Dream of werewolf. Werewolf in room, subject trapped behind
Discussion of wife. Intimacy gratifying but threatening. Some fear of wife’s intellect—“Sex is life & death, not theory.” Some recognition of that fear, of its thrill etc.
Adequate understanding re different backgrounds. Avoidance behavior re different values — re wife’s emotional needs.
Avoidance: question about wkend w/wife prompts subject memories of own childhood. Subject again mentions Minnesota Public Radio. Believes MPR root of career, listening w/family, discussing at dinner. Cites state’s progressive politics, Humphrey.
Repeat Q about wkend w/wife.
Integrity, guys — that’s marketing. Integrity, keepin’ it real—you can’t find better marketing. I mean, do I see a blonde Alan Alda for KV?
What was key was, you worked in the double murder. You worked in the guy, the creep KV killed — jeez, what was his name? And you worked in what the creep did. You got the people dying on the screen. That was what was key. I mean, rape & murder, gay rape & murder, it’s right on the hot button. And it’s totally real! Real written all over it. Major marketing.
So, quickly. One problem.
We need kids, guys. We need Viddich and some kids. We’ve got a good guy here, right? And good guys, they’re good with kids.
It’s a formula, you know. Good with kids equals good guy. Nothing your Nielsen idiot understands quicker.
The project need kids.
Maybe the library would never have worked for him anyway. Kit didn’t read casually. Rather he had six or eight books he’d committed to the way other men gave themselves to a ball club or a fishing hole. He had companion books, reread so often that he could recite whole passages, savoring knockout verbs or other surprises. His choices tended to be more recent, however: Saul Bellow’s Herzog, Tom Wolfe’s Electric Kool-Aid. The Cottage had nothing like that. As for Kit’s older favorites, the Hamlet was missing pages and the collection of Greek tragedies printed in double columns. Unreadable in the antique light.
Maybe it wouldn’t have worked, the library. When Kit left, it had nothing to do with Ceci’s boys. They’d given up asking him to play. Nonetheless, Kit drifted out of the room, out of the warmth and chatter. He began to climb the stairs.
The echo of his gin-slowed footsteps somehow seemed more in the spirit of the reading he’d longed for. He recalled a line from Herzog, for instance: I am willing without further exercise in pain to open my heart. He’d love to go back to that one now. Love to revisit a few of Herzog’s “mental letters.” Great stuff — imaginary letters to impossible readers. Letters to Nietzsche and Maimonides and Herzog’s own dead grandfather, invisible to everyone except a well-meaning but half-cracked professor of history.
Repeat Q about wknd w/wife.
Subject visibly anxious. Wknd at v old house, he says. “I mean, w/a widow’s walk.” Prompts more memories: Mother. M has “fine qualities.” Leftist, religious (Presby), open-minded.
Q: Open-minded? Example homosex uncle?
Ans: “Not talking about that.”
Q: How’s M feel about marriage? Example gr-children.
Neck massage. Pacing. Window.
TV, guys, has to get right where people live. Right into the kitchen. We want ‘em so they can’t even see the kitchen, because they’d rather look at our people.
So think about the wife, here. I mean, I like what you did with the wife. Farrah gets serious, that’s killer. She gets serious, and we still have plenty of sex for the trailer. Major marketing.
The library would’ve suited Bette better. When it came to reading, she was an omnivore. If she suffered insomnia or a not too nasty flu, she could go through hundreds of pages at a clip. The one author Kit had known Bette to reread was Tolstoy, and she preferred War and Peace.
Bette. Kit might pretend he was looking for books, at first, but by the time he got above the second floor he knew better.
Up here, the Cottage passageways were darker. Shades had been drawn at the end of summer. And when Bette had finished making love to him, she’d shut down as well. Later, when Kit’s nightmares woke him, she’d refused to be roused. Now when Kit came out on the widow’s walk, he heard the hunters in their blinds. Distant guns. Bette too was off in that distance, firing away.
The weather made the Cottage grounds invisible, and Kit flashed on his father in his Sabre jet, high over foggy Yalu river land. But his father never felt like this, the worm on his back, the world a wet bedlam in his face. His father never felt so wrecked. The thought of suicide, Nietzsche said, is a great consolation (another line Kit had first come across in Herzog). Yet now, the thought struck him just that way: stale and secondhand. Suicide felt like the most cornball idea he’d ever had. Like imitation honor, imitation pain. And in stark contrast, beyond imitation, there emerged the wife he loved, the work he believed in. So they felt at least out in this hard, cleansing winter, as Kit tossed the last of his gin over the railing.
Husband and editor — he was nothing if not both.
Subject again talks Mother. Loves—“I mean, of course.” But never understood M, never gave M credit.
Since prep sch (S left home at 14) he’s surrounded self w/ diff kind of woman—“All these bony ticking types.”
Never saw M’s “integrity.”
But think about the wife. Wife, sex, kids. Nothing the Nielsen idiot understands quicker.
Kids, guys. When the folks in the kitchen see Alan and Farrah on the box, they have to think — that’s real.
Real life. Killer marketing.
*
Someone must have been reading to Hans about the heroes of ancient Rome. The boy insisted that everyone call his character Darth Caesar. Kit was wondering about it when the women returned.
When he’d come back downstairs, back to the library hearth, at first Hans and the Rucky-Rat had wanted him to play the Monster. They played Star Wars all the time, they said. Kit’s stitches, they said, made him a cooler Monster than ever. No, my tough guys, no. Uncle Kit has had enough of the Monster for one weekend. Instead he took up the Wookie and jumped between the bad guy and the princess. He bellowed and made phaser noises: phew, phew.
He’d just noticed the Caesar thing when there came the groan of Ceci’s wagon, the tick-tock of Bette’s Fryes.
Hans was still into James Earl Jones: “Nohh one eh-scaapes Dahhrth Caeess-ar!”