Rocky sits on the patio, basking in the cool breezes of the late September evening, waiting. It is a transition time of day: Parker finishes his homework, Annie gives him his dinner and then stays with him in his room, Cat finishes her work and leaves, Nathan returns from his mysterious daytime outings. Mostly, she is waiting for Nathan. She feels nestled inside a steely blue calm, the eerily still inside of a storm which feels too good to be true, the eye, where power is so dense it doesn’t move. It waits. She waits inside it. The cool winds of the drugs that once swept her through time could not compete with this.
August was a test, she now thinks. Foregoing the pleasures of the beach house and staying in town was dangerous for her, and she did it anyway. She needed to spend some time alone with Nathan. And to work on her memoirs, which finally, today, are finished. As soon as her book is published, she will be back at the top of the list, top of the charts, top of the world. Her comeback will be magnificent, and this, she now understands, is what she had to save her energy for.
The sliding glass doors open and Cat emerges into the heights of sky and air, carrying a thick manuscript. Rocky has been anticipating this moment for days. John had called to say he was almost finished, and that he had reworked everything into a “new and improved” version of her memoirs. The first draft was good; she expects this one to be great. Her life, her magnificent life, her brilliant career.
Cat lays the heavy manuscript in Rocky’s lap. “Here you go. Enjoy. I’m on my way home.”
“Is John here?”
“No, he messengered the disk. I printed it.”
“I’m so excited! I’ve been waiting for so long for this moment. Cat, do you realize how much things are going to change now? You’ll benefit from this, too. We’ll all have more money. We’ll get lots of attention.”
The girl nods and smiles, but routinely, as if she hasn’t heard a word.
“You’ll see,” Rocky says. “Is Nathan home?”
“Haven’t seen him.” Cat steps back inside and slides the glass doors closed.
Rocky likes it out here, alone under her own tent of sky. She runs her hand over the smooth cover sheet, then looks down and reads the title: The Rise and Fall of Rocky Love.
Fall?
She begins to read. And she reads. And she reads.
Once daylight has vanished and the white page blends with the black words, she moves inside. There is Nathan, sitting on the couch, leafing through New York magazine.
“How long have you been here?” she asks.
“Long time.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? You don’t know what I’ve been going through.” She drops the manuscript on the coffee table. “I gave him hours of interviews and he spews out these awful lies. He has twisted and mutilated my life. My life, Nathan. My life.”
“The book?”
“This is libel.”
“So don’t publish it.” He flips through the magazine, stopping at a full page close-up of Madonna.
“This will never be published. But it doesn’t matter. Libel is libel, and intent to libel must be a crime. That insolent ghostwriter is going to pay for this. I should have known....” She reels back to the day he rebuffed her overtures. Gay? She doubts it. He must have been planning this all along.
“What a fox!” Nathan says of Madonna in a bustier.
Rocky grabs the magazine and hurls it across the room. “Nathan, do you hear me? Do you understand what is happening here? Nathan!” She grabs a chunk of manuscript and plops it into his lap. “Read this! Just read it.”
She picks up the second half, where she left off, curls into the corner of the couch and continues to read. Nathan leans back and stretches his legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. He lifts the first page and shakes it out before fastening his attention to the story.
It is after midnight when Rocky finishes reading. Nathan, always a slow reader, is only halfway through. He has not rendered an opinion yet, but she doesn’t need to hear it. She knows exactly where she stands and what she will do.
She goes to her office, sits at her desk and dials Charlie’s home number. When he finally answers, she shouts, “What took you so long?”
“Who is this?”
“Charlie, we have to talk.”
“Hey, Rocky, I was sleeping.”
“I just finished reading the memoirs. It’s outrageous! You should see what that egomaniac ghostwriter has done to my life. I want you to sue him. Call my lawyer and sue the bastard.”
“Hold it, Rocky. We’ve already got one lawsuit flapping in the wind, let’s not start another one unless we have to. Can we talk about this in the morning when we can think straight?”
“I am thinking straight right now.”
“I’m not. Babe, it’s late. You gotta get some sleep. Will you do that for me?”
“I can’t sleep, Charlie.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll call John right now and we’ll all meet at your place first thing in the morning, say nine-thirty, and we’ll hash it out. Let’s not sling any lawsuits around until we’ve really talked it over.”
“No. I want you to sue him, right now!”
“Honey, no one gets sued at midnight. Nine-thirty, okay? Get some sleep. We’ll talk it over tomorrow.”
Rocky slams down the phone. Sleep? She will never sleep.
“Nathan? Nathan, come here!” She waits for a minute but he doesn’t come. So she goes back to the living room. And there he is, sitting on the edge of the couch holding a manuscript page in front of his face, laughing.
By nine-thirty sharp, Charlie, John and Rocky are seated around the dining room table. Charlie seems more interested in the breakfast Annie has laid out than in the really pressing issue of this meeting. For once, Rocky is annoyed by Annie’s hostess reflexes; coffee, maybe, but the scones and muffins go too far. John is clearly enjoying his apple-walnut muffin. The nerve. This is the last muffin he will ever eat in her penthouse.
The manuscript, now creased and smudged, sits in a heap of unaligned pages in front of Rocky. She slaps her hand upon it. John’s eyes rivet to her face. Charlie quickly drinks some coffee to wash down his mouthful of scone.
“This,” she says, “is an outrage! Totally unacceptable. Full of lies and slander and libel.”
“Libel?” John says.
“You should be a fiction writer,” she says.
“It’s all based on interviews. I have notes, tapes, transcripts. I talked to almost everyone you know. You were aware of that. You even encouraged me.”
“My people did not give you your words. My people did not give you your attitude of ridicule. And where did you get the idea to call it The Rise and Fall...? What fall? No one has fallen. Are you out of your mind?”
“Now hold on, Rocky,” Charlie says. “A title can be changed, no problem.”
“It’s not just the title, Charlie, it’s everything. Here.” She pushes the bulky manuscript toward him. “Read it.”
“All right. But for the purposes of this meeting —”
“Read it.”
“I can’t read it this very minute.” Charlie faces John. “Can you tell me your side of this real quick?”
Rocky snorts and shakes her head. “He has no side. He’s a hack. I hired him to work for me. On your advice, Charlie, he came through you.”
“Let’s just keep calm here. Nothing is undo-able. That’s my job, doing and undoing, so let’s not forget I know how to do these things. I gotta hear both sides, Rock, just to give me a picture. John?”
“I talked to everyone. I can’t change the facts. I didn’t live her life — she did. What can I do?”
“You could crawl back under your slimy rock,” Rocky says.
“Honey, calm.” Charlie tries to pat her hand and she instantly pulls it away.
“I’ve done an enormous amount of work on this,” John says. “I’ve lived it, breathed it, slept it, ate it. This is my Citizen Kane. This book has taken almost a year of my life and I really think I did an excellent job with the material. I gave you what you wanted. Think about it. Think about the angle and the sales potential. You may not see it now, Rocky, but what you have here is a gold mine. This will jump-start your bank account. You’ll be set.”
“My finances are fine. It’s my career I’m worried about.”
“What career?” John says. “You haven’t worked in years.”
Charlie shoots John a pleading look.
“Let’s face it,” John says, “this book is going to hurl you back into the big time. Somebody’s going to snap up the film rights. Picture it, The Rocky Love Story on prime time TV. You’ve never even done prime time. This will put you right in the center. It’s beautiful. This is going to work just like you planned.”
“I didn’t plan this and I don’t want this and I won’t have this! This garbage will never be published with my name on it or for that matter with your name on it. You’re off the book. Charlie, find someone else. Find someone who can write.”
“Oh, hon, now? After all this?”
“Now. Do it. Now.”
“My contract still stands,” John says. “I get paid for what I did no matter what. My royalty is written in stone.”
“We can’t afford this,” Charlie says. “Rocky, John can do re-writes. We can work everything out. But we cannot afford to pay him what his contract which is legal — binding, Rocky — says he’s gotta get. And we’ve still got the Larry Drumm lawsuit hanging over our heads like a goddamn guillotine. What are we supposed to do? There’s limits. We can’t afford to pay John off and pay another writer for a full re-write and pay off Larry Drumm when this thing hits the stands and his turn comes around. Babe, one thing you could do now is strike out that Larry Drumm chapter, just toss it out, save yourself a bundle.”
“Whose side are you on, Charlie? And who is this royal we you’ve been talking about? Nothing is at stake here for you. You’re not paying for any of this. This is my story and my life and I won’t take orders from you or Larry Drumm or some hack writer.”
“No one’s saying you should take orders. All I’m saying is think about it. Look at this gorgeous place you live in. Look at it. Well? You get socked from all directions and honey, you’ll be forced to sell. Maybe the beach house, too. Then what? Can you see you living in some dump with no view and nowhere to go on weekends? I can’t. But that’s reality. People are taking the hit every day. These are bad times; everybody’s making compromises.”
“Not me.”
“Think it over, that’s all I’m asking. The bit about Larry Drumm? It’ll hurt him. He’s got a life and a career, too. And that section isn’t so good, anyway.”
“That’s right,” John says, “it really isn’t. We could cut that easily.”
“See? We’ll cut it. Save you a million bucks.”
Rocky looks at them sitting at her table, evil twins using their agreement to manipulate her as they eat her food and take her money. She wonders where John got so much information about her life. It could have come from anyone, possibly even from Charlie. How does this little ghostwriter know so much about her?
“Were you interviewed, too, Charlie?”
“’Course. Everyone was. You gave the green light.”
“And what about my staff?”
“I talked to everyone,” John says.
“Why didn’t you stop this, Charlie? Your job is to protect me.”
“I’m trying to protect you, if you’d let me.”
“You’re in collusion with the enemy.”
“Oh, jeez.” He shakes his head as if frustrated, but she can see that he’s scared; his forehead has clumped into a single expression of worry. He’s dangling over a precipice and Rocky feels a sensation of enjoyment in her own power holding him there. It is an excellent feeling, this ability to call the shots. “It’s over, Charlie,” she says. “You’re out.”
“But I’m with you, babe. I always have been. Think of what we’ve been through together, all the years, it’s been —”
“It’s over. I’ll find a new agent. I want you to messenger me all my papers, everything you have of mine.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not.”
“This is too much.” He stands. He is shaking. “After everything I’ve done for you, after spilling my blood and guts for you.”
“Goodbye.”
“My contract still stands on this book, too, Rocky,” Charlie says. “I’ve steered it all this way and I’m not walking away empty-handed, either.”
“This is not going to be the book. Both of you, get out of my house. I don’t want to look at you anymore.”
“She’s out of her mind,” John says. “It’s true.”
She stands, casting her most powerful glare at these two vipers who have just eaten her food, who are trying to rob her, to ruin her. Celebrity rule number ninety-nine: You are safe from no one.
“I’m not changing my mind. All contracts are terminated. I’m clearing the decks, starting fresh, period.”
“I’m getting out of here,” John says. “You’ll hear from my lawyer.”
“Sorry, babe, but you’ll also be hearing from mine.” Charlie follows John out.
Annie hurries out of the kitchen to follow them. Rocky listens to her bid them goodbye with her sweet tone begging forgiveness. For what? What does she have to be ashamed of? Whose side is she on? If Parker didn’t need a nanny, Rocky would fire her, too.
Annie comes into the dining room and stands in front of Rocky in another one of her annoying sweatshirts with a faded cartoon whose slogan has been laundered away. “Honey, did you have to do that to those nice boys?”
“Where’s Nathan?”
“I haven’t seen him today and I was up at seven. He must have gone out early. Rocky, about your brother, I’ve been thinking —”
“Clear the table!” Rocky stomps away and proceeds down the hallway, her hallway. She sees that Cat has come in and is sitting at her desk, Rocky’s desk, doing something. What? Probably drawing one of her amateur comic strips on paid time. She veers into the office and stands behind Cat, who spins around.
“Morning, Rocky. How are you?”
“What are you doing?”
“Ordering supplies. We’re running low.”
“We?”
“Well, the office.”
“Who is this royal we? That’s what I’d like to know!”
“What?”
Rocky leaves the office. She does not owe this girl an explanation. She goes straight to her study, sits down at her desk and buzzes Cat.
“Get my lawyer on the phone.”
A minute later, Cat’s voice returns over the intercom: “David’s secretary said he’s out of town until tomorrow, but she’ll try to get a message to him to call you back.”
Rocky does not respond. That isn’t good enough. Why can no one pull through when she needs them?
The day passes in an agony of unreturned phone calls and blank stares from Cat and Annie and waiting-for-Nathan who doesn’t come home. Rocky feels dizzy, disconnected, disowned. Even Parker seems afraid of Mommy today. She waits until the noises of daytime have passed out of the penthouse, until quiet descends.
The bedroom is dark; the burgundy walls absorb all the fragmented evening light. Why did she let Tim convince her to paint the walls this wine red? It’s so dark. She raises her satin slip, opens her legs, closes her eyes and masturbates. But it doesn’t work anymore. It used to work, but now she is too aware that she is alone. Once, she could conjure images of love potent enough to soar in her famous bed in her dark room in her penthouse amidst her rich busy life from which she looked out at a world of have-nots and felt strong. Once. Now, tonight, she is as weak as anyone without hope could be, and the difference between now and before is that she knows it. It’s over. She can’t make it work anymore.
Hours pass and she lies awake, listening to the quiet. At 3:35 a.m. she hears Nathan return and go to his room. At 6:10 the bluish light of daybreak brings the room into focus. Her body feels heavy, exhausted, as she pulls herself out of bed. She gets her silk caftan from the hook on the bathroom door, puts it on and heads out into the just-getting-light apartment. She goes to the kitchen and starts a pot of coffee. Then she sits at the table with Annie’s kitchen pad bearing this legend at the top of every page: GOOD INTENTIONS.