Finally, she returned from the bathroom, a smile plastered on her face.
“So, honey, make sure you call your father. He’s going to tell you all about Norwegian reindeer, but it won’t be too bad. They’re actually pretty—”
“Mom,” I said quickly, interrupting her.
She looked surprised. “What’s up?”
“Why are you avoiding talking about Mr. Carterson?”
She stared at me for a second, and then sighed. “I’m not being very subtle, I guess.”
I laughed. “Are you joking? That was subtle?”
She grinned, looking a little embarrassed. “I was trying to hide it from you.”
“No kidding, Mom! That was about as obvious as it gets.”
She shook her head, grinning. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“I know Mom, but look. I’ll be seeing this guy a lot, at least because of work. If there’s anything I should know, I want you to tell me.”
“It was a long time ago, sweetie.”
“You can tell me. Seriously. Remember the time you tried to talk about Dad’s penis?”
I shuddered at the memory.
“That one was a little too much, wasn’t it?” She looked sheepish.
“A little too much? You crossed so many lines it isn’t even funny.”
She sighed, frowning. “Look honey, it’s an old story. Do you really want to know?”
“Please. I really do.” And I realized just how desperate I was to know.
She was quiet for a second, lost in thought. “It happened when I was still reviewing for the Times,” she said slowly.
“Eli Carterson was producing his first movie, something called Escapee. It was a thriller, pretty high budget for the time, supposed to bring in a lot of money at the box office. I don’t know how, but he knew of me, maybe had read some of my reviews, I don’t know. But he ended up getting my office number and calling me one afternoon. He said he wanted to let me watch the film early, and hoped that I would consider reviewing it. At the time, that was a pretty weird request, or at least I hadn’t gotten it before, but I figured, what the heck, and said yes. I made sure he understood that I wasn’t guaranteeing I’d write anything, let alone write a good review, and he said that was fine, whatever. You know how that can go. People have their own set of rules and expectations, and I guess Noah’s dad was working on his own wavelength.
“Anyway, a week later, I drove over to the studio where he was working at the time and met him. Nice guy, maybe a little sleazy, but attractive. He gave me a short tour of the grounds, which was really nice of him, and then he set me up in a private viewing area and played the film. I sat through the whole thing, and afterward he treated me to lunch. It was all pretty nice and personal, and he seemed to be really trying to pull out all the salesman stops, trying to woo me. And honestly, I felt a little uncomfortable.
“Here’s the problem. The movie was awful. I mean, really honey, it was so bad I couldn’t understand how they spent so much money on it. At lunch, he gave me this whole speech about how it was going to be an Oscar contender, and the studio had a lot of faith in him, and all this nonsense, and I couldn’t believe it. I mean, he was only a producer; it wasn’t like he directed the thing, but still. I had to smile and nod and pretend like what I had seen wasn’t a total absolute train wreck.
“Finally, lunch was over, and I went home. Sometimes, I look back on this moment and wish I had done something differently. I don’t regret it, not exactly, but I wish I had done it a little differently. At any rate, I was so shocked that the studio was wasting so much time and talent and energy on such a terrible movie that I slammed it. I mean, I absolutely tore it apart. I wrote the meanest, most negative review of my entire career. I haven’t written something so scathing since. And you know what? My editor loved it. He loved it so much, he ran the whole thing, and gave me half an entire page, which was a lot for me back then.
“Well, you can imagine how Noah’s dad took it. He was furious. He called me twenty times, threatened to sue, and said some pretty terrible things I won’t repeat. He was actually pretty scary for a while. After a week though, he stopped bothering me, and I thought things had died down. But boy, was I wrong. Soon, my editor started getting calls from studio executives, trying to get me fired. Every time I tried to interview someone from Mr. Carterson’s studio, I was completely ignored and stonewalled. It quickly became apparent that he was blackballing me. He was using his time and influence and money to try to destroy my career.
“And it worked. At least, it worked for a little while. I couldn’t get the interviews I needed to get, I couldn’t get anyone to talk to me. I could still watch and review movies, of course, but anybody could do that. All of my contacts were slowly leaving me, which meant my career was slipping away. Eventually, after a few months of trying and trying, my editors demoted me to a different part of the entertainment section. After that, I quit, because I couldn’t bring myself to write about abortions and pill popping starlets and crap like that.