“Oh. And what does it have to do with?”
“Your inappropriate behavior.”
“Oh. Right. To summarize. I see.”
“Let’s not belabor this.”
“I know you’re pissed off because she’s famous and you’re not.”
“I won’t even dignify that asininity with a comment.”
“You never will be, Mitch. I know that must hurt.”
“Goodbye, Simon.”
“Just one more thing. I was just wondering.”
“This conversation is over. Just stay away.”
“I only want to know one thing, it’s important.”
“What is it?”
“I was just wondering what your clients say when you show them your weasely non-famous little dick.”
When Simon got to Bel Air, Serena wanted to take a drive. The new day nurse was refreshingly indifferent to the announced itinerary. They brought the sheepskin from the couch and laid it on the cracked leather of the old Jag.
“This is a bit unusual for me,” he said as they got under way.
“Being abducted by a sick old woman?”
“But I have to say I like the anarchy quotient.”
“You’re a funny young man.” Serena coughed, readjusting herself beneath the strap of the seat belt. “I’m going to take this damn thing off,” she said, trying to undo it. Simon reached over and freed her. “Thank you. Silly for me to wear it. For you, no. But for me…”
When they got down the hill, she said she wanted to go see raccoons at the zoo.
“I’m not sure they’re part of the repertoire.”
“Well, of course they have raccoons, it’s a zoo.”
“Could be, could be. Maybe so.”
“You are funny.”
“Rocky Raccoon,” he sang, “went into his room…”
A tear spilled to her cheek and she wiped it away with the quavering back of a hand. “I’m so worried, Simon.” It was the first time she had called him by name, and he felt a deep tug within. “I can smell the mother — I know she’s unwell. What will happen to the babies, with the mother gone?”
They stopped at the park across from the pink hotel, to sit awhile. Serena didn’t look well, and Simon was afraid she would die on him. She thought about Sy Krohn with a drowsy, bluesy yearning; every once in a while his voice keened on the radio of a passing car. She got loopy and asked Simon if “the old Jurgenson’s still sold fumigants”—frankincense and myrrh—“anything to blot the smell.” Serena wanted to know if he’d ever been in love and Simon said he didn’t know. Of course that meant he hadn’t, she said. Simon felt an unbearable melancholy, like a weed killing his meager gardens. He remembered a boy in grammar school he thought he loved, and a girl too. The boy smelled like Zest soap and the girl, Jungle Gardenia — now, they were barely memories. Serena asked about his family and Simon said his father died long ago, a mythic figure distant as a king on the cover of a vintage comic. He thought of telling her more, but Serena was in pain and asked that he drive her home.
If they had stayed a while longer, Simon might have spoken of his father as a murdered man, a cantor. “His name was Sy Krohn,” he might have said. It can only be wondered whether Serena, already hemorrhaging, would have felt the impact of this rogue revelation and held it long enough to bony breast to declare the fallen idol as the very one she’d loved to near madness; how she had been with him when he died and for years after wished to die herself. For better or worse, those details would remain under shifting sands, consigned to the Rub al Khali of memory for all time.
After a few sleepless nights, she called an old therapist friend. They met at a coffee shop, Calliope in her big dark glasses. Of course, she didn’t name names. Her colleague said, “You must report this.” You are not an attorney, he said. Hence, certain things your client tells you are not privileged under California law. But if the child is indigent? Calliope heard herself asking, knowing it came out wrong. She meant it in a habeas corpus, not a class sense — the child would have to be submitted, no? But you told me they’re with this person’s friend, said the colleague. So they are not indigent. Aside from the actions of your client, which are criminal, this little girl is being put in harm’s way by her mother — your client said the mother is feeding her pills. Not only is she negligent but her judgment is impaired. You’d better do some serious thinking, said the colleague. Because you have a serious problem on your hands.
Calliope went to bed, where she remained for three days. How could this have happened? If the esteemed psychiatrist acted according to law and contacted authorities, her assiduously cultivated practice might easily topple; the legal nuances of confidentiality were not an issue her paranoid, illustrious clientele cared to grapple with. Anyhow, it was Oberon’s word against hers. The claims might be thrown from court, and Calliope left with libelous egg on her face — Obie could even countersue. The psychiatrist would become tabloid-fodder.
She lay there sweating and channel-surfing. One moment, she was reaching for the phone to make the Call; the next, freeloading on Big Star’s twisted reasoning, wondering if, in fact, there really was a crime…if the girl truly had no knowledge of what transpired — she groaned, seized by a wave of self-revulsion. What is wrong with me? Yet what was the alternative? She’d talk to Oberon and share her dilemma, that might help her decide. Describe the hard-and-fast legal obligations of a California therapist — frighten Obie to death. I want you to think carefully about what I’ve told you, Oberon. And I want you to tell me…whether what you said happened with that child was the fantasy of an actress preparing a role — or was it real? Pause, while the actress took in the full import; answers it was “fantasy.” Good. That’s what I thought. I’d like to know: did the drugs have anything to do with this active fantasizing? Pause. Says yes, “Yes, they did.” Drugs. Good. Very good. It’s good to be honest. Now, I want you to enter a drug treatment program — today. Do you understand, Oberon? Somber nodding of the head, along with expiatory tears. Calliope would make it clear that when she got out of detox, they’d get to the bottom of this perverse, imagined act — the tough-love therapist wasn’t about to let her off the hook. They would face Big Star demons together. She would help Obie because that’s what Calliope did, that’s how she’d built her practice — helping and healing, not destroying clients’ lives. Or wreaking havoc on her own. If the Obie thing broke, the famed cottage (therapeutic oratory, refuge and sacrarium, Brentwood’s own confessional Taliesin of above-the-line tears, fears and renewal) would be the sudden locus of Hard Copy helicopters, Vanity Fair layouts and O.J.ish lookie-loos. No one should be subjected to that.
Calliope reached for the phone, wondering why she’d ever faltered. She left a message for Obie that it was imperative she didn’t miss her next appointment.
The carnival-themed Children with AIDS benefit was on the Twentieth Century — Fox backlot. Everyone wore baseball caps that said HERO — even the agents. Dustin and Goldie and Meryl manned the booths. Tom Hanks got dunked by Bob Zemeckis, Roseanne worked a Hula Hoop and Oliver Stone demonstrated a ring toss. There were lots of children and rich wives, paparazzi and studio heads and an army of people with the lean, mean walking-stick look of waning T cells. As Mitch and Calliope snaked through the crowd, the therapist rehearsed her attitude should she bump into Hassan. They’d only had one session since the Sony incident; he had been understanding, but she couldn’t control who the television star would tell. Somewhere down the line, more scandal awaited.