to stagger, to give her the advice she has been listening to and following for years, to love her in a way that has tamped down her anxieties and frantic distempers, whereas he, Morris, was never up to the task of loving her in the way she needed to be loved, could never give her advice about her career, could never prop her up or understand what was whirling about in that beautiful head of hers. She is so much better than she was thirty years ago, and he gives Korngold all the credit, he admires him for having rescued her after two bad marriages, for throwing out the vodka bottles and the pill bottles she began collecting after the second divorce, for sticking by her through what must have been some harrowing moments, and beyond what Korngold has done for Mary-Lee, Morris admires him pure and simple, in and of himself, not just because he was good to his son during the years when the boy was still visible, not just because he has anguished over Miles’s disappearance as a true member of the family, but because he discovered many years ago that Simon Korngold is a thoroughly likable person, and what Morris likes most about him is the fact that he never complains. Everyone is suffering because of the crash, the slump, whatever word people are using to talk about the new depression, book publishers not excepted, of course, but Simon is in much worse shape than he is, the independent film business has been destroyed, production companies and distributors are folding up like collapsible chairs every day of the week, and it has been two years now since he last put a movie together, which means that he unofficially retired this fall, accepting a job to teach film courses at UCLA instead of making films, but he isn’t bitter about it, or at least he shows no bitterness, and the only thing he says to account for what has happened to him is to mention that he is fifty-eight years old and that independent film producing is a young person’s job. The grinding search for money can crush the spirit out of you unless you’re made of steel, he says, and the tall and short of it is that he isn’t made of steel anymore.
But that comes later. The talk about Winnie and Hail, holy light and men of steel does not begin until after they have talked about why Mary-Lee called Morris three hours ago and asked him to dinner on such short notice. There is news. That is the first article on the agenda, and moments after they enter the restaurant and take their seats at the table, Mary-Lee tells him about the message she found on her answering machine at four o’clock this afternoon.
It was Miles, she says. I recognized his voice.
His voice, Morris says. You mean he didn’t give his name?
No. Only the message—a short, confusing message. As follows, in its entirety. Um. Long pause. Sorry. Long pause. I’ll call back.
Are you sure it was Miles?
Positive.
Korngold says: I’m still trying to figure out what sorry means. Sorry for calling? Sorry because he was too flustered to leave a proper message? Sorry for everything he’s done?
Impossible to say, Morris replies, but I would tend to go with flustered.
Something’s going to happen, Mary-Lee says. Very soon. Any day now.
I talked to Bing this morning, Morris says, just to check in and see if everything is all right. He told me Miles has a girlfriend, a young Cuban girl from Florida, and that she’s been in New York for the past week or so visiting him. I think she went back today. According to Bing, Miles was planning to get in touch with us as soon as she left. That would explain the message.
But why call me and not you? Mary-Lee asks.
Because Miles thinks I’m still in England and won’t be reachable until Monday.
And how does he know that? Korngold says.
Apparently, he called my office two or three weeks ago and was told I’d be back at work on the fifth. That’s what Bing reported, in any case, and I don’t see why the boy would lie to him.
We owe Bing Nathan a lot, Korngold says.
We owe him everything, Morris says. Try to imagine these past seven years without him.
We should do something for him, Mary-Lee says. Write him a check, send him on a world cruise, something.
I’ve tried, Morris says, but he won’t take any