The Morels (48 page)

Will asks about his father, for him to relate anything that might shed light on the kind of man he’d been. “I used to think it was shamelessness, with your father. And I mean that quite literally. You know those people, missing that part of their brain that allows them to sense pain? They only know that they’ve burned themselves after they smell flesh cooking on the stove coils. That your father literally didn’t have the capacity for shame is what I mean. But that day up there on the stand I realized—he’s humiliated! This man is nothing
but
shame. Has been this whole time, his whole life maybe. To know this and then to look back on those things he did publicly, that he made public. Shocking things, humiliating
things. This took courage to do. Your father was brave, Will. And he loved you a great deal. You have to believe that. And as strange as this may sound, those shocking and humiliating things? He wrote those things to protect you. He was trying to protect you from himself, the only way he knew how.”

At their parting, they hug. The man, Will’s one-time babysitter, walks him down the front steps of the theater and wishes him luck with his project. They make plans to speak again.

From here, Will heads south, to the address he’s been given. The man told Will that after Doc’s passing two years ago, Cynthia had left to be with relatives back in New Jersey and the carriage house was sold, but Will wants to see for himself.

It is, unsurprisingly, a boutique clothing shop now, like every other shop in the neighborhood. Its exterior is meticulously restored and barely recognizable but for the distinctive proscenium arch. This is now fitted with a single piece of plate glass and serves as a window display. Faceless mannequins wearing red cotton dresses and black leggings assume poses of impatience: hand on hip, arms folded. The entrance is through the side door. Will steps inside. It’s freezing. The place is gutted raw and dimly lit. The hip-hop beat suggests a fancy cocktail lounge. There isn’t a single person working here who’s a day older than Will. He doesn’t bother to ask any questions; it’s clear nobody here knows anything. He takes a few pictures with his phone and leaves.

He has enough to go on, or at least enough to start with. So at home, alone in his room, he begins:

I was born on November 29, 1968, to Cynthia Bonjorni and Arthur
“
Doc
”
Morel Senior. I lived on Greene Street and West Broadway in New York City
. In this vein he writes several pages. A few hours later, though, he stops, frustrated. Even though the facts are right, none of the sentences feels authentic. The costume does not fit. This much is clear, and no amount of aping around in it will help him accomplish what he has set out to do. And besides, he can’t see his father while he’s walking around inside his suit. He needs to be able to see the man.

So. Forget the first-person father. He tries again, like this:

The earliest memory I have of my father is from the age of four. He has me by the hand and we are heading up the front walk of our apartment building in Queens
. But soon enough, Will finds himself deep into the woods of his own life, his father lost somewhere along the trail.

On a blank index card, in felt pen, Will writes,
Who is Arthur Morel?
and tacks it onto the corkboard above his writing desk, next to the picture Henry brought over earlier that week: lush Vietnamese foliage, crowded village in the background. A recent photo, Henry explained, of a place that had been razed in the late sixties by Agent Orange. “Given time,” Henry said, “even scorched earth recovers.”

Will takes a step back. He spends the rest of the evening cleaning his room. He organizes his books on the small homemade bookshelf by his closet. With a notepad and pen at his side, he sits up in bed listening through earphones to the interview with his former babysitter, transcribing a few of the more salient moments. Then he turns off the light and goes to bed.

The next morning, with a fresh cup of coffee, he begins again. Henry is right. The mornings are much better for thinking. His head feels like a clear autumn day. He looks through his notes from the night before. Most of it is in shorthand, barely legible, but among the scrawl is a sentence that calls out to him:

The editor I was to fire worked out of his one bedroom in Herald Square
. Promising, he thinks, more promising at least than last night’s efforts.

Will fires up his laptop and types out the line into a blank document, and when he does this, a window opens. There is something about the point of view, through the eyes of the man whose life has run parallel to his father’s, eliding at key moments. Who talked about his father with great admiration, the first man to ever describe his father to him in fatherly terms, as courageous, protective. This is who should tell the story: his father’s only friend.

Maybe, just maybe, he can show Will the way.

A heartfelt thanks to Bob Dolan, first and foremost, for penning
The Dead Guy’s Son
and for the ensuing adventures in filmmaking that it inspired.

Thanks to Mark Doten, whose sharp eye and editorial telepathy transformed this manuscript into the novel I’d been hoping for.

And Bronwen Hruska, along with the rest of the Soho team for their outright enthusiasm, and for taking a chance on this book.

Thanks to Douglas Stewart, whose faith in my abilities is a bottomless well.

To John Bean, for helping me figure it all out.

Good friends Leigh Anderson, Zoe Finkel, Jason Grunebaum, and Melissa Kirsch: Thank you for your valuable feedback on a messy first draft. And thanks to other readers along the way for their time and kind words: Jami Attenberg, David Gordon, T Cooper, Margarita Shalina, Michael Seidenberg and Cale Hand.

Thank you to Columbia University mentors Victoria Redel
and Binnie Kirshenbaum for their support and generous public praise. Also to Sigrid Nunez, Thomas Beller, Sam Lipsyte, and Jessica Hagedorn, other mentors whose teaching has been invaluable.

To the Owen Summer Residence Fellowship, for providing me with an environment perfectly suited to writing a book.

And, of course, a round of thanks to the Tracys: Catherine, Arnold, Claudia, Sam, Dee, Peter, Alec, Alexandra, and Aunt Joan Carvo. I couldn’t ask for a more supportive and encouraging group of in-laws.