Sunset Park

because of the crash, the slump, whatever word people are using to talk about the new depression, book publishers not excepted, of course, but Simon is in much worse shape than he is, the independent film business has been destroyed, production companies and distributors are folding up like collapsible chairs every day of the week, and it has been two years now since he last put a movie together, which means that he unofficially retired this fall, accepting a job to teach film courses at UCLA instead of making films, but he isn’t bitter about it, or at least he shows no bitterness, and the only thing he says to account for what has happened to him is to mention that he is fifty-eight years old and that independent film producing is a young person’s job. The grinding search for money can crush the spirit out of you unless you’re made of steel, he says, and the tall and short of it is that he isn’t made of steel anymore.
    But that comes later. The talk about Winnie and Hail, holy light and men of steel does not begin until after they have talked about why Mary-Lee called Morris three hours ago and asked him to dinner on such short notice. There is news. That is the first article on the agenda, and moments after they enter the restaurant and take their seats at the table, Mary-Lee tells him about the message she found on her answering machine at four o’clock this afternoon.
    It was Miles, she says. I recognized his voice.
    His voice, Morris says. You mean he didn’t give his name?
    No. Only the message—a short, confusing message. As follows, in its entirety. Um. Long pause. Sorry. Long pause. I’ll call back.
    Are you sure it was Miles?
    Positive.
    Korngold says: I’m still trying to figure out what sorry means. Sorry for calling? Sorry because he was too flustered to leave a proper message? Sorry for everything he’s done?
    Impossible to say, Morris replies, but I would tend to go with flustered.
    Something’s going to happen, Mary-Lee says. Very soon. Any day now.
    I talked to Bing this morning, Morris says, just to check in and see if everything is all right. He told me Miles has a girlfriend, a young Cuban girl from Florida, and that she’s been in New York for the past week or sovisiting him. I think she went back today. According to Bing, Miles was planning to get in touch with us as soon as she left. That would explain the message.
    But why call me and not you? Mary-Lee asks.
    Because Miles thinks I’m still in England and won’t be reachable until Monday.
    And how does he know that? Korngold says.
    Apparently, he called my office two or three weeks ago and was told I’d be back at work on the fifth. That’s what Bing reported, in any case, and I don’t see why the boy would lie to him.
    We owe Bing Nathan a lot, Korngold says.
    We owe him everything, Morris says. Try to imagine these past seven years without him.
    We should do something for him, Mary-Lee says. Write him a check, send him on a world cruise, something.
    I’ve tried, Morris says, but he won’t take any money from me. He was very insulted the first time I offered, and even more insulted the second time. He says: You don’t accept money for acting like a human being. A young man with principles. I can respect that.
    What else? Mary-Lee asks. Any word on how Miles is doing?
    Not much, Morris answers. Bing says he mostly keeps to himself, but the other people in the house like him and he gets on well with them. Quiet, as usual. A bit low, as usual, but then he perked up when the girl came.
    And now she’s gone, Mary-Lee says, and he’s left amessage on my machine saying he’ll call me back. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I see him. Slap him across the face—or throw my arms around him and kiss him?
    Do both, Morris says. The slap first, and then the kiss.
    They stop talking about Miles after that and move on to Happy Days, the future of independent films, the strange death of Steve Cochran, the advantages and disadvantages of living in New York, Mary-Lee’s new rotundity (which inspires the puffed-out cheeks and the beautiful-hippo comment), the forthcoming novels from Heller Books, and Willa, needless to say Willa, it is the polite question that must be asked, but Morris has no desire to tell them the truth, no desire to unburden himself and talk about his fear that he might be losing her, that he has already lost her, and so he says that Willa is flourishing, in top form, that his trip to England was like a