Archibald Full Frontal, page 24
“Yeah, well, Archibald really threw him under the bus. That’s if people really think it’s him, your dad, I mean, which it can’t be, of course.”
She presses forward. “So, it must have been a shock … seeing yourself, your life, just splattered around like that.”
“Yeah, just a little.” I sigh, allowing myself to wallow.
“Being used like that must have bit.” She twitches and fiddles around in her bag again. I wonder if she has a cocaine problem.
“What I read was not exactly flattering … but I am pretty sure I’ll get past it.”
“I always had you pegged for an optimist but ‘get past it’?” she adds doubtfully. “He dissected you like a fetal pig in a lab experiment.”
I squirm at the image. “I’m perfectly fine. Fetal-pig imagery aside. I am sure I will be completely over it,” I add, “by the time I’m eighty.”
I lean into the warm, soapy water, bubbles closing in around my neck, and sigh. The old claw-foot tub is still the best attribute of the Pink Palace, aside from the fact it’s an Archibald-free zone. I was still unnerved by my exchange with Amelia the day before. She had been pleasant and sympathetic and so interested in my welfare. I had found myself talking, even opening up. I had felt like an indulgent aunt. Could I become friends with Michael’s daughter after everything?
Sam shifts in his end of the tub. He is reading a biography of Plato, or at least trying to. I flick some bubbles at him with my foot. He blows them off and pushes my foot from its perch on the edge of the tub causing it to land in the water with a splat-splunk, which covers his book with foamy spray. He attempts to shake the book out and then gives up and drops it to the floor.
“You are a troublemaker, Maggie Underwood,” he says, searching out my foot in the watery depths and grabbing it. I squirm. “And you know what happens to troublemakers, don’t you?”
“I can’t wait to find out,” I say, a willing captive. He has a hold of my knees and is slowly dragging me under. He lowers himself on top of me, during which at least half of the bath water sloshes out onto the floor.
“Whoops,” he says as he looks at the small lake around us.
I peer over the edge. “It’ll dry,” I say, and pull him down into the water.
We are eating popcorn on his couch, which he gladly brought with him when he moved in. I have to admit it is far more comfortable than my old girl. I surf through the channels, looking for a little mindless TV. I flip past Archibald’s face and flip back.
The interviewer sits in an armchair across from him. I recognize her as Judy List, the host who interviewed Michael a couple of years before. She has changed her glasses and her hair, but she has the same tin-can smile.
“It’s a delight to have you here, Mr. Weeks.”
“The delight is all mine. Please call me Archibald.”
“Archibald, then,” she oozes.
He smiles, the twinkly-eyed old eccentric.
“Your book, Archibald, is extraordinary. Congratulations on receiving the prestigious Harry Osfield Wood BC Book Award.”
“It is quite an honour.” My stomach sags. I had hoped it had been forgotten, buried.
“Your novel is an involving tale filled with love, intrigue, betrayal, and, of course, scandal. And what a wonderful motley crew of characters you created.”
“Motley, indeed,” he says affably, taking a dainty sip from a mug.
“Your poor, sweet protagonist, let’s start there. I think we all identified with at least some of her missteps.” The cameras cut to an audience of women of various ages nodding. “She is so … realistic and conflicted. How did you write such a convincing young woman?” I put the popcorn bowl down with a clank. Sam tries to rip the remote from my hand. But I keep it in an iron grip, riveted to the old man on the tube.
“Well, the world is just full of young people to draw from. And I am still a young person at heart in many ways. I have always identified with the young feminist’s plight.” The audience murmurs appreciatively.
“Still his appalling old self,” Sam says grimly.
“Bugger,” I agree.
“Uh-huh.” Judy blinks dumbly, returning to her cue cards. “And James, what a sinister, and, yet, touching portrayal of a villain. And how can we forget Edward, the fun-loving, sage old writer?” She inhales, tilting her head back and revealing cavernous nostrils. “All of your characters are so … believable. But, I am curious, how do you respond to the article in Vancouver Today that says they are based on actual people?”
I look at Sam, stomach convulsing. “Vancouver Today?”
“It’s a local magazine,” he answers. We turn back to the show, waiting for the worst.
Archibald smiles calmly, prepared. “I think referring to a novel as authentic is one of the greatest compliments that one can bestow on a work of fiction. As W.H. Auden said, ‘A real book is not one that we read, but one that reads us.’”
“So, then, you maintain that your characters are not based in reality?”
“My lawyers have instructed me not to answer any further questions on the subject.” But he can’t resist and she is experienced enough to wait. “Based? Possibly. Carbon copies? Not remotely.”
“So, Zoë is not based on your own real-life granddaughter who worked, up until very recently, as your assistant?”
“I do have a granddaughter who is a similar age to Zoë. That is a fact.”
“And James is not based on the bestselling author Michael Bancroft, whom you claimed to have had a liaison with in the early part of his career?” I spit out a kernel of popcorn.
“Again, no comment. Ancient history.” He is still not ruffled; in fact, he is loving this. I sit on the remote to prevent Sam from reaching it.
“We were unable to reach your granddaughter for comment. But how do you respond to the claim made by Amelia Bancroft in her article in Vancouver Today that she claims not to have even finished reading the book?”
Was she talking about Michael’s daughter, Amelia?
“She has never been particularly learned. I hope that she will read it, though. I see it as a kind of manual for the guileless.”
I feel my head pulsing.
“Furthermore, is it true that your granddaughter quit your employ after discovering that you documented her, as yet, unsubstantiated affair with Michael Bancroft, or James as he is called in the book?” Wow. Old Judy was working the cue cards. She’d done her homework, apparently with the help of Amelia.
“Actually, I had to let her go, poor girl. Her skill set was somewhat challenged.”
“What a lying rat!” I scream.
“Isn’t it true that she is a local artist? A painter?” Judy prods.
Archibald smiles tightly. “Yes. I give credit where credit is due. She does have talent with the paintbrush, at least.” I throw popcorn all over the room.
“One last thing, how do you respond to rumours that Michael Bancroft is planning to file a defamation law suit naming you and your publication?” Wow, she was really going for the jugular. The audience sat in a hushed silence. Was Michael really suing Archibald?
“I have not had any communication with Michael Bancroft, period. He is free to contact my lawyers at any time.”
“When we return, we will discuss the multigenerational love triangle, in which grandfather and granddaughter unknowingly share a lover, culminating in the granddaughter’s depraved spiral into prostitution and eventual death.”
Sam wrestles the controller from under the cushion, spilling me onto the floor and clicking off the TV.
“Did she just say prostitution and death?” I ask from my dazed position on the floor.
“You really didn’t finish the book, did you?”
I shake my head, mute.
“Well, maybe, that’s for the best.”
“And Amelia — I thought we were just having coffee.”
“You had coffee? With Michael’s daughter? Recently?”
“Yes, remember? I told you. But she didn’t mention anything about an article. So wouldn’t that make anything I said ‘off the record’?”
“Well, I guess she took ‘off the record’ as ‘on the record.’”
After I have recovered from the knowledge that I am a sex trade worker in Archibald’s universe and decided not to search out the article so cryptically referred to in the interview, we unplug the TV and the phone and lie out on the balcony, sharing a lounge chair. The night is dark and cool, the stars scattered. Sam points out planets and stars, and the horror of being talk show fodder starts to recede. The sensation of our arms pressed together, my head against his shoulder, is a salve that no doctor could prescribe. The world has given me Sam, so how could it be that bad?
“Maggie. You know your idea? That idea you had? About Archibald?”
“Yes?” We had put it on hold, waiting for an opportunity, then lost steam.
“I think I know how to make it happen.”
It begins with a phone call.
“Eddie Green,” comes his voice over the phone.
“Hi, Eddie? This is Maggie — Maggie Underwood…”
“Maggie. Hi! How are you?”
“Not bad. Everything considered…”
“Yes, well. It’s unfortunate about you and Archibald. But the book has been really well-received, and your paintings moved remarkably well. Just think, the next time you want a showing it will be that much easier.” Still trying to alleviate his guilt, I think.
“I didn’t call to talk about the book,” I interrupt.
“What can I do for you?”
“I would really like to let bygones be bygones, you know. Get on with my life. He is my grandfather and I would really like to put an end to … the bad feelings.”
He pauses and I hear him mentally calculating the effect of me and Archibald making up on his career and on the book. “Archibald would love that, I am sure. But why are you calling me and not him? I’m sure he would talk to you.”
“Yes, well, I was hoping you could help me orchestrate a reunion. A public get-together. He was so helpful to my career as an artist; as you already mentioned, he really ‘launched’ me.”
He laughs nervously into the phone.
“I would like to present him with a gift. A new portrait just for him at the BC Wood award ceremony.”
“Well, um, it’s next week. I don’t know. That might take a bit of arranging.”
“I think it would really be worth it. It might help for him to have one of his ‘characters’ on his side … Think of all the good publicity. And he did call me a talented artist on local television.” Sam gives me a thumbs up from his position on the other line.
“Yes. Well, I will have to run it by Penelope, of course.”
“Of course.”
“And I am assuming she will want to preapprove the portrait.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “Have her call me. Also, could you remind her how much Archie loves a surprise?”
Penelope is waiting for me outside the studio wearing a short pinstriped skirt and business jacket and a man’s tie. Her black hair is arranged in trendy spikes. She air-kisses me.
“Maggie. You look fabulous,” she gushes. I can tell she is excited. “I was pleased when Eddie called. Although I don’t know why you didn’t contact me directly. He has nothing to do with these sorts of things.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.” I smile sweetly and unlock the studio. Keep your cool, I say to myself, resisting the urge to belt her collagen-filled mouth with my fist. “And he is my grandfather, you know. I just want to make things right.” I deliver my lines as convincingly as I can.
I pull up the blinds in my tiny studio and turn the picture to face her. In it, Archibald sits serenely on a cushion, looking meditative, a small golden Buddha in the foreground, a white scarf cascading over his shoulder, eggshell curtains billowing in a breeze.
“Very nice. I like the Asian theme. Yes, this is quite flattering. He will like this. So, I will contact you with the details of your presentation.”
“Should I discuss it with Archibald?”
“You know, why don’t we keep it as a surprise until the day of the event? You give him the picture. Kiss and make up. With the right press, who knows what this will do for your career? A few interviews to say how much you loved the book: at first you were a little surprised, but now you are quite flattered if it was actually you who inspired him and so on.” Sam was right. The appeal to her vanity worked perfectly. In her forecast, she would come off as the organizer and take all the credit. Archibald was the only one who could have sniffed me out.
“If you think so. You do this for a living after all.” I smile deferentially.
A loud banging comes from the living room, knuckles being applied with force to the front door. Sam and I are caught up in a game of Scrabble. Well, actually, I am lying across the Scrabble board, and he is leaning over me unbuttoning my shirt.
“It couldn’t be the tenants below,” he says indifferently. “It must be the Chinese food.” I roll out from underneath him.
“Already? That was fast.”
In the living room, I search for my purse and pull out my wallet. The banging sounds again. The delivery man didn’t usually have such attitude.
“Hang on.” I unlatch the door expecting to find Kim holding bags steaming with cashew chicken and won ton soup, and, instead, I find Michael, eyes smeared and blood-rare, standing in the doorway.
“Michael.” I automatically take a step back. “What are you doing here? I thought you were out of town.”
He clutches Archibald’s book in his hands.
“This monstrosity. How could you?” He stumbles at me. He smells like he has been marinating in a barrel of whisky.
“How could I what?” I retort. “I think you mean how could he?”
“I trusted you!” His eyes bulge, spit sprays from his mouth.
“I didn’t tell him a thing. You know that. He used a private detective.”
“I don’t believe it.” But I see on his face he does. The truth sinks in.
“I met him. Zoltan something or other. Now, I think you should be going.”
“What a disaster.” His face is grey; the shock has aged him. Or has he always been this old?
“And what about Amelia?” I ask. “Apparently, she wrote some article about Archibald.”
“I do not want to talk about her.”
“How many people will actually believe it anyway? The stuff he wrote about you and him, that was an obvious lie. You are nothing if not heterosexual.”
He looks up at me then, and what I see on his face tells a different story. “I mean, you and Archibald were never lovers, were you?”
“Of course not,” he says, looking down.
“Is there a problem?” Sam appears in the hallway, hands on his hips, doing his best Clint Eastwood impersonation. Now it is Michael’s turn to gape.
“The janitor strikes again,” he declares contemptuously.
Sam takes a step forward. “I think it’s time for you to hit the road.” His lip curls in the beginning of a sneer.
“We’re in the middle of a conversation. Look, I’m in a really bad mood,” Michael says in lieu of an apology.
“So I heard.” Sam doesn’t budge.
“Michael, this isn’t a good time. You need to go home.” I put a hand on his shoulder to end the standoff.
“What? Does he live with you now?” He shakes me off, glancing from me to Sam. “You certainly don’t let the paint dry.” Sam takes a step forward as Michael lets out a crazed yell and rushes towards him, fists up. Sam steps out of the way easily, and Michael collides with my hallway table. He hits it with such force that it snaps beneath him, and he topples to the floor with a thunderous crash. “Christ!” he screams, holding a snapped-off wooden leg.
“Lovely,” I say. “That’s just great. Feel free to redecorate.”
From a heap on the floor, he mutters: “It’s been a bad day. Hell, it’s been a bad year.”
I hurry out onto the street. Michael had not been in good shape. After recovering for a few minutes on our couch and muttering incoherently, he had left as abruptly as he had arrived. I told Sam I needed to make sure he didn’t pass out on the sidewalk. But, in reality, I had an ulterior motive.
I glance into a car as I cross the street. It is an unfamiliar black town car. Michael is slumped against the steering wheel, door slightly ajar. He is either sleeping or frozen in thought, ruminating on the disaster of the night or his life in general. I rap on the window. He jolts upright and blinks. Now would be the time to get the truth. But did I want the truth?
I open the passenger door and get in. I look over at him. He is a mess. His eyes are puffy, his hair smeared, his shirt unbuttoned at the neck; there is a welt on the side of his head from where he struck the floor.
“I’m sorry I got so violent with your boyfriend.”
“It was more with my hallway table than with Sam.”
“I never liked him.”
“I would say it’s mutual. And the table hates you.”
“I never thought he would go so far. I thought he had a little more restraint. Lecherous old sack of shit.” He slumps against his headrest.
“Yeah, I guess the sky’s the limit for Archibald. Anyone’s dirty laundry is fair game, including his own. Judy said on her show that you might sue him.”
“I know. She called me, and I told her as much. I confronted him today. I told him I would sue for libel. And he laughed. The demon laughed in my face as though he was being tickled with a goddamn feather. I wanted to strangle him.” He reaches out his hand and clutches at the air. Archibald would love the pathos he had stirred up — Michael drowning in self-pity and rage.
“Could you sue? That would teach him a lesson.”
He shakes his head forlornly, shoulders slumped, defeated. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
His eyes are on me. “It was so long ago.”
“But you were lovers.” My voice is flat. The words come more easily than I expected. “Tell me.”
