“So what are we going to do for the big day?” Caroline had asked the night before. “Sky’s the limit.”
They were sitting in the den, the four of them, in the house in Santa Monica that Fix and Marjorie had moved to when they finally left Downey after retirement. It was something of a miracle, that house, in no way splendid except that it was two blocks from the beach. It was forty years ago that Fix had known a cop who played poker with a bankruptcy judge. He had a tip the place was coming up at auction. That was when Fix finally told Marjorie he’d marry her. They would use her recent inheritance from her aunt in Ohio as the down payment. They would buy it, rent it out for twenty years or so, and by the time they were ready to retire they’d practically own it.
“That’s your proposal?” Marjorie had said, but she took the offer.
“But what was Dad’s part in all of it?” Franny had asked her years later when she finally heard the full story. Fix and Marjorie had driven the girls by the Santa Monica house every time they came to visit. They would point it out from the car, saying they owned it, saying one day they were going to live there. “If you were the one with the money then why did you have to marry him? You could have just bought the place yourself and rented it.”
“Your father wanted a house at the beach, and I wanted to marry your father.” Marjorie laughed when she heard how that sounded. She tried again. “He wanted to marry me. He was just slower to figure it out. I like to think that in the end everybody won.”
Marjorie had just finished pushing the nutritional supplement into Fix’s PEG tube. She was a young seventy-five to his old eighty-three, but it seemed that Marjorie had stopped eating about the same time her husband did. Her shoulder blades pushed out like a wire rack beneath her sweater.
“Let’s go to the show,” Fix said. “We’ll see a matinee of Franny’s movie.”
“Fix,” Marjorie said, her voice tired. “We talked about this.”
“My movie?” Franny asked, but of course she knew what he was talking about. He’d called it her book.
“The one your boyfriend wrote about us. I figure I’ve got one chance to see a movie about my life.” Fix appeared wonderfully satisfied by the thought. “I never read the book, you know. I wasn’t going to give the son of a bitch my money. But now that he’s dead and the money will go to his wife, it’s fine by me. Plus I read the review in the paper that said the woman who plays your mother wasn’t any good. I’m thinking that must really burn her up.”
Marjorie raised a slender hand. “I’m out. You and the girls make a day of it. I’ll be here with cupcakes when you get back.” A few free hours were worth a month of pension checks.
“Oh, Dad,” Caroline said. “Wouldn’t it be more fun to stay home and pull our toenails out with pliers?”
Franny had her share of guilt and dread whenCommonwealthwas published, but still, she would never deny that those were glorious days: the publisher’s luncheon at La Grenouille, the award ceremony in which Leo was called to the stage, the never-ending book tour where night after night he read to the spellbound crowds and then waited while the crowds formed a line at a table, supplicants come to tell him how his work had changed their lives. He was famous again, back in the light of the world, and every night in a different hotel room he gave her full credit, cradling her head in his hands while they made love. He could not look away from her. He loved her and thanked her and needed her, Leo Posen did. So for all the many costs she had been rewarded.
But seeing the movie now would bring back more than just her betrayal of her family. The movie also spoke to the failure of her long-ago relationship and the lonely death of the man she had loved, as sold by his second wife.
Franny hadn’t understood what it would be like to live withCommonwealthwhen Leo was writing the book, and once she’d read the book it was too late to do anything about it. The movie, however, was another matter. The movie had yet to be made. Franny begged Leo to keep the rights. She understood that such a promise would constitute a significant financial loss, and still, with the manuscript in her hands, she begged him.
Leo gave them to her on a three-by-five card, because Franny was the sun, the moon, and every last glittering star.
To Frances Xavier Keating,
on the occasion of her twenty-seventh birthday,
I give you the film rights to Commonwealth,
for now and forever,
as a token of my enduring love and gratitude.
LEON ARIEL POSEN
He honored it, even later when they rarely spoke and she suspected he needed the money. She didn’t mention his promise to anyone after he died. Who would she have told? His wife? She knew an index card didn’t stand a chance against the flotilla of lawyers. Irrationally, she had gotten it in her head that they might try and take the card away from her.
“No,” Franny said. No, it wasn’t a movie she wanted to see, especially not with her father and sister and a hundred strangers packed into the Santa Monica AMC 3, eating popcorn.
Fix laughed and smacked his hands flat against the arms of his recliner. “Boy, did you two turn out to be a couple of little girls. There’s nothing in that movie that’s going to hurt you. You should be able to see how a dying man stuck in this rattrap frame might want to see himself portrayed by a handsome movie star. And anyway, this story is ancient history. You’ve got until tomorrow to pull yourselves together. It’s my birthday and we’re going to the show.”
Caroline parked and Franny got the wheelchair out of the trunk. Fix had long since stopped driving but he wouldn’t sell the car. There was always the chance that fate could reverse itself, that a cure could be found in the latter part of the eleventh hour and the parts of himself that had been devoured by cancer could be restored. Hope, Fix said, was the blood of life, and the car could never be replaced. It was a Crown Victoria, a former unmarked police car he’d bought from the department. Franny called it the Batmobile for its ability to go a hundred and forty miles per hour if need be. Not that he’d ever driven it at a hundred and forty, but he liked to say he felt better just knowing what was possible.
Franny opened the car door and picked up her father’s feet from the floorboard, swinging them gently out and then taking his arm. “Count of three,” she said, and together they counted while he rocked back and forth to gain momentum. The car that could catch a stolen Ferrari could not help him up. Franny pulled him out and Caroline caught him in the chair the moment he stood. Even a month ago Fix had fought this. A month ago he wouldn’t use the walker, insisting instead on holding on to Marjorie, even after the falls. But that was behind them now. Now he let Franny put his feet on the paddles. He said thank you.
The actress who owned the house in Amagansett had wanted to play Julia in the movie, which was to say she wanted to play Franny’s mother. She didn’t know, of course, that Franny was a real person who would be sleeping in her bed on her Egyptian cotton sheets. Leo had blamed Albie for the end of their affair. He believed that had Albie never found them they would have gone on happily together. But Caroline was right: Albie didn’t put the nail in the tire, the nail was already there. Still, as long as Leo got to blame their personal problems on an innocent party, Franny would like the chance to blame the actress and her ridiculous goddamn house. No one should have so much money that they could own a house like that and then not even bother to live in it. The swimming pool was long and deep and looked nothing like a swimming pool at all. It looked like the foundation of a shotgun house that had been built in the 1800s and then blown away in a storm. The swimming pool was fed by a spring. No one knew exactly where it came from, not the spring, not the pool, both having been there longer than the actress’s house. And that was just the beginning: there were climbing roses that covered the east wall and then sprawled in a giant tangle over the sloping roof, a miraculous profusion of blooms. It was a storm of roses, white and red, a half a dozen shades of pink, that piled over themselves all summer long, one breed dying out just as another was peaking. A carpet of blown petals covered the lawn throughout the summer. And there was a Klimt in her bedroom, small but unarguably real, a painting of a woman who bore an almost ancestral resemblance to the actress. Who kept the Klimt in their summer house? It was the house, Franny believed, that had done them in. No one could stay away from it except the actress herself. Leo had called Franny one night long after their relationship was over to tell her the actress had invited him back to Amagansett for dinner. She said she wanted to talk about the movie, even though he told her there wasn’t any movie.
“Come anyway,” she’d said.
“You remember all that champagne in the refrigerator?” Leo said to Franny on the phone.
