The light changed. We resumed walking.

“He claims his parents had it done to him because he was a rockhead.”

“A what?”

“A rebel. Always in trouble, from day one.”

“Tell me more.”

I told him about Lyle biting the mailman when he was three. About his fights with the other little kids, his trouble with authority. About burning down Herb’s ham shack. About Allen. About the drugs he’d been put on, and put himself on, and sold. I told him what I knew. “What do you think?” I asked him when I was done.

“I think it makes for a very nice story,” he replied. “I myself am a big fan of
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
Terrific book, and the movie is one of my all-time favorites. Nicholson’s best performance, in my opinion. Only, that’s fiction, Hoag. In reality, they don’t administer ECT as a disciplinary tool. It’s not there to zap the rebellion out of people. It’s strictly for patients who aren’t responding to any other forms of therapy. And in teenagers it’s a last resort. Used only in the most acute cases.”

“What kind of acute cases, Vic? What are we talking about?”

“I’m no shrink,” he replied grimly.

“He said his head was fine. Totally together.”

“No way, Hoag. Not if they gave him ECT.”

“He also said they knocked him out so he couldn’t object.”

“They knocked him out because they have to,” Vic countered. “We’re talking about a massive convulsive seizure. If he wasn’t put under and given heavy doses of muscle relaxants, he’d have broken bones from all of the twitching that goes on. Sounds horrible, I know. But like I said, it’s only used when all else fails.”

“He mentioned something about memory loss.”

Vic nodded. “The guys I know, their memories were definitely scrambled. Especially about recent events. But a lot of that comes back. Or it’s supposed to.”

The newsstand at Seventy-ninth and Amsterdam was bustling,
“MY DADDY IS AN ALIEN”
screamed the current
Weekly World News,
which was claiming that the father of Merilee’s love child was, well, a Martian. They even had a photograph of him. Or it. Complete with tentacles.

Vic’s jaw muscles tightened as he lumbered past it, but he didn’t mention it. “What did Hudnut tell you about his parents?”

“That he hated them. Why?”

“Because the kind of incorrigible behavior you’re describing, that just doesn’t happen in a kid on its own. Lyle Hudnut is a product of the household he grew up in. You ask me, he’s not telling you the whole story.”

“Possibly he doesn’t remember the whole story,” I suggested.

Vic shook his head. “No way. You’re not dealing with memory loss here. You’re dealing with fabrication and denial.”

“This is, after all, a memoir.”

“How does this connect up with him getting caught waving his wienie in Times Square?”

“He claims that was done to him, too. That he was set up.”

“More persecution, huh?”

“That part’s not so farfetched. A lot of people would like to see him get dumped from the air.”

“Count me in,” said Vic. “I’ve never understood his appeal. There’s nothing funny about being gross. At least that’s my opinion.”

Vic Early always had a lot of those.

Central Park West hadn’t changed a bit. It never does. Lulu speeded up when we got to Merilee’s block. She always does. The lights were on in the eight windows overlooking the park, and the Jag was parked out front by the awning with its top up, beads of rain glistening on it in the streetlights. Happily, there were no paparazzi about.

Ned, the doorman, got all excited when he spotted us. “Why, Mr. Hoag,” he exclaimed. “What a delight to see you again, sir.” He bent and patted Lulu. “The both of you.”

A kid delivering pizza pulled up on a bike. Ned intercepted him and rang upstairs.

I stood there under the awning, gazing at the Jag. If it’s possible to love a machine, I loved that one. It seemed to glow. “Do you rub them for her, Vic?”

“Rub what, Hoag?”

“Her feet.”

“Who, me? Heck, no. Pam rubs them. Pam and no one else. She’s real upset about this whole business, Pam is. She’s taking it hard. Hey, why don’t you come up and say hello?” Vic offered. “She’d love to see you. She misses you.”

“Are we still talking about Pam?”

“You know who we’re talking about,” he said softly, pawing at the ground with his size fifteen-EEE black brogan. He was a bit large to be a matchmaker, but I guess there’s no height or weight requirement.

“Look, I know you mean well, Vic,” I said gently, “but she’s messed up my whole life. I’m not going to let her ruin my day, too.”

Lulu had other ideas. She was scampering toward the elevator with the pizza delivery man. I asked her not to. She ignored me. I told her not to. She ignored me. She wanted to see her mommy. She even started to get in the elevator.

“Lulu, get your ass back here
now!!”

She froze, shocked and terrified. I usually didn’t raise my voice at her that way. Didn’t have to. Slowly, she skulked back to me with her tail between her legs. She slithered the last few yards until she was between my feet, trembling, a soft whimper of hurt and confusion coming from her throat. She didn’t know what she’d done wrong. She hadn’t had an accident on the rug. She hadn’t stayed out past her curfew. She didn’t understand. How could she?

I picked her up. “Sorry, girl. I’ll explain it to you someday when we all grow up.”

She brightened and nosed my left ear. I put her down and said, “Good night, Vic. Good to see you.”

“Same here, Hoag.”

I started back home in the warm rain, my mind on Lyle Hudnut. By his own admission, the man was a total control freak. How much of the truth about his own life story was he trying to control? How much hadn’t he told me? How much was I prepared to fight him over it? Lots of questions, and no easy answers. I expected this. This was why they paid me the big bucks. Not for banging out the words. That part’s easy. The hard part is separating the truth from the bullshit. To do that means wading around inside my celebrity’s head, hip boots required. Particularly with actors, who are the most gifted liars on the face of the earth. That’s what they do for a living—they make us believe in make-believe. A trait they share with most politicians and heads of Fortune 500 companies.

Why had Lyle Hudnut undergone ECT? What wasn’t he telling me? And what, if anything, did this have to do with his arrest at the Deuce Theater? Questions. I had lots of them.

I stopped at the Red Apple on Broadway for a six-pack of Bass Ale. There was a deep, ominous rumble of thunder as I got closer to home. Lightning crackled over the Hudson and the rain started coming down harder. Lulu speeded up the last hundred yards or so. We both did. My building has no doorman or lobby. Just a vestibule between the outside door and locked door, large enough for the mailboxes, the buzzers, and one person.

There was one person in there. The person was Marjorie Daw. She was ringing my buzzer.

S
HE WAS CLUTCHING A
flat bakery box and a dripping umbrella emblazoned with the network logo.

“Oh, here you are,” she said calmly, as we stood there nose to nose in the vestibule. Marjorie was as tall as I am, lean and cool and spotless in a crisp white broadcloth shirt and faded jeans.

“In living black and white,” I said, smiling at her.

She lowered her eyes demurely. Though clearly she was not shy. Shy women don’t ring my buzzer at eleven-thirty on a school night, not even if I know them well. Her I barely knew. “I was out walking—I live around the corner on Riverside,” she explained in that poised, practiced voice she had. “And I wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me for what?” I asked, Lulu panting away damply at my feet.

“For saving this week’s show. Your health ed idea was brilliant. If you hadn’t been there this morning I don’t know what would have happened. Good thing Lyle listens to you.”

“I can’t imagine why he does.”

“He thinks you’re smart.”

“I’ll soon break him of that.”

“I told Godfrey all about you,” she continued. “And he’s glad you’re on staff. We both are. You’re a valuable addition.”

“If you’re going to stand there insulting me I’m going upstairs.” I was going upstairs anyway. It smelled too much like damp basset hound in the tiny space. Marjorie was starting to look positively ill. Lulu, wet, can be a real assault on the senses. I unlocked the door to usher in some air.

“Anyway, I brought this for you,” she said gamely, holding out the bakery box to me. “My way of saying thanks.”

I opened the lid. It was a peach pie, still warm. “Smells great. Where did you get it?”

“I made it.”

“You baked me a pie?”

“The peaches are fresh.”

“You baked me a pie?” I said it a little louder this time.

She drew back from me, coloring slightly. “I suppose it does seem a little old-fashioned. That’s just the way we do things back home.”

“Where’s that—Oz?”

“No, a little town in Wisconsin. Rhinelander.” She hesitated, brushed her short, frisky blonde hair back from her forehead with her fingers. “Ordinarily, Lyle doesn’t listen to anyone.”

“Not even you?” I asked.

“Especially not me,” she replied coolly. “No one there does. They call me Miss Priss, The Iron Maiden. …”

“Chuckles,” I added.

“They call me Chuckles!?” Quickly, she regained her composure. “They can go ahead and call me whatever they like. I’m not there to be their pal. I’m there to represent the network’s interests.”

“Everyone has to represent something.”

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be hated by fifty-four people?”

“Fifty-three. I don’t hate you.”

This one brought a disapproving response from my protector.

Marjorie looked down at her warily. “Why is she growling at me like that?”

“You have green eyes.”

Large, liquid ones. They locked onto mine. And lingered, softening. “Something wrong with that?” Marjorie asked, with a slight catch in her throat.

“No, something right,” I said, my own voice huskier than I expected. Too many nights alone. Or maybe it was just the rain. Sure, that’s what it was. The rain.

I walked her back home in it, holding her umbrella over the two of us. She glided along beside me, chin high, back straight, light and graceful on her feet. Lulu splashed gleefully ahead of us in the puddles. She loves the rain, which has always amazed me, considering how squeamish she is. But she’s a dog full of surprises. She even likes the new
New Yorker.

“I keep thinking you look familiar.” . Marjorie nodded. “You probably saw me on TV.”

“You’ve acted?”

“Not exactly. I did consider acting at one point, but I wanted to do something a bit more intellectually fulfilling.” Hastily, she added, “Not that I mean to insult Merilee Nash.”

“You go right ahead. I won’t stand in your way.”

“What I really mean,” she said thoughtfully, “is that I didn’t possess the inner talent or fire or—”

“Madness?”

“Whatever it is that makes a person truly great at it.”

“It’s madness, trust me.”

“Maybe I’m just too repressed.”

“Maybe you’re just too normal.”

“I figured I could never be anything but average at it, and I’m sorry to say I’m much too obsessed with achievement to settle for that.”

“Do you always apologize for yourself so much?”

She bit her lower lip. “I guess it’s not a very appealing habit.”

“Not very.”

“I’ve been finding that if I’m too confident I scare most men.”

“I’m not most men.”

“That’s true, you’re not,” she conceded. “You’re much more … secure.”

“You’ll discover there’s a great deal of security that comes from having no illusions left.”

“Is there any joy in that?” she asked, as if we were sampling an exotic new dessert.

“There isn’t so far. I’ll let you know if I stumble upon any.”

She shot a sideways glance at me. “You don’t look like a writer.” A faint smile crossed her lips.

“Thank you. That’s the first nice thing anyone’s said to me in a long time.”

Marjorie Daw lived in a swank, art deco building with a doorman, on the corner of Riverside and 90
^th
Street. Lulu was already there waiting under the awning. Don’t ask me how she knew where Marjorie lived. She always knows these things. I gave Marjorie her umbrella back, and stood there in the rain holding her peach pie.

“Care to come up for a slice of that?” she offered. “I’ll even put a scoop of vanilla on it.”

“Did you make that yourself, too?”

“No. Ben and Jerry did.”

“All right. If you’ll join me.”

“I’m watching my figure.”

“So am I,” I said, grinning at her.

She wrinkled her small, upturned nose. “Now you
do
sound like most men.”

“I have to sometimes. We’re an endangered species.”

The apartment that Marjorie Daw had received as payment for sleeping with Lyle Hudnut was a vast, airy penthouse with high ceilings and a terrace overlooking the Hudson. Her taste in decor ran to barren. There was a tweed sofa all by itself in the center of the living room. A black lacquered side table against one wall of the dining room. There was nothing else. No dining table. No chairs. No rugs on the floor. No art on the walls. No flowers or books or magazines or letters. It was as if no one lived there at all. Our footsteps echoed on the parquet floor.