The man, disgusted or exhausted or both, climbed off of him at last, told him to clean himself up and get his things in order, that he’d give him a ride back to the docks. The boy took it because he didn’t have the strength or stubbornness to walk the whole way there.
After that, the outboard motor worked like a dream, but the boy couldn’t start the engine without his mind flickering back to that afternoon in the machine shop, remembering what it had cost him.
17
the incident
“Arden, we arranged this already.”
“I’m sorry, Michael, but I’m just not feeling well. I’ve been sneezing all afternoon, and I look like hell. I think I’m coming down with something.”
It was an hour before we were scheduled to have dinner with Bitzy and my father where I planned on telling him, politely, to butt out. I’d asked Arden to join me for emotional support and to give them another opportunity to get to know each other. I suspected this was Arden’s attempt at avoiding him altogether.
“Is this about my book launch?”
“I told you I’m over that,” he said stiffly.
“Matteo’s party then?”
“You know how I feel about repeating myself.”
I did indeed. Arden didn’t like stirring up old arguments or redressing past mistakes. I didn’t know if it was his aversion to conflict or that he might be wounded all over again in discussing it. I recalled something Matteo had said about him at our initial meeting. Arden might forgive, but he didn’t forget.
“Are you sure you can’t make it?” I asked one last time. If he was sick, then so be it, but if it was something else…
“I don’t want to pass along whatever it is that I have. I’ll come over tomorrow if I’m feeling better, and you can tell me all about it.”
We said our goodbyes, and I finished getting ready. My father, Bitzy, and I were meeting at a fancy French restaurant in Midtown, near where my father lived. I assumed he’d be paying, since he picked a place that was out of Bitzy and my price range. I wore a suit and tie (even though something less formal would be just as fitting) because I wanted my dad to take me seriously.
When we arrived, all of us on time, the maître d' informed us there was a wait despite having a reservation. We ordered drinks from the bar, and Bitzy filled us in on the latest. The TV executives were still very much interested in moving forward with the film option and had identified a screenwriter to adapt the first book to roughly six episodes. I asked for some examples of their previous work, and Bitzy supplied them. During that time, we were shown to our table. Once seated, I reiterated that I’d like some input on the adaptation.
“We can arrange it,” Bitzy assured me.
At the same time, my father boomed, “Cut the cord already, Michael. These books are out of your hands. Authors don’t know what works for film, especially when it comes to their own books.”
It reminded me of when I’d showed him my first draft, and he’d told me no publishing house would acquire a mystery where the main character was gay.
“When I told you that I wanted to be a writer, you tried to talk me out of it. When I sold my first book, you told me it’d never make it as a series. Now that I have a television deal, you’re telling me once again that my talent isn’t enough.”
“Don’t take it personal, Michael,” he said in a way that was meant to convey I was overreacting. “I’ve seen contracts fall apart when the writer is too close to the material. I don’t want to be fielding creative disputes between my son and the TV people. It’s not a good look. And I’ve got better things to do.”
Well, that was a perfect segue if there ever was one. Time to, as my father would say, cut the cord.
“That’s why I asked you to dinner tonight, Dad. I’d like Bitzy to handle negotiations moving forward.” And in case it wasn’t clear, “Without you present.”
Bitzy’s jaw dropped. She’d known what I was planning, but we both thought I’d be a little more tactful than that. Unfortunately, when it came to my father, I had to put my foot down or risk being steamrolled.
The waiter came then, bless his soul, and my father practically barked out his order. I told the waiter I’d take the special, whatever it was, and Bitzy ordered a niçoise salad. When he’d left, my dad had not calmed down in the least.
“You get one bestseller under your belt, and all of a sudden you’re the top banana? What makes you think you’re the expert? I’ve been in this business for thirty years.”
“I’m not an expert, Dad, but I’m at a point in my career where I want more control. Six years ago, I needed your guidance and wisdom, but I’m more established now. I know how these things work.”
“You wouldn’t have gotten a foot in the door without me.”
He never failed to bring that up, his ace in the hole. I’d be forever indebted to his connections.
“That’s probably true, but I deserve some of the credit for my success, as does Bitzy.” I nodded to her and she gave an encouraging smile.
