The Paper Dragon (54 page)

"I won't," he answered, and came back into the kitchen. He would take home his father's presents and dump them in the garbage, the inkstand he had made when he was seven, the Chinese bank he had received as a gift when he was ten, and the Harvard notebook from his undergraduate days. He would dump them in the garbage.

"Pop," he said, "why haven't you ever…" and stopped.

"Yes?" his father said.

"… gone back to that doctor on Park Avenue?" Sidney improvised.

"I went."

"You did?"

"Sure. He says it's nothing to worry. It's arthritis, I'll keep taking the cortisone, it isn't God forbid anything worse."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that," Sidney said. "Does the cortisone help?"

"A little."

"Well, that's good."

"Sure."

"Her nickname is Ch-Chickie," Sidney said suddenly.

"What?"

"My f-f-fiancee. Her nickname is Chickie."

"That's a funny name," his father said, and smiled. "Chickie."

"Yeah."

"Your mother, when she was a girl, they used to call her Sarale."

"I know."

"May she rest in peace."

"Mmm," Sidney said. He had finished the second scotch, and he wanted another drink, but he knew his father would frown upon a third. He sat at the kitchen table, jiggling his foot and looking up at the wall clock. It was only six-thirty.

"Do you remember your Aunt Hannah?" Louis asked.

"Yes." He was always asking Sidney if he remembered people he couldn't possibly ever forget. His Aunt Hannah had lived in the apartment next door on Houston Street when he was a boy. He'd spent half his childhood in her kitchen, and now his father asked if he remembered her. How the hell could he possibly ever forget Aunt Hannah?

"Her daughter is going to have a baby," Louis said.

"Another one."

"This is only three."

"I guess it is."

"You should go see your Aunt Hannah every now and then."

"I always mean to."

"Your mother, may she rest in peace, would have liked it."

"Maybe when the trial is finished," Sidney said. "Maybe I'll stop by one day."

"Well, I know you're busy. What did you call it? The trial?"

"Plagiarism."

"That's important?"

"I guess so."

"I'll have to tell my friends."

Yes, you tell them, he thought. Tell them your very important lawyer son is arguing a very important plagiarism case downtown. "There's ten million dollars involved," Sidney said.

Louis whistled softly.

"If we win the case, Carl and I will share four million dollars."

"That's plenty," Louis said.

"Tell your friends," Sidney answered.

He sat in his father's beet-smelling kitchen, and he longed to tell him about Chickie, about the love he felt for her, longed desperately to discuss something
important
with his father for once in his life, not cousin Marvin's idiotic troubles, or Aunt Hannah's third grandchild, but something important to
him
, to Sidney, to your
son
, Pop, to
me
. And he knew in that moment that winning the case would mean nothing to him if he did not also win Chickie. He almost made a bargain with God on the spot. Look, he thought, visualizing himself once again as a sunset-stained rabbi raising his eyes to heaven, Look, God, let me
lose
the case even, I don't
care
, really
I don't care
, just so long as you permit me to win Chickie. The offer startled him, and he revoked it at once because he didn't want God to take him too seriously. And yet, what difference would it make, win or lose, except for the money involved? And was even that important if he could not share the future with Chickie? Would it really matter, win or lose, if…

If there was no one there to…

Without realizing why, he suddenly said, "Why don't you ever…" and hesitated.

"Why don't I ever what?"

"I thought you might like…"

"Yes, what?"

Ask him, Sidney thought. At least give him the opportunity.

"Would you like to come down?"

"What?"

"Downtown."

"What do you mean, downtown?"

"The courthouse. The court. Tomorrow."

"What's tomorrow?"

"Friday. I'll be giving my summation. I thought…"

"I have to be home to light the
shabiss
candles."

"That's not until sundown. I'll get you home by then."

"How would I get there?"

"By cab. Or I can pick you up, if you like."

"Where is this?"

"Foley Square. Downtown."

"In New York?"

"Yes. I could pick you up in the morning, if you like."

"I have my medicine here," his father said.

"Well, you can take—"

"What time does it start?"

"Ten in the morning."

"The super's coming in tomorrow. To fix the radiator there in the bedroom. It leaks all over the floor."

"I just thought you might like to see…"

"Yes?"

"… a… a court case," Sidney said. "Me," he said.

"I saw a court case when Harry Bergner was sued that time."

"I just thought…"

"They're all the same, no?"

"Yes, they're all the same," Sidney said. He paused. "I'd like another drink."

"Don't drink too much, Sidney," his father said.

It began raining at half-past seven, and the pressure call to Arthur came not ten minutes after the storm started. He knew at once that it was going to be a pressure call because when he answered, two voices came back at him with "Hello Arthur," one from Stuart Selig and the other from Oscar Stern on the extension.

"Some storm, huh?" Stuart said.

"Yeah," Arthur said.

"We aren't interrupting anything, are we?" Oscar asked.

"No, I was reading."

"Anything good?" Stuart asked.

"Anything that might make a play?" Oscar asked.

"I don't think so. What's on your mind?"

"We might as well come straight to the point," Stuart said.

"That's right," Oscar asked.

"Kent Mercer was up here just a little while ago. He told us he met you for lunch today."

"Yes, we had a long talk," Arthur said.

"According to Kent, you've got some doubts about making these changes Hester wants."

"I'm still thinking it over."

"Well, when do you think you'll know, Arthur? This is Thursday night."

"I know what it is."

"Tomorrow's Friday, Arthur."

"We promised Mitzi we'd let her know by Friday, Arthur."

"We don't want to pressure you…"

"That's right."

"… but you haven't got all the time in the world to make your decision, you know. Maybe you don't have a clear picture of the situation."

"I think Kent gave me a pretty clear picture."

"Did he tell you he's dropping out if you don't make the changes?"

"He hinted it."

"Well, he did more than
hint
it when he was up here. He's the man for your play, Arthur, you realize that, don't you?"

"Yes, but if we have to lose him…"

"We
don't
have to lose him," Stuart said.

"That's right," Oscar said.

"We don't have to lose
anybody
. If you agree to make the changes, we'll have one of the best directors in the business and one of the brightest young actresses around, and we'll also get our financing — which is the most important thing."

"You know how much money I'll get if I win this case?" Arthur asked.

"Meantime," Oscar said, "you haven't won it."

"I could produce the play myself, six times over. A
hundred
times over."

"I don't bet on horse races or on trials," Stuart said. "Will you make the changes, or won't you?"

"The Dramatists Guild contract…"

"Screw the Dramatists Guild
and
their contract," Stuart said. "Nobody can force you to make the changes, that's true, you're protected. But is the Dramatists Guild going to raise the money for your play?"

"Are
you
?"

"If we sign Hester, yes."

"Guaranteed?"

"Guaranteed. I've been on the phone all day. I've got more than enough promises already."

"That's right."

"Promises aren't cash," Arthur said.

"I can guarantee these promises, Arthur. I'm not exactly new in this business, these are people who've invested with me before. They'll come in if we get Hester."

"She's very hot, Arthur."

"Arthur, we have to know what you plan to do."

"I don't know yet."

"Will you call me later tonight?"

"I may have to sleep on it."

"Do me a favor, don't sleep on it. I want to be able to call Mitzi first thing in the morning and tell her you're eager to get to work on the revisions."

"I'm not."

"
Fake
a little enthusiasm."

"Stuart, I don't like this kind of pressure. I really don't."

"That's right, this is pressure," Oscar said. "We're all under pressure, Arthur, not just you."

"I don't like to make important decisions under pressure."

"Nobody does. But that's the way most important decisions are made."

"We may know about the trial early next week. Can't we—"

"And you may not know for six months."

"It never takes that long."

"It could."

"Anyway, even next week is too late. Arthur, maybe you still don't understand the situation. Hester's going to sign for that Osborne play unless you go along with these changes. Now which is it going to be? Everybody rich and happy, or everybody behaving in a highly unprofessional manner?"

"What's unprofessional about wanting to preserve what I wrote?"

"This is the theater, Arthur. Don't talk like a hick."

"Any play is a collaborative effort, you know that," Oscar said.

"I don't like collaborating with pants pressers."

"What are you talking about?"

"Mitzi Starke is a pants presser. What the hell does she know about playwriting?"

"She doesn't have to know
anything
about playwriting," Stuart said, "as long as she's got clients like Hester Miers."

"If you'd raised the goddamn money, we wouldn't be in this situation," Arthur said angrily.

"We tried our best. And we can still raise it, if you'll compromise a little."

"A little, sure," Arthur said.

"A little, yes. Will you call me later tonight?"

"If I've decided."

"Decide, Arthur," Stuart said.

"Good night, Arthur," Oscar said.

Arthur almost slammed the receiver onto the cradle, but something restrained him. He put it down gently, and then turned from the phone and walked to the rain-streaked window and looked down at the gleaming wet street outside. He went to the closet then, and put on his raincoat and an old rain hat, a battered corduroy he had bought six years ago and perhaps worn as many times since. He looked at the room unseeingly for a moment before turning off the lights, and then went out of the apartment and into the street.

The rain was cold. It fell from the sky in slanting sheets that swept sidewalk and gutter, driven by a sharp wind. He almost changed his mind, and then decided the hell with it and kept walking, the collar of his coat high on the back of his neck, his hat pulled down over his forehead, his hands thrust into his pockets. He did not know where he was going, or why he felt he could think better in the rain than in his apartment, but he continued walking nonetheless, heading west toward Lexington Avenue, and then continuing westward, turning downtown whenever he was stopped by a corner traffic light.

It seemed to him that his decision hinged entirely on the outcome of the trial. If he knew he were positively going to win the case, he could tell them all to go to hell, he would not need anyone's money to produce the play, he could produce the damn thing himself. On the other hand, if he knew for certain that the case was lost, there would be no hope for production unless he were willing to make the changes. Yes, he could take the play around again, but he knew Kent was right on that score, too, a dead duck was a dead duck. He had circulated the play for six months before Selig and Stern optioned it, showing it to most of the theatrical producers in town. It was highly unlikely that anyone would suddenly become interested in it again, not after word went around that they'd had trouble raising the money. Word had a way of getting around in this town, faster than the speed of light. He was willing to bet that Lincoln Center already knew Hester was planning to leave, and exactly why — to star in Arthur Constantine's new play.

If 
he made the changes.

All you have to do, he thought, is make the changes. It'll be easy to make the changes. God knows you made enough changes when you were working for the Hollywood pants pressers. Out there, anyone was entitled to a suggestion, including the studio typists. He would never forget the day Charlie Mandell asked the
barber
what he thought of a scene they were discussing, right there in Charlie's office, Charlie sitting in his big stuffed green leather chair with the barber's cloth around his neck. And the barber very seriously offered his advice on what he thought would be a better approach to the scene, and Charlie took the suggestion and said, "I think we ought to work it out along those lines. After all, Arthur, these are the people who go to
see
the movies. I'll never sell the little man short." If he made the changes now, he would indeed be selling the little man short because his play was
about
the little man, not about a barber of course, nor even
about
the little man Charlie Mandell had in mind perhaps, but certainly about a simple ordinary man who happened to be his father. It was an honest play. It was the first honest thing he'd written in a long long while, and now they were asking him to change it, make changes that might not damage its honesty but, yes, he thought, yes. The changes
will
damage the honesty. It will not be the play I wrote anymore.

He had let Freddie Gerard do that to
Catchpole
, well, wait a minute, it wasn't fair to turn on Freddie, if it hadn't been for Freddie the play would never have been produced at all. And yet he
had
allowed Freddie and the director, a man named Fielder Crowell, to turn the play upside down, to rearrange scenes, to emphasize here and to excise there, "This isn't working, Arthur, can you change it to…?" Of course, you can change it to. You can change it to anything. You can bring six hundred pink elephants on stage at any given point, and if you are a skillful enough writer, you can make those elephants seem plausible and reasonable and in fact necessary to plot and theme and character. Yes, you can change it to. You can change a whore to a nun, and a doctor to an Indian chief, you can put this scene at the beginning and that scene at the end, you can change words and lines and speeches, you can rewrite the entire second act in New Haven, and after you've changed everything to, you can change it
back
to again. You can juggle all these bits and pieces in the air like a circus performer and forget exactly what you intended in the first place. You can allow them to march right through the play with mud on their feet, tracking it up while you scurry along behind them trying to wipe up the footprints. Yes, I can change Carol to a social worker who has had one affair, I can change the father to a small business man or a minor executive, I can change the play, I can make it their play, the way I made
Catchpole
their play and therefore nobody's play. And then, maybe years from now, a James Driscoll will step in and
really
finish the job, just the way he did with
Catchpole
, step in and make it not my play, and not their play, but
his
play, steal it right from under my nose, and it'll serve me right because I didn't have the guts to stand behind what I'd written. You want to change it? Fine. Go write your own play. This is my play, and it's going to stay my play.