The Man Who Cancelled Himself (49 page)

You’ll also be pleased to know that
The Human Dramedy,
starring Joe Mantegna as a psychotic TV sitcom star, became the big hit of the Broadway season when it opened in January. The
Times
hailed its young author, Robert J. Ackerman, as “the Tennessee Williams of the MTV generation.” The Bobster became the toast of New York, and was frequently photographed at the chicest night spots and parties, usually squiring the new woman in his life, Katrina Tingle. Leo’s triumph, it turned out, was short-lived. Katrina, as Lyle’s sole heir, did stand to be a wealthy woman when the first three seasons of
Uncle Chubby
got sold into syndication—and when Lyle’s estate ever got untangled. But it would doubtless stay snarled in victim lawsuits for a good long while. Both Brenda Roe and Noble Gesture were demanding their fair share. For the time being, Katrina was off to Hollywood with Bobby, who sold the film rights to
The Human Dramedy
to Rob Reiner for $925,000, and was getting paid even more than that to write the screenplay. Don’t ask me if the play was any good. Tickets were impossible to come by, and I didn’t try very hard. Don’t ask me what happened to Leo either. Or Naomi. I only know that they were both dropped from the staff of
Our House.
And that we won’t be exchanging Christmas cards.

I worked feverishly on Lyle’s book in the weeks following his death. The Merchant of Menace expected a lot for his money and his crustaceans. Plus there was tremendous pressure on me to turn it around fast. Lyle’s story was one that seemingly everyone wanted to read. Especially after someone, I believe it was Leo, peddled a bootlegged copy of his on-camera confession to
A Current Affair.
The tape of Lyle’s dramatic last moments quickly became as familiar to TV viewers as the Rodney King beating. A docudrama on his final days was already in the works, with John Goodman being talked about to play him. No word on who’d play me. Jeremy Irons wouldn’t be a terrible choice. Lyle Hudnut achieved a special kind of infamy in death, the kind we reserve only for the truly great or the truly sick. His albums and videos and storybooks sold even better than they had before. There were newspaper and magazine articles galore on his rise and fall. Oprah and Sally Jessy and Phil devoted whole shows to his death and how parents could explain it to their kids.
His
kids. I was invited on all of them, and turned all of them down. My phone rang constantly, reporters wanting to know what Lyle was really like. I said I didn’t know. They also wanted to know what his last words were before he jumped. There was a great deal of interest in that. I didn’t tell them. I’ve never told anyone, actually. I did speak to his parents a few times in the days after his death. It seemed to make all three of us feel better. It was Aileen who insisted I include how she’d pushed him down the basement steps when he was two. She wanted it all in the book. So it went in. Mostly, I worked, writing for hours at a stretch, sleeping little, and downing pot after pot of coffee as the days and the nights melted into each other. There was no doubt in my mind that I had a number-one best-seller.

A few late nights I wandered around the corner to Marjorie’s. She welcomed me. We didn’t talk very much about what was going on between us. We didn’t talk very much, period. Just got lost together in her bed, two beasts starved for something that neither one of us was genuinely capable of giving the other. It didn’t make any sense really, Marjorie and me, but she didn’t seem to mind that anymore. So I guess I rubbed off on her a little. As soon as
Our House
got on track, she got traded to the West Coast for two first-round draft picks and cash. A promotion, actually. God put her in charge of two-hour movies and miniseries. Even made her a vice president, which made her very happy. It certainly didn’t take her long to pack up her things. We had dinner together the night before she left. We promised we’d see each other soon. We knew we wouldn’t. We promised we’d stay in touch. We knew we wouldn’t do that either. But something tells me I will end up on her Christmas card list someday. When she finds Mr. Right.

I was working on the scene where Lyle first tried to pick up Fiona in line at the Bleeker Street Cinema when Vic Early, gentle giant, phoned to say he had something for me. I told him to come on over. It was Lulu he brought with him, although I barely recognized her. She was so fat from Merilee’s rich cooking that she waddled like Winston Churchill, her belly brushing the floor. Clearly, I would have to put her on Weight Watchers. Either that or hire her out as a dust mop. She whooped when she saw me and tried to climb inside my shirt. She’d missed me. But not as much as I missed her. She still had a scab on her ear, but otherwise her wounds had healed completely. I hugged her and gave her an anchovy. Vic I gave a cup of coffee. He looked uncommonly exhausted, as if he’d been out carousing all night.

He gulped it gratefully, slumped into my easy chair. “It’s a girl, Hoag,” he announced in his droning monotone. “Merilee gave birth to a seven-pound, nine-ounce baby girl at four-seventeen this morning at the Manhattan Birthing Center.”

I felt my chest tighten. I sat on the sofa with Lulu on my lap. “Mother and child doing all right?”

“Fine. Prettiest little girl you ever saw. Strong and healthy as can be. Merilee was in labor with her for fourteen hours, but she toughed it out like a real trooper. It’s that Pilgrim stock of hers, I guess. You would have been real proud of her. I sure was. Never assisted at a birth before. It was an incredibly moving experience. I’ll never forget it.”

“Was the father on hand?”

Vic’s face dropped. “No, he wasn’t.”

“How about her parents?”

“It was just the two of us.”

“Glad it all worked out, Vic,” I said. “And thanks for bringing Lulu back so quickly.”

“Merilee insisted on it. A deal’s a deal. She’s taking the baby out to the farm soon as they’re both up to it. She wants her breathing country air, not bus fumes. Which reminds me …” He reached into his pocket for an envelope. “I’m going shopping for a station wagon this afternoon. She wants a big, sturdy one. Anyway, this is for you.” He handed me the envelope. “The pink slip for the Jag. She doesn’t feel comfortable driving it anymore, not with the baby. She wants you to have it. It’s partly yours, after all. From before the divorce. And because, well, because of everything she put you through these past months.”

I bristled. “What, she thinks she can buy me off?”

“Not at all, Hoag. Heck, no. Just her way of saying she’s sorry. Besides, she doesn’t want some stranger driving it.”

“I see,” I said doubtfully.

“I thought about buying it myself, but it’d run me about two years’ salary. It’s in the garage around the corner from her place. Space is paid up for the rest of the year. It’s yours now, Hoagy. Enjoy.”

I stared down at the pink slip in my hand.

“You have a problem with this?” he asked, frowning at me.

“No, no. It’s very generous of her. Uncommonly. Do thank her for me.”

“I will.” He got to his feet and put his empty cup in the kitchen sink. “Guess I’ll go grab me a shower and a nap.” He hesitated, pawing at the floor with his big foot. “She wondered if you’d stop by. When she gets home, I mean.”

“What for?”

“To see the baby.”

“I’d rather not.”

“It would mean a lot to her.”

“She’ll barely know I’m in the room.”

“I meant Merilee.”

“So did I.”

Vic scratched his stubbly chin. “No offense, Hoag, but I liked the
old
you better.”

“So did I.”

“She talks about you all the time, you know.”

“She should have that checked out. It might be early senility.”

“It would mean a lot to her,” he repeated.

“It’s still no, Vic. And if this is one of the conditions for giving me the pink slip you can have it back. I don’t want it. I don’t want anything.”

He shook his head at me. “She told me you’d say that. Man, she knows you like a book.”

“Written by someone else, no doubt.”

“She wants to clear the air, Hoag. About who the father is. About everything.”

“Why?”

“Because she doesn’t want to go through life having you as an enemy, okay?” he replied. “Will you come? Please?”

I came.

The paparazzi were crowded onto the sidewalk in front of her building, hoping to get a picture of the Merilee and child. They had to settle for a picture of me. And Mario, the surly doorman, had to settle for letting me go up. Lulu curled her lip at him. My girl.

She was in the nursery. Long ago, it had been my study, the place where I spent endless hours thinking nondeep thoughts. Now it had pink wallpaper with little yellow duckies all over it. And an air purifier. And a crib. There was a midget human life form in the crib, asleep, its tiny fists clenched. Its hair, what there was of it, was blond, just like dear old mom. Who looked, I must report, positively lovely. Tired, no question. But radiant. She had on a pair of washed linen trousers, Arché crepe-soled suede shoes, and an oversized lavender sweatshirt of featherweight cashmere that had once belonged to me. Her waist-length hair was brushed out shiny and golden. Her green eyes gleamed with pride. She seemed to glow all over. I had never seen her glow that way before.

“Don’t you think she’s absolutely
the
most beautiful baby you’ve ever seen?” she whispered.

“I do.” She smelled milky. Smelled like something else, too. I wasn’t sure what, and didn’t want to be.

“Want to hold her?” she asked shyly.

“I do not,” I said, a bit louder.

Loud enough to wake her. She stirred and opened her eyes. They were green eyes. Merilee’s eyes. And when she looked at me with them I felt the same jolt I’d felt the very first time Merilee looked at me, that night backstage after the Mamet play, two or three lifetimes ago. When she rocked me. When we
knew.

She was a devil-child, that was it. Satan was her father.

Merilee picked her up and cradled her in her arms. She made a soft, gurgling noise. The baby, not Merilee.

“Have you decided on a name yet?” I asked.

“Tracy.”

“As in Dick?”

“As in Tracy Lord, you ninny.” The lead character in
The Philadelphia Story.
Merilee’d played her in London. It had been a happy time for us. For a while. “Like it?” she asked.

“Like it. And the middle name?”

“No middle name. I hate mine.” That’s true, she does—it’s Gilbert. “All girls do, and I don’t ever want Tracy to have anything in her life that she hates.”

“Well, you’re certainly starting her off on the right foot then.”

“How so?”

“No father.”

Her brow creased. She swallowed and put Tracy back down in the crib. “Let’s go in the living room.”

We went into the living room, with its signed Stickley originals and its windows overlooking the park. Manuscripts were piled on the coffee table.

“Planning to go back to work soon?” I asked.

“When I can. Tommy Tune wants me for
Eve,
the musical he’s basing on
All About Eve.
He thinks I was born to play Margo Channing. I still can’t decide if that’s a compliment or not.”

She sat on the oak-and-leather settee. I took one of the two Morris armchairs. It was quiet. Pam and Vic seemed to have cleared out. They’d taken Lulu with them. It was just we two. We stared at each other.

She cleared her throat. “How is your girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend?”

She raised an eyebrow at me. “The one with the hooters.”

“Ah.” I tugged at my ear. “Three thousand miles away. It seems you’ve spoiled me, Merilee. As far as other women are concerned.”

“I’m terribly sorry, darling,” she said, though clearly she wasn’t. In fact, she seemed immensely pleased with herself.

“She didn’t have them, by the way.”

“Have what, darling?”

“Hooters.”

“Ah.”

“And you, Merilee?”

“Well, they’re bigger than they were. I’m lactating, you know.”

“I meant,” I said, nodding in the direction of the nursery, “how is your … sire?”

She sighed, grandly and tragically. “I’m afraid you’ve spoiled me, too, darling.”

“I’m sorry, Merilee,” I said, though I wasn’t. “So you’re on your own?”

“I am.”

“Rather hard, isn’t it? Being alone, I mean?”

“Hard,” she agreed.

We sat in silence.

“You look terrific, Merilee.”

“Bless you, darling. Actually, they’re planning to make a movie about my life these days. They’re calling it
Field of Creams.”
She sighed again. “Oh, horseradish, this tact business is really a bore. Can we just get it over with?”

“Get what over with, Merilee?”

“Me telling you who Tracy’s father is.”

“I don’t want to know. I thought I made that clear before.”

“Well, I want you to know!”

“Well, I don’t care what you want!”

“Well,
I
don’t care what
you
want! It’s time you found out the truth, mister, once and for all. No matter how much it hurts. From my own lips. So … So …
here!”
She held something out to me. Another envelope.

“What’s that?”

“The father’s identity,” she replied.

“Why can’t you just tell me?”

“Open it.”

“Why are you—?”

“Open it!”

I opened it. There was nothing in it other than a pocket mirror. A lousy, dime-store pocket mirror. Nothing written on the back. Nothing on the face either. Just my own reflection. Plain old me …
me …
looking somewhat paler than normal … looking a lot paler than normal … looking …

I was flat on my back on the living room floor when I came to.

Merilee was kneeling over me with smelling salts, her brow creased fretfully. “Oh, I’m so terribly sorry, darling. I
forgot
what happens to you when you get a shock.”

Like I told Very—it’s been known to happen. “W-Why, Merilee?”

“I’m not positive, darling. Something about “the flow of blood to the brain being interrupted by—”

“No, why did you do this?”

“Oh.”

“Wait just a minute.” I sat up, light-headed but none the worse for it. “How do I even know this is true? How do I know I really am the father?”