had been my mother's publishers too-twenty-five years ago. But all those editors were now gone.
"I've never heard you talk about that," Alex went on, ignoring my question. "Not ever. But you wrote both those last two books 'cause she was too sick and in too much pain to do it. And the critics said they were her best works. And you've never told anyone."
"They were her outlines, her characters," I said.
"Like hell," he said.
"I read her the chapters every day. She supervised everything."
"Oh yeah, sure, and she was worried about leaving you all those medical bills."
"It took her mind off the pain," I said. "It was what she wanted."
"Did you want it? To write two books under her name?"
"You're making a big issue of something that really doesn't matter now, Alex. She's been dead for twenty-five years. And besides, I loved her. I did it for her."
"And those books are still in every library in this country," he said. "And Crimson Mardi Gras plays on late-night television somewhere out there probably once each week."
"Oh, come on, Alex. What's that got to do with-"
"No, it's right to the point, Jeremy, and you know it. You'll never tell for her sake. That biography of her-what was it?-I read that thing years ago, and not a word in there about it."
"Popular junk."
"Sure. And I'll tell you the real tragedy in it, Jeremy. It's about the best story that anybody ever tells about your mother. It may be the only story about her entire life worth telling."
"Well, that's my point now, isn't it?" I said. I turned and glared at him. "That's what I'm trying to say, Alex. The truth is where it's at, goddamn it!"
"You're a scream, you know it? Watch the road."
"Yeah, but that's my goddamn point," I said again. I yelled it: "The truth's commercial."
We were pulling into the driveway of the Stanford Court and I was relieved that this was almost over. I felt scared and depressed. I wanted to be home now. Or go looking for Belinda. Or get dangerously drunk with Alex in the bar.
I stopped the car. Alex just sat there. Then he pushed in the dash lighter and took out a cigarette.
"I love you, you know," he said.
"The hell. Besides, who cares about that story? Tell it."
But I felt a little stab inside when I said that. Mother's secret. Mother's goddamned secret.
"Those kids keep you young, innocent."
"Oh, what crap," I said. I laughed, but it was awful. I thought of Belinda, of reaching under Charlotte's nightgown and feeling this hot, succulent little thigh that was Belinda's. Picture of Belinda naked. Was that the truth? Was that commercial? I felt like a fool. I felt exhausted.
Go home, wait for her to call or come, then take her clothes off. Lay her down on the crumpled flannel nightgown in the four-poster bed and pull of her tight pan ties and push into her gently, gently ... like a brand-new little glove-
"It was your mother, you know, who told me about your writing the books," Alex said, his voice rising easily to its dinnertime volume. Lights, action, camera. I could feel him relaxing in the seat. "And she never told me I had to keep it secret either."
"She knew a gentleman when she saw one," I said under my breath as I looked at him.
He smiled as he let out the smoke. He looked immensely attractive even now in his late sixties. His white hair was still full, sculpted in a flawless Cary Grant style. And he carried what little extra weight he'd gained over the years with authority, as if other people were just a little too light. Perfect teeth, perfect tan.
"It was right after the premiere of Crimson Mardi Gras," he said, eyes narrowing, his hand on my shoulder. "You remember we had wanted to fly her out to California and she couldn't come, it was impossible the way she was then, but you came, and then later I flew down to New Orleans to call on her."
"Never forget."
"Jeremy, you don't know how Gothic it all was, that trip south."
"You have my sympathy."
"My car pulls up to this gigantic old rose-colored house on
"I've never heard you talk about that," Alex went on, ignoring my question. "Not ever. But you wrote both those last two books 'cause she was too sick and in too much pain to do it. And the critics said they were her best works. And you've never told anyone."
"They were her outlines, her characters," I said.
"Like hell," he said.
"I read her the chapters every day. She supervised everything."
"Oh yeah, sure, and she was worried about leaving you all those medical bills."
"It took her mind off the pain," I said. "It was what she wanted."
"Did you want it? To write two books under her name?"
"You're making a big issue of something that really doesn't matter now, Alex. She's been dead for twenty-five years. And besides, I loved her. I did it for her."
"And those books are still in every library in this country," he said. "And Crimson Mardi Gras plays on late-night television somewhere out there probably once each week."
"Oh, come on, Alex. What's that got to do with-"
"No, it's right to the point, Jeremy, and you know it. You'll never tell for her sake. That biography of her-what was it?-I read that thing years ago, and not a word in there about it."
"Popular junk."
"Sure. And I'll tell you the real tragedy in it, Jeremy. It's about the best story that anybody ever tells about your mother. It may be the only story about her entire life worth telling."
"Well, that's my point now, isn't it?" I said. I turned and glared at him. "That's what I'm trying to say, Alex. The truth is where it's at, goddamn it!"
"You're a scream, you know it? Watch the road."
"Yeah, but that's my goddamn point," I said again. I yelled it: "The truth's commercial."
We were pulling into the driveway of the Stanford Court and I was relieved that this was almost over. I felt scared and depressed. I wanted to be home now. Or go looking for Belinda. Or get dangerously drunk with Alex in the bar.
I stopped the car. Alex just sat there. Then he pushed in the dash lighter and took out a cigarette.
"I love you, you know," he said.
"The hell. Besides, who cares about that story? Tell it."
But I felt a little stab inside when I said that. Mother's secret. Mother's goddamned secret.
"Those kids keep you young, innocent."
"Oh, what crap," I said. I laughed, but it was awful. I thought of Belinda, of reaching under Charlotte's nightgown and feeling this hot, succulent little thigh that was Belinda's. Picture of Belinda naked. Was that the truth? Was that commercial? I felt like a fool. I felt exhausted.
Go home, wait for her to call or come, then take her clothes off. Lay her down on the crumpled flannel nightgown in the four-poster bed and pull of her tight pan ties and push into her gently, gently ... like a brand-new little glove-
"It was your mother, you know, who told me about your writing the books," Alex said, his voice rising easily to its dinnertime volume. Lights, action, camera. I could feel him relaxing in the seat. "And she never told me I had to keep it secret either."
"She knew a gentleman when she saw one," I said under my breath as I looked at him.
He smiled as he let out the smoke. He looked immensely attractive even now in his late sixties. His white hair was still full, sculpted in a flawless Cary Grant style. And he carried what little extra weight he'd gained over the years with authority, as if other people were just a little too light. Perfect teeth, perfect tan.
"It was right after the premiere of Crimson Mardi Gras," he said, eyes narrowing, his hand on my shoulder. "You remember we had wanted to fly her out to California and she couldn't come, it was impossible the way she was then, but you came, and then later I flew down to New Orleans to call on her."
"Never forget."
"Jeremy, you don't know how Gothic it all was, that trip south."
"You have my sympathy."
"My car pulls up to this gigantic old rose-colored house on
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