Beverly Hills. The kids with new Schwinns. The kids at Point Dume. The kids in water-hose sword fights with Liz Taylor’s sons in the driveway of the house on Roxbury, overlooked by a scowling, very much younger Winter. The kids in the back of the Corniche at Dolores’s Drivein, hamburgers already transferred to mahogany seat trays. Dodd, age thirteen, at the Beverly Vista graduation, standing in front of the orange-brick wall of the inner court like a prisoner about to be executed. A photo of the ten-year-old Tull riding Pullman had snuck in …
She stole another look at Bluey in Venice and thought, Her life has been full. Still, it distressed her to already be eulogizing.
Her eyes grew tired. She felt a hard frame beneath the remaining fan of images and pulled it out — a quote from the embattled founder of the William Morris Agency, clipped from a 1909 Variety. Marcus used to keep it on his desk at work.
I will be William Morris forever. And if I must lose the business I have cherished, so be it. I would rather be William Morris and have my home and three meals a day and leave my name to my son—
Stuck to its underside for no rhyme or reason was the Kodak she had taken (her heart skipped a beat) of the benighted Désert de Retz on the day of their long-ago trespass. A chill came over her — she hadn’t seen a photo of her Marcus in so long. He stood in the foreground of the meadowy depression, the cracked alabaster skin of the castle rising from his shoulders to crown him.
Finally, Trinnie saw the thing for what it was: the megalithic woman he’d left her for. She’d never had a chance.
She heard something and looked up — it was her son. He walked toward her through the vestibule of the great room, small steps over a floor made of 57,000 hand-carved pieces of mahogany, ebony and tulip-wood, past draperies tied with leg-of-mutton passementerie, circumnavigating his grandfather’s cemetery of beloved architectural models, slowing regally as he reached a grove of Chinese porcelain birds on giltwood brackets, and Fragonards resting upon a Pluvinet canapé covered in horsehair. His mother had by then tucked away the portfolio and greeted him with a smile.
He thought her ostentatiously dressed, and that concerned him; it usually presaged a leave-taking or breakdown. “What are you doing?”
“Some research.”
“For the hospital garden?”
“Yes.”
“How’s it going?”
“Well.”
“How’s Bluey?”
“Not so well.”
“How are you?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
“Can I talk?”
“Yes, you can talk!”
“It’s about my father. I found out a few things.”
“Such as?”
“That he was an agent. And that he worked at William Morris.”
“You talked to your grandfather …”
“No. I just — I found out myself.”
“I could have told you that. It wasn’t a big secret.”
“Everything’s a secret,” he reprimanded. “Anyhow, I wouldn’t have asked.”
“Why not?”
He lowered his eyes, wanting respect conferred upon his discretions. “But I do want to ask some things now.”
“Ask away.”
“Who was he an agent for? Actors?”
“Actors, directors, writers. He had them all.”
“How did you meet him?”
“A party. At the home of a man named Ed Limato.” She smiled; it had been years since she’d said that name. “Everyone went to those parties — they were great fun. I wanted to be an actress, or thought I did. For about a week.”
“He was your agent?”
“No.”
“If I mention something, will you not ask me how I found out?” She nodded. “Because I gave certain people my word.” She nodded. “Do you — do you know anything about him — about Marcus — stealing a book?”
“Yes.” Then: “They never brought charges.”
“Because the store was reimbursed by the detective.”
“You’re good. You are very good.”
She lit an American Spirit, inhaling the smoke like a native.
“I thought you stopped.”
“They’re organic.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Whatever.” She paused. “He was seeing a psychiatrist — mine, on Bedford. Same building where Daniel Ellsberg saw his shrink. But you wouldn’t know about Ellsberg.”
“Why did he take the book?”
“He was having some … problems. You know, it wasn’t like sticking up Van Cleef and Arpels. It was a difficult time for your father, that’s all.”
“Was he using drugs?”
“For what,” she said, somewhat defensively.
He wavered. “Just … to take them.”
“No.”
“You use them.”
“I’m not doing that anymore. And your father wasn’t a druggie, OK? He never even smoked pot.”
All the frankness made something between them relax. He saw how beautiful she was and felt his love anew. “Was I adopted?”
“Were you—no. Emphatically not.”
“Did Father finish high school?”
“Of course he finished high school. With honors. Marcus was brilliant. He went to Oxford on a grant.”
“Where’s that?”
“England! Christ, Tull, you should know that.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s appalling, Tull.” She sucked on a Spirit, taking a deep, incredulous draft. “When he came back, he was … a little at sea. A friend of his worked at the agency.”
“At William Morris?”
She nodded, punching out her cigarette. “Your father’s friend helped get him a job in the mail room and within a few years he was a full-fledged agent. He loved the business, but I think what he really wanted was to be a writer. Marcus was a very creative man — hilarious. A great mimic. He was famous for his revue sketches at the Morris retreats.” She stopped to scrutinize her son. “Why did you ask if you were adopted?”