Nick turns down the offer of a mimosa from a flight attendant who sees he’s awake. He looks back out the window. In his seat pocket is a copy of the third book in Lear’s Inseparables trilogy, Remission. He set it aside in the penultimate chapter, the one where Greta dies after absorbing all the fallout of the optic wave. She lies in her berth in the abandoned schooner that’s served as a home for the three heroes and their dog since the first in a series of global and familial calamities, back in the initial book. Stinky and Boris are with her to the end, Moocho curled beside her.
Did Nick actually endure the cruel sorrows of this story when he was a teenager? This time around, he finds himself too sad to read further. Maybe he won’t. Who in the world—with a heart—would kill off the girl? Is he some antediluvian sexist to think this a moral crime? Wouldn’t you reasonably expect the girl to head off into the sunset with one of the boys who love her, requiring the sacrifice of the other, luckless lad? But Lear pulls the rug from under that reader. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe, in the end, the one who makes the ultimate sacrifice is the most powerful one. Is there a perversely feminist message here?
The attendant is back. “Tomato juice? Coconut water?” She knows who he is—he can tell from the daft glint in her eyes—but her job forbids her from fawning.
“I am perfectly satisfied, thank you,” he says, perhaps too curtly.
He should be relieved, not despondent. The last conversation with Merry, on his mobile in his hotel room last night, was a godsend. He’d had to drink two glasses of Malbec to dig up the courage to ring her.
“Beautiful man,” she said, “you have nothing to worry about. From me, that is.”
“It’s not as if I think you’ll be ringing the tabloids—”
“Don’t insult me!” she said, but she sounded playful. “I’m talking about emotions, not publicity. I seduced you, pure and simple.”
That wasn’t accurate, and both of them knew it, but why should he object?
“I’m rather proud of myself,” she added. “You’re a feather in my cap. An ostrich plume. Hot pink with a dusting of glitter.”
“Merry, you gave me a most unconventional night, which I needed rather badly.” He felt desperate to be chivalrous (as if!) without lying or leading her astray.
“Everything is just fine between us,” she said. “Though I still do hope we can strike a deal about the movie. If I blew that chance, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“You have my word. Or no, just yes, absolutely. I promise.”
“So I’ll see you again, Mr. Greene, and I vow discretion.”
“I am grateful.”
“Well, I shouldn’t say this, but me, too. I’ll say goodbye first, since that’s the way to do things here, isn’t it?”
“Merry.”
“No, let me have the last word. A perfectly cheerful goodbye.”
And, however awkwardly, that was that.
What, of Lear, has he carried away with him as he makes his way west to begin the work in earnest? The feeling of sitting in that cupboard, contemplating the shoes, the hems of the jackets, the orphaned shirts, is the one that seems most vivid to him now. So oddly codgerish, the clothing ranked above him; what did any of it have to do with the character he would play? Is the stodgier version of Lear, the one he glimpsed inside that house, a kind of shell the man grew as he aged through various indignities and sorrows—or is it the core of the man that was revealed, unsheathed, by all those same ordeals?
Nick doesn’t know the man he will play any better now than he did two weeks ago. Yet perhaps that leaves the way clearer; maybe the task at hand is one of invention more than translation. There is no escaping the fundamental loneliness of it, either.
—
Merry sobbed, but not entirely out of unhappiness, not even mostly, when she hung up her phone last night. Maybe she deserved the Oscar.
The sensation in her chest was both a seizing tightness and a blooming warmth, the feeling of having done something courageous, even if it wasn’t wise.
Linus, who seemed to be acclimating to her tsunamic emotions of late, merely glanced at her from his favorite spot on the couch. He pretended to be watching Julianne Moore lose her grip on reality. Why had Merry opted for such a distressing movie, a movie about a woman on an irreversibly downward spiral? She turned it off. Linus gave her a brief look of annoyance. He jumped down from the couch and settled on the floor at the opposite side of the room.
Was it her imagination, or had Linus grown a bit haughty? (She almost felt as if she’d been unfaithful to her dog. Now that was a desperate state in which to be.)
But tonight he is once again her devoted companion, curled up at Merry’s feet as she drafts a fantasy proposal for a special fund-raiser combining an early screening of the Mort Lear movie with the unveiling of those fabulous rogue drawings from the bank box. Tommy says she certainly has control over when and where they will have their debut viewing; where they will end up, she’s not so sure. It never hurts to prepare yourself for the best as well as the worst. But Merry is determined to mount an end run on Sol’s sudden alliance with Stu. She mustn’t alienate them, she must charm them. And wait until Enrico learns about the drawings. He is certainly the best man to doctor their minor afflictions; he’ll want them as badly as she does.
Meredith Galarza fucked Nicholas Greene. This improbable yet accurate statement has been running riot through her head the past four days, like one of those LED headlines urgently chasing its tail in the middle of Times Square.
It held no promise of a future—how beyond obvious was that!—but it was fun. No, it was rapturous, at least in memory…which is the place where it has come to permanent rest. There was a fumbling tenderness to it, a lot of muffled laughter amid the fireworks. Since she’s the girl, to say it spun no longings or attachment wouldn’t be true, not for her. All kneecaps, elbows, and a rack of ribs, Nick wasn’t the most comfortable lover—but he was passionate, and Christ almighty, was he ever diligent.
Merry feels both less and more lonely than she did before—and, of course, she longs to tell somebody other than Linus, who isn’t impressed enough. Or maybe Linus adores her so much that he sees her as perfectly worthy of Sexiest Man Alive Number 7, according to the most recent list in People. (Maybe she can work her way up that list? Just think: she won’t have to stoop to, as 7 might put it, boffing 8 or 9.)
She needs to de-obsess. And she needs to keep up the conversation with Tommy Daulair, who suddenly returns her every e-mail. By some stroke of fortune or accidental charm, not only did Merry get Nick Greene into the sack, but she got the loyal guardian of the duplicitous Mort Lear’s estate to use the word compromise. “It will only happen after a lot of legal shoptalk, a lot of ifs,” Tommy said as they parted on Sunday, “but I would like to see Ivo in New York, which is where he came from in the first place. As Dani told you.”
Merry is forbidden, for the moment, to say anything to Sol or the other directors, but right now they are so head over heels with their flashy architect in his plush velveteen trousers and his exotically shaped eyewear that the contents of the museum itself are of less concern, even with Stu threatening a takeover. To be fair, Jonas Hecht was Merry’s top choice. Her only objection to the man is that he doesn’t seem capable of eye contact with women over the age of thirty. (Maybe glasses as expensive as the ones he wears render them invisible.)
“Linus,” she says, “if only he knew how hot I secretly am.”
Linus utters a noncommittal bark.
Merry’s heart lunges at the sound of the phone. But of course the call is not from Number 7.
It’s the real estate broker in Brooklyn. That she’s calling after hours is probably good news, but it means Merry must shift gears from fantasy back to reality, from reaching for the stars (hey, sometimes they reach back) to settling for less. Surely she can find an affordable place to live where she can learn to feel she belongs.
As the broker lists the allegedly rare, definitely
underpriced virtues of a condo she must drop everything to see pronto, Merry walks through her soon-to-be-former home until she is sitting on the end of her bed. Linus jumps up beside her.
When she disconnects from the call, she looks at the picture on the shelf and says, “Well, boy, new chapter.” It’s time to take her borrowed Ivo back to the museum, whether that’s where he belongs or not.
—
Tommy’s list grew incrementally shorter today. With a child’s sense of satisfaction at earning praise for chores completed, she checks off these items:
Appraisals (Franklin)
Finalize memorial service (Angelica)
Talk to Tucson (Juanita)
Call Scott
After Sunday’s memorial at the Met, where she will deliver a succinct introduction to eulogies by eight of Morty’s closest friends and colleagues (none of them truly “close,” but Tommy would be the last to dispute their delusions), she will stay overnight at a hotel and meet her old flame for breakfast near Washington Square. Scott will be in the city, visiting the daughter.
But she cannot think about Scott just yet.
She sits at the kitchen table, which seems to have become her command post. She realized today that, except for satellite trips to the studio, usually with Franklin, she lives between kitchen and bedroom, as if she’s regressed to the days of her tiny apartment on Avenue A. Good practice for the future. The near future, she hopes.
Loose papers and folders fan out haphazardly from where she sits, but her focus is on the laptop Nicholas Greene unearthed in Morty’s bedroom, open to the bewildering contents of the folder titled Leonard—and on the three letters Franklin pulled from the Greek vase.
What would she have made of these letters had Nick never shown her Morty’s side of the correspondence? Would she simply have thrown them away?
The first of the letters from Tucson is dated September 23, 1999. It’s written on a piece of workaday lined paper, which seems to keep the writer’s unruly penmanship from yielding to the sloping habit shown in the address on the envelope:
Dear Mr. Lear,
I will go right to my point and then introduce myself although I think you will remember me. Are you the grownup Mordecai Levy who lived at Eagle Rest about 50 yrs ago? My father died resently, but about 5 yrs ago he figured out the famous author “Mort Lear” was you. He was exited and told me and my sister. He said he always knew you were a “tallented” kid. He kept “drawings” of yours that you did when you were little. That’s when he was the gardener at Eagle Rest tho he left that job a long time ago. I would call them “nature drawings”—flowers and birds. Some are signed “Mord. Levy” and I guess this is how he knows you changed your name. Of course I remember you my own self, how we used to play our “games” the times you came home with dad. Do you remember the fort we made? Do you remember that one game we made up, I don’t think you would forget it.
Anyway, our dad died resently as I said. He left us nothing really except his detts. It’s sad to say but he wasn’t a good father to us and caused us a lot of misery when we were little and then more resently when we had to take care of him because he lost his apartment. He was good at losing stuff, but he did not lose the “drawings” done by you. He said he always knew you would be famous. So he told me to sell them after he died because they might be worth a lot of money. I don’t know how we are supposed to do that and wondered if you could tell me.
For a famous person, you are easy to find on the web, you know.
I hope you will answer. I remember you pretty well and think you will remember me too. Maybe not my sister, who was a baby in those days. I’ll bet you come to Arizona sometimes and I would like to see you if you do. Do you?
Yours truly,
Reg
The second letter isn’t dated, but the postmark is June of 2000, eight months after the bank transfer Morty made to pay for the drawings.
Mr. Lear:
I guess you figure it was all about money. The money helps, it’s not nothing. But you go silent? I asked if you come out this way, you don’t even answer. It’s all about the pictures I tell you I have and now you have. Which now I wonder if you paid their “true” value (figuring you of all people would know!) My father was messed up but he wasn’t a bad man. He said you and your mom “disapeared” and it was a shock to people at the hotel. He thought you were our friend. People wondered if your mother was “running away” from something like a crime, dad didn’t believe that.
I figure you won’t answer this now that you got the pictures. You’re famous now and don’t have to pay attention to losers like me. I get it. But I remember “stuff” you might not. Just so you know.
Yours truly,
Reg
Again, the handwriting is arduously legible, as if each letter was traced, but with the writer’s ill-accustomed hand. The third and last letter, undated and less legible, is written on a piece of blank, unlined paper.
You cannot just be rid of poeple, “Mr. Lear.” People have feelings. They get hurt and then mad. Dad had some photos, you know, I found them after he died. I would never share them, but I’ve got them. Just so you know. I think they include somebody you know. I was nieve to think we could be friends. Well, OK, you’re a “busy” guy. Famous people are always busy, aren’t they. I’m curious. What comes first, Mr. Too Important, being busy or being famous? “Chicken and the egg” right? If you’re so busy, maybe I could visit you there. My sister says we should leave you alone. She thinks you gave us plenty of money for your pictures. But she’s nieve too is my guess.
Yours “Truly”
Reg
Reading back and forth between the computer and the paper letters, Tommy feels more sad than appalled. The jocularity in the note from Morty to Bruce, Franklin’s predecessor, feels offensive when juxtaposed against the cold, impersonal tone Morty used with the creepy but probably harmless Reg.
“Morty, you owe me,” she says as she drags the entire folder labeled Leonard (not, she notices, Reginald) to the computer’s virtual trash can. She does the same with the folder containing Morty’s correspondence with Nicholas Greene. Let the actor do what he likes with his own computer files, but for at least a few more days and weeks, Tommy will be completely if not unquestioningly loyal to her boss. That’s how she thinks of him now, the way she thought of him at the very beginning: as her boss.
She is stiff from too much sitting, too much hunching over computer screens and balance sheets and price lists. She closes the laptop.
It’s dark, even moonless, but she needs the air. Tommy takes the flashlight from beside the door.
She was twenty-nine when Morty bought the house. She remembers how impatient he was, as soon as he closed on the purchase, to drive her out from the city and show her.
“I’m going to walk you around the outside of the property first, just the way the broker did,” he said. “The house is going to be great when I’m done with it, but this is about the landscape. I think I’ve always wanted a house in the woods. I just didn’t know it. And wait till you see the funny little club house I’m turning into my studio. But the trees are the kind that take years, centuries, to grow. Money can’t buy you a maple tree that was planted before the Civil War.”
She follows the same journey now, the flashlight alerting her to the roots that meander searchingly away from the hornbeams, sycamores, oaks, and birches. The south side of the property is a long, sumptuous hedge of old white lilac bushes. Tommy and Morty took a pruning class together at the garden center, the spring after she moved in. Morty was confident that they could maintain these and the hundreds of other shrubs and small trees on their own; for the most part, they did. At the end of the lilacs, where the property line turns back toward the house, stands Tommy’s favorite tree, the Stewartia. It’s an understory tree, lorded over yet also mothered by a magnificent copper beech on the adjoining property. The flashlight confirms that its tiny camellialike blossoms will open soon; she’ll see them one more t
ime.
Not long after Tommy moved in, a new neighbor to that side contemplated taking down the beech. If Tommy hadn’t seen the tree surgeon’s truck pull in next door, they might not have known until it was too late. When she told Morty the news—“He was there to give them his bid; if they take it, the job happens tomorrow”—he dropped his work. That evening he delivered (to the neighbors they had yet to meet) a broadside titled “Humble Petition for Clemency From the Celestial Society of Arboreal Samaritans and Busybody Citizen Tree Huggers.” It was covered with inked sketches of various trees and the “signatures” of individuals with names like Elmira Dutch, Leif E. Japonicus, Sumac Limbly, and Gnarleigh Spurgess Knott IV. They invented the names together, at the kitchen table, breathless with laughter. Morty tied it into a scroll with a green ribbon and delivered it with a bottle of champagne nested in a basket of fir fronds.
Here the tree still stands. Were it human, cognizant of how Morty saved its life, it would probably beg to deliver a eulogy at Sunday’s gathering—and Tommy would have to say yes, since Morty trusted trees far more than he did people. “You know what a tree can and cannot give you,” he said in one interview. “It’s very straightforward that way. And I am not talking about that cruel Silverstein book, one of the only children’s books I’ve ever thought ought to be banned.”