“I’m returning to Ithaca,” the Actor was saying, “I’m readying my bow and arrow to slay Penelope’s suitors, but those suitors are me. Or, rather, they are the parts of me that need to be slain.”
Senderovsky thought he was catching on. “You want to slay your self-entitlement,” he said.
“No!” the Actor shouted. “Have you been listening? Self-entitlement is my fuel. It’s the bag of wind that what’s-his-face gives to Odysseus. It lets me be the trickster that fools the Cyclops. Do you know what this script lacks, what all of your scripts lack? One word. Subtext.”
“I taught a graduate seminar on subtext,” Senderovsky said.
“That’s your defense for a shitty script? Academia?”
The Actor launched into another soliloquy, this one more impassioned than the last, sometimes holding up a hand in front of his face and talking into its palm, as if for want of a skull. Senderovsky had seen him agitated, but never like this. He’s really in love with her, Senderovsky thought. How could he use this to his own advantage? According to Karen he might be “confused, disorganized, searching for direction.” What if he got Dee involved in doing a very minimal rewrite of the script? Could that be a sense of direction? Would that help get the script over to the network?
“Instead of starting on the image of Misha ripping into a crawfish with his bare hands while rapping about his wealth on top of an inflatable duck, we start with a dream sequence in which he envisions himself spinning a globe, over and over, Russia, Europe, the Atlantic, America, Russia, Europe, the Atlantic, America, Russia”—Yes, thought Senderovsky, I get it—“as a pair of eyes hovers in the distance, like the cover of The Great Gatsby. And only by episode eleven does the audience realize what it has known subconsciously all along. That those are Misha’s dead mother’s eyes.”
“But that’s ridiculous!” The outburst had left Senderovsky’s mouth of its own accord. There was no way to invite it back in.
“What did you say?”
“I’m sorry,” Senderovsky said. “I simply meant that this is still a comedy. That’s what the network bought. Dreams of dead mothers are inherently not funny. Why can’t we share a little laughter with the audience? Especially given the times in which we live. Wouldn’t it be selfish of us to hold it back?”
“I can’t work with you,” the Actor said. He went to the bathroom and turned on the tap full blast. This gave Senderovsky time to weigh his options and gather his thoughts. Once they were gathered, he straightened his posture and puffed out his chest. When the Actor returned, he would be ready to say the following:
“If you don’t like my scripts, you’re free to leave anytime.”
Senderovsky never imagined himself capable of uttering those words—most of his income now depended on the Actor and the script—but there they were. Why did he say them? Because he knew the Actor wouldn’t leave the House on the Hill, his Tr?? Emotions in tow? Senderovsky got up and walked to the door.
“Go to your house and think about what I’ve said,” the Actor said. “Think about how your own emotions are sabotaging this project. And while you’re at it, think about where you’ve placed me in relation to your other guests.” Senderovsky thought he was being symbolic, but the Actor swept his arm to indicate his dwelling.
“Would you like me to displace one of my friends so that you may have a bungalow more to your liking?” Senderovsky said. “I could ask Dee. Her cottage is meant for writers. You might be inspired. Should I ask her to switch?” The Actor said nothing, but the puma eyes blazed.
3
Karen was running down the hill, her arms windmilling around her. The child flew ahead of her, past the gray short shadows of the oaks and poplars and aspens, onto the parklike central stretch of the lawn, and toward a sentinel line of Christmas trees meant to block out the sheep farm and its inhabitants’ daylong volley of bleats.
“There it is!” Nat shouted. “Aunt Karen, look!” She fell to her knees in front of a hole. She wore a long, featureless yellow skirt over a wide pair of boy’s jeans held up by an ugly elastic band. As Nat fell to the ground, Karen pulled up the sides of the skirt to make sure she wouldn’t get grass stains on it, feeling the phantom movements of her late mother in her arms.
“Look!” Nat said, after she had moved some dirt out of the way. “There’s a box!”
Karen scrunched down next to her. It was impossible to maintain Masha’s prescribed distance, not in any sense. The hole was dug beautifully, a perfect round enclosure that brought to mind the industrious flurry of an animal’s paws. “Steve the Groundhog brought the box here?” Karen asked.