The Man Who Would Be F. Scott Fitzgerald (18 page)

Noyes:
What
were
you going to say?

Hoag:
That aside from the death of your parents, this is the major event of your life. It tells me who you are. Tells me about the pain and intensity of
Bang
. Tells me about the anger inside you. About why you can’t write, or have a serious relationship with a woman, or face responsibility. … I was going to say, Cameron, that
this
is our book.

Noyes:
No, you promised me! You said it didn’t have to —

Hoag:
Listen to me, Cameron. I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. It’s your book. I’m only here to advise you. My advice is this — let this book be your confessional. Come clean. You’ll never be able to get on with your life and your work until you do. Confront this thing on paper — openly and honestly. And then face the music. At least this way you’ve got some control of the situation. Your story will be on the record, complete and accurate.

Noyes:
My career will be ruined.

Hoag:
And what career is that? A bunch of endorsements? It’s your
work
that matters, not some wine-cooler commercial. It’s being able to live with yourself.

Noyes:
I don’t know, coach. I just don’t know.

Hoag:
I won’t pressure you. It’s your decision. And your life — you’ll have to pay the consequences. Talk to a good lawyer. Talk to Boyd.

Noyes:
I know what he’ll say — that you’re crazy.

Hoag:
Don’t bet on that. If you do this, you’ll get major attention. Maybe even your second
People
cover.

Noyes:
Third.

Hoag:
My mistake. Sorry.

Noyes:
No problem. Could happen to anyone.

Hoag:
Think about it, Cameron. Will you do that?

Noyes: (silence)
I’ll do that.

(end tape)

I
LEFT FOR CONNECTICUT
that night.

I wasn’t alone. I talked Merilee into coming along. She needed to get away from her acid-splashed apartment for a couple of days, and I needed to keep an eye on her. It also meant I could drive the red Jaguar XK 150 drophead convertible we’d bought when we were together, and which she got to keep. It’s a rare beauty, every inch of it factory original the engine, transmission, black top, sixty-spoke wire wheels, tan leather interior, polished hardwood dash. The damned car only has 31,000 miles on it. Its previous owner had been an elderly East Hampton cereal heiress who’d only driven it to the beauty parlor and the Maidstone. I’d missed how it handled and purred. I’d missed Merilee’s riding next to me with the wind in her golden hair.

We left after her curtain with the top down and Lulu in her lap. Merilee wore a baseball jacket and cap of matching suede, a white linen camp shirt, faded blue jeans, and her Converse Chuck Taylor red high-tops. Lulu had her custom-knitted Fair Isle vest on against the night air, and one of Merilee’s white silk aviator scarves wrapped around her throat.

“What do you think he’ll decide to do?” Merilee asked me when I told her about my breakthrough with Cam.

“Tell all. Take his punishment. Not that it’s entirely fair. He’ll be judged for the rest of his life over something that he did on a drugged-out suicidal binge when he was sixteen years old. That’s tough.”

“Not as tough as it was on the children who were on that bus,” she pointed out.

“I know that.”

“He’s not above the law just because he’s gifted.”

“I know that, too.”

“And if he decides
not
to confess?” she asked. “What will you do — turn him in?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

“He’s made you into something of an accomplice, hasn’t he?”

“I’m afraid I did that to myself.”

“Do you think he pushed that Skitsy Held woman?”

“No, I don’t.” I believed Cam. I wanted to believe him. Still, part of me wasn’t so sure — the part that had asked Vic to check out his sleazy-motel story. The part that was making for Farmington without telling him. What I would find there? What was I even looking for? I had no idea. But I had to go.

The late-night traffic on I-95 was light through the commuter towns Greenwich, Stamford, Fairfield. After New Haven it was nonexistent. I let the Jag out to eighty. It seemed happiest at that speed. Lightning began to crackle in the sky when we were outside Guilford, and a light rain began to fail. I stopped and put the top up. It was pouring by the time we pulled off the highway at Old Lyme, the wind gusting sheets of rain before our headlights as we eased slowly through the snug, slumbering little historic village at the mouth of the Connecticut River. The Bee and Thistle Inn there was saving two rooms for us. Old Lyme isn’t exactly next door to Farmington, but the Bee and Thistle holds a special attachment for us — it’s where we stayed on our first weekend together. Besides, I never claimed we were practical. Just cute.

The inn has been there since 1756. A stand of maple trees shields it from the road, and a broad circular driveway leads to its front door. Inside, a fire blazed in the parlor fireplace. We were greeted like family and shown directly to our rooms. There are eleven of them in all, each furnished in antiques. Ours were across the hall from each other on the third floor. Merilee’s had a canopied bed. I unpacked and put down mackerel and water for Lulu, then escorted Merilee back down to the parlor. The kitchen had been closed for hours, but they dug us up some leftover cold sliced duck and crabmeat ravioli, and heated some scones. We devoured it in front of the fire with a bottle of Sancerre while the rain beat down outside and Lulu dozed on the floor. Our hosts served us Irish coffee before they went to bed. We stayed up awhile, sipping it and gazing into the flames.

“I’m glad I let you talk me into this, darling,” Merilee said, sighing contentedly.

I glanced over at her. Her face was aglow in the firelight, her hair shimmering. “So am I, Merilee.”

“Do you remember what you said to me that first night here?” she asked me softly, her green eyes fixed on the flames.

“Yes. You said, ‘Did you ever dream you’d one day find yourself drinking champagne in a bathtub with a glamorous, award-winning actress?’ And I said, ‘Yes, the very first time I laid eyes on you.’ ”

She smiled. “That’s when I knew I was a goner.”

“That’s not what you told me later on that night, under the canopy,” I pointed out, grinning.

“
Mister
Hoagy, not in front of the child.”

Lulu ignored us. She was out. We sipped our Irish coffees.

“Darling?”

“Yes, Merilee?”

“Do you remember everything we said?”

“I’m afraid so. Elephants and writers never forget.”

“Who was it that said that?”

I yawned. “I forget.”

Upstairs, we lingered in the hall for an awkward, silent moment before Merilee said good-night in a hoarse whisper, darted inside, and closed her door.

I went to bed with Truman Capote, who was my second choice. The storm picked up even more. Lightning lit up the night sky. Thunder rattled the windows. The wind howled. Lulu didn’t like it. She jumped down from the bed and scratched at the door, whimpering. She wanted her mommy. I told her to shut up. She wouldn’t. I told her to come back to bed. She wouldn’t. I got out of bed and put on my dressing gown. The light was still on underneath Merilee’s door. I tiptoed across the hall and tapped on it.

“Yes … ?” she demanded, instantly suspicious.

I turned the knob. She’d locked the door. “Why, Merilee, don’t you trust me?”

“I see I had good reason not to, mister.”

“Lulu wants to sleep with you.”

“Oh, that’s
low
, Hoagy. So, so low. Using a puppy as your Trojan horse. And a sniffly little one at that.”

“I’m perfectly serious — she wants her mommy.”

Lulu thudded against the door and whimpered.

“Oh, Sweetness!” Merilee cried. “Gracious, why didn’t you
say
so, you son of a sea cook.”

“I did.”

I heard her bedsprings creak and her bare feet on the floor. She opened the door. She was wearing her red flannel nightshirt and a pair of round, oversized tortoiseshell glasses. Those were new.

“I’ve missed your quaint little expressions,” I said.

“Hmpht.”

Lulu scampered straight for the bed, where Kazan’s memoir lay open on the pillow, and barked. Merilee shushed her and hoisted her up.

“So what’s with the new look?” I asked, referring to the specs. “Getting in character to play Annie Sullivan?”

She’d forgotten she had them on. Aghast, she whipped them off and hid them behind her back. “They just get a little tired sometimes,” she explained, blushing furiously. “My eyes, I mean. Lately. When I’m reading.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh,
beans
, I hate them!”

“You look cute in them, kind of like a sexy owl.”

She softened. “Do I really?” she asked me girlishly.

“Trust me.”

Lulu curled up, tail thumping happily. Merilee went over and said some baby talk to her. To me she said, “I haven’t had Sweetness with me in ages. I always sleep better when I do.”

“She’s all yours.” I started back to my own room. “Oh, if she starts snoring again in the night, just throw her in the shower for a while.”

Merilee’s eyes widened. “Just throw her in the
what?
”

“Sleep tight, four eyes.”

The rain blew away during the night. It was the sun slanting into my room that woke me. I threw open my window and inhaled. The country air was fresh and clean, and fragrant from the pink and white blossoms on the apple trees. Beyond the thick green lawn, the Lieutenant River sparkled in the morning light.

A plump, giggly teenaged girl brought me fresh-squeezed orange juice, a basket of warm blueberry muffins, and a pot of coffee. I had it in bed while I pored over the transcripts of my tapes with Cam, in particular the material on Farmington the town where he was born and raised, and where he buried his parents. The town he couldn’t get out of fast enough.

I was interrupted by a tapping at my door, followed by a woof. And Merilee calling out, “We want our daddy.”

“This is
low
, Merilee. So, so low.”

“
Mister
Hoagy. Open this door at once.”

“It’s open.”

Lulu scampered in first, snuffling happily, paws and belly soaked. She went right for her mackerel bowl, paying me not the slightest attention. Chomping followed.

Merilee had on a white cotton fisherman’s knit turtleneck, gray flannels, and her oiled English ankle boots. Her cheeks were ruddy, her eyes agleam. “It is
glorious
out,” she exclaimed. “
We
have been out walking.
We
have devoured flapjacks and sausages.
You
, mister, are a slug-a-bed. A sloth. A potato.”

“Am not. I’ve been working.”

“Sweetness didn’t snore one teeny bit last night. And her nose is cold again. I think she’s
aww
better.”

“That’s a relief.” Her face was still in her bowl. Not so much as a good-morning. “Shall I drop you in East Haddam?”

Some friends of Merilee’s were rehearsing a summer production of
Guys and Dolls
at the Goodspeed Opera House.

“Think I’ll stick around here awhile,” she replied. “I feel like going horseback riding. I can get a lift up there later. May I keep Sweetness for the day?”

“Feel free. She doesn’t even know I’m alive.”

“Don’t be churlish, darling. She’s mine too, you know.”

“Hmpht.”

It took me forty-five minutes to get to Farmington, with its streets of carefully preserved center-chimney colonial houses, its graceful old oaks and maples, its sense of gentility and grace — everything that Cam Noyes despised.

I made my way up Main Street past Miss Porter’s and turned onto Mountain Street. High Street, where Cam had lived, ran into Mountain. I tooled along it slowly. Workmen were out battling back against winter. Carpenters were rebuilding rotted front porches. Roofers were reshingling. Tree surgeons were operating. There were a few newer homes set back behind great lawns, but most were old and close to the street. White, with black shutters and little historic plaques, some dating them back to the 1600s. I wondered which had been his. A number of them matched his description of the old Knott house, but none said Knott, at least not that I could make out from the car — several were discreetly hidden behind hedges of hemlock and clumps of lilac.

High ran a half mile or so before it ended at Farmington Avenue. I took this to the outskirts of town where there was a modern complex of antiseptic concrete buildings. The library was directly across from town hall. Its doors whooshed open by themselves.

I was hoping to hook up with the family lawyer, Peter Seymour. I’d had no luck reaching him from New York — information had no listing for him in Farmington or any of the surrounding towns, including Hartford. It had been several years since he’d handled the Noyes estate. Could be he’d retired to Hobe Sound, or died. But if he was still practicing, he was probably still somewhere in Connecticut. Lawyers tend not to leave a state after they’ve passed its bar exam.

I worked my way through every Connecticut phone book they had there, and they had them all. It’s not a very big state. No Peter Seymour, attorney-at-law, anywhere.

The town clerk’s office was over in the town hall basement. Small-town lawyers are in and out of the clerk’s office filing property deeds and estate records. I figured someone there would know what had happened to him.

The town clerk was a tall, erect woman with blue hair and Marilyn Quayle teeth. She’d never heard of any Peter Seymour, but she’d only been on the job six months. She suggested I contact the local bar association. I did, from a pay phone out in the corridor. They advised me there was no such member of the local bar. I asked them to look back in their records a few years. They did. No attorney named Peter Seymour had practiced law in Farmington in the past twenty years.

Frustrated, I went back across to the library. Again, the doors whooshed.

One entire room upstairs, the Farmington Room, was devoted exclusively to local history — from the town’s original settlement back in 1639 right up to the present. There were glassed-in bookcases, framed oil portraits, maps. Quite dignified, all of it. I parked myself in there. I wanted to read up on Cam’s fine old family — on his mother, Jane Abbott Knott, on her father and grandfather, both clergymen, on her great-grandfather, Judge Samuel Knott, a chief justice of the state of Connecticut. Maybe it wasn’t so fine. Maybe there was something Cam hadn’t told me about his Yankee bloodlines. Maybe that was why I’d been sent here.