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August 2009


Australia

 

His phone was ringing. Fumbling on his nightstand, he raised the phone to his ear and rasped, “Hello?”

 

“Hi Daddy!”

 

Despite his grogginess, a smile instantly crossed his face. “Joie!” Glancing at the clock, he asked, “What are you doing up so early?”

 

He heard childish giggling on the line. “It’s not early!”

 

“It is for me!”

 

Beside him, the sheets moved and a muffled groan could be heard. Arthur quietly slipped out of bed and into the bathroom, closing the door. His reflection in the mirror looked unhealthily pale.

 

“Mommy said you’re in the future right now. Is that for real?”

 

“You could say that.”

 

“I did say! Are you a time traveler?”

 

“No. I’m just in Australia.”

 

“Will you bring me back a kangaroo?”

 

“They have to stay here in their natural habitat. It’s where they’re happy.”

 

“Then take a picture of one, please,” there was a brief silence, “Daddy, did Grandpa go to Heaven?”

 

A lump rose in his throat. Swallowing it, he answered, “Of course, baby.”

 

“Mommy said there’s no such thing as Heaven. She said you made it up.”

 

“I didn’t make it up.”

 

“I told her so. She said you lied to make me feel better. Did you go to Australia to look for him?”

 

“No, I—”

 

On the other line, he could hear a muffled voice in the background.

 

“I gotta go now. Bye Daddy!”

 

“Bye baby.”

 

She hung up. Arthur dropped the phone on the bathroom counter and rubbed his eyes before opening the door.

 

On the other side of the bed, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen was watching him, her head perched on her fist.

 

“Sorry for waking you,” he whispered.

 

“Was that your daughter?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

He lay down beside her. It was too warm even for sheets.

 

“I’m glad to see you care about her. A lot of guys in your position wouldn’t give a damn.” She rolled over on her side, facing him. “Arthur?”

 

He turned his head. “Yeah?”

 

“Did you ever love Morgan DeMille?”

 

The humidity was oppressive. His bare skin was already beginning to break out in a sweat.

 

“No. I was stupid, and I made a mistake.” Then, realizing how he sounded, he quickly added, “Good things can still come from bad choices.”

 

She fell silent. Sighing, he started to nod off.

 

“Do you love me?”

 

He opened his eyes. She watched him closely, nervous and vulnerable.

 

There was a tangible expectancy hanging between them. He had waited his whole life for someone to ask him that question. Now that the moment had arrived, he was both terrified and ecstatic to answer.

 

“Yes.”

 

And it was true, as he understood it—she made him happy. Guilty, too, and remorseful for all the other women who had come before her in his life. Because he knew what it was like now, to love.

 

There was another question sitting eagerly in his throat, longing to spring forth from his lips. But she looked so content at his answer, he didn’t dare spoil it.

 

The question was, of course, Do you love me, too?

 

***

 

On the third of June, 2006, Johanna Jackson was born.

 

Months beforehand, he told his family everything. He hadn’t meant to spill his guts, but once he started, the rest just came tumbling out.

 

While Tobias had stayed stone-faced while Arthur admitted to alcoholism and philandry, his father’s gaze had slowly sunk to the floor. Of all the emotions he expected from Michael, disappointment was what he got, and it was disappointment that was the hardest to bear.

 

As soon as he stopped speaking, Tobias grabbed Arthur’s arm and pulled him aside, whispering, “Get a paternity test. Make sure she’s telling the truth.”

 

“She has no reason to lie.”

 

“No reason?” Tobias gaped at him. “Did you forget who you are? She’s just like any other groupie—she wants to be famous for having your baby and exploit you for child support. Isn’t it obvious?”

 

“I just—I don’t think she’s lying,” Arthur sighed, “I’ll do the test, of course. But sometimes… Sometimes I wonder if she chose me. Like I was a sperm donor or something. She had to have known I was out of it and would forget to use protection. She could have said something—she should have done something.”

 

“Must’ve been too dazzled by you,” Tobias muttered irritably.

 

Arthur shook his head. “She’s not that kind of woman. I just don’t understand how she could be that naïve. Unless she wanted this to happen...”

 

Before Tobias could ask him what he meant, Michael, who had slowly made his way over while they were talking, put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

 

“It’s okay.”

 

Arthur crumpled in his father’s arms. He couldn’t stop shaking.

 

D wouldn’t answer his calls.

 

***

 

Neuromancer was a sleeper hit. He imagined the whole affair had only served to boost interest in the movie.

 

With a reputation ruined and a blockbuster under his belt, Arthur became a little more than the son of Michael Jackson. Every kid in America, ignorant of his transgressions, wanted to be the Neuromancer. He was an action figure, a toy, a costume. Money kept rolling in, profits from the selling of his likeness, the Arthur Jackson brand. Gladly, he accepted the funds; quietly, he donated most of it.

 

With what was left, he bought a house. It was a Victorian mansion, the kind with a tower shaped like an octagon. The closest neighbors were almost a mile away, and he found comfort in being protected from prying eyes.

 

The third of June arrived. He was late getting to the hospital. Someone must have tipped off the paparazzi, who had gathered around the entrance.

 

There were bodyguards all around to provide a buffer between him and them, but their voices, shrill, insistent, and demanding, reached his ears without a filter. The moment he opened the door he was bombarded with questions:

 

“Arthur, is the child really yours?”

 

“Arthur, what’s your current relationship with Miss DeMille?”

 

“Arthur, do you have anything to say about—”

 

“Arthur, has your father ever—”

 

The guards shoved their way through the crowd like satellites bouncing off meteors.

 

It was two in the morning. He was groggy, nervous, and unfocused. Mechanically he told the receptionist his name and why he was there; when a nurse appeared to lead him to Morgan, he had to drag himself along.

 

At that point, everything happened very quickly, becoming a hazy blur in his memory. A swarm of doctors buzzed around the bed where Morgan lay. He thought it was strange that she refused to make a sound. She was sweating, straining, and breathing very hard, but not once did she scream or cry or even curse.

 

And in spite of all the shuffling feet, whirring machinery, and latex-clad hands squeaking, Arthur was having trouble staying awake. He was rubbing the sand out of his bleary eyes when he heard a piercing wail. Jerking back to reality, he caught only a glimpse of gore-soaked flesh before the nurse turned away from him and walked through an open door.

 

Was something wrong? He looked at Morgan, who seemed to have fallen asleep. The doctors were still cleaning up the mess, and no one seemed particularly concerned.

 

He got the attention of a scrub-clad man who was passing by. “Where did they take the baby?”

 

“For a paternity test.”

 

“Right now?”

 

“She insisted.”

 

Following Tobias’ advice, Arthur had demanded proof that he was the father. Morgan had calmly informed him that there were only two methods of DNA testing in utero, and both were expensive, dangerous, and not covered by her insurance. “But if you wait until after she’s born,” she added in a carefully measured tone, “you’ll have your proof.”

 

“Can I see her?” Arthur asked, his tone urgent.

 

“I don’t see why not—”

 

The doctor had hardly finished his sentence before Arthur was out the door. It led to a small room consisting primarily of cabinets. The nurse had laid the baby, still whining faintly, down on an examination table and was gently wiping her off with a towel.

 

Arthur crept over to the side, making sure not to startle the woman, and peered over her shoulder. Tiny eyes darted about, squinting against the fluorescent lights. Even then, he could see that the irises were blue. It was the same shade of blue in Lorenzo’s eyes, in Aunt Elena’s, in his mother’s, in his own.

 

He touched her cheek lightly, and a plump fist clenched around his finger. She began to cry again, her chest heaving with each exhale of spent air.

 

While he watched, the nurse grabbed a cotton swab, stuck it in her rosebud mouth, made two quick strokes, and collected the sample in a plastic tube.

 

The lab was quick; they had the results within a couple of days. One hundred percent positive.

 

***

 

It was easy to get help for alcoholism. He passed billboards for Alcoholics Anonymous on his way to the studio. There were ads in the paper and on TV for local rehabilitation centers. A quick Internet search would lay out all options. Detox. Therapy. Medicine. Abstinence. Chew gum instead. Or was that just for smokers?

 

But if you went to a doctor in L.A. and told them you had a sex addiction, they would laugh. Addicted to sex? What a ridiculous idea! Promiscuity was perfectly natural, and not at all harmful, so long as the proper steps were taken to ensure safety.

 

Arthur went to therapy in order to stop drinking. They detoxed him, gave him medicine. He chewed gum instead. Before long, he had been clean for a year, then two years. The same could not be said of his other problem.

 

It wasn’t as if he didn’t try. He’d first found himself locked in a dressing room, his co-star sitting in his lap, slowly unbuttoning her shirt. All he needed to do was think of Morgan lying on the hospital bed, and suddenly he was redoing her buttons for her and babbling out an apology.

 

“What are you, some kind of prude?” the vixen sneered, “It’s because of that dumb bitch who got knocked up, isn’t it? I’m not that stupid. I’ve been on the pill since I was twelve!”

 

He distinctly remembered shoving her off his lap and slamming the door. It didn’t matter what everyone around him said. He knew this kind of behavior wasn’t normal, wasn’t healthy.

 

But it ran in the family. Joseph Jackson was a world-class adulterer, even fathering a child with another woman. His uncles had burned through sultry whores, pleading groupies, and hysterical fangirls as young men. You could populate a neighborhood with all their ex-wives. His aunts were no different. Even Lorenzo had left the mother of his children for Vanessa.

 

So it wasn’t long before he woke up one morning with another woman he barely knew in bed with him. There was no alcohol to cloud his senses anymore. He remembered giving in, and he had no excuses, save bad blood.

 

It was then that the memory of smudged purple eyeshadow and hands on the small of his back came back to him. Morgan had whispered in his ear, “You are the second most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

 

He had laughed, too drunk to fully process what she was saying. “Oh yeah? Who’s number one?”

 

It was still a little hazy, but he could have sworn she answered, “Your father.”

 

***

 

In late 2008, a company called Fortress Investments threatened to foreclose on Neverland. Michael Jackson was deeply in debt and could no longer afford to maintain a home he had vowed never to reside in again.

 

Just as quickly as his sons heard the news, Michael was telling them he had entered a new deal with another company, one that would clear him of his debts and allow him to keep Neverland. Of course, he would have to share ownership, but it was only temporary.

 

To add to their good fortunes, he was working on a new album, and had a series of concerts planned at the O2 theater in London. He was doing it mostly for Prince, Paris, and Blanket, who had never seen him perform live. Arthur planned on bringing Johanna, too, as soon as he had the time.

 

And then, just like that, everything stopped. Michael Jackson was dead, and with him went the hopes and dreams, the new beginnings, the will to fight.

 

“Oh, and the Internet crashed,” Morgan told him over the phone, “Too much traffic. 20% higher than normal...”

 

Arthur didn’t respond. He held the phone up to his ear, but he couldn’t feel the plastic, didn’t hear the words coming through. Shock would pervade him until the funeral; only then would he finally break down and weep.

 

Morgan sighed at his silence. “Do you want me to bring Johanna over?”

 

It was a Thursday. He wasn’t supposed to have her until next Friday.

 

“Please.”

 

Her car pulled into the driveway an hour later. Arthur was sitting on the front step.

 

Morgan got out of the car and opened the door to the backseat. He heard a thump and then the sound of feet pattering across the stone walkway. A tiny figure in a sky blue dress appeared in his line of sight, clutching a battered teddy bear.

 

“Daddy!”

 

Chubby arms wrapped around his neck and a head of curly brown hair nestled against his cheek.

 

Arthur held her close. “Oh, I missed you, baby.”

 

He could see Morgan leaning against her car, watching them through half-lidded eyes.

 

“Joie, go on inside. I want to talk to Mommy.”

 

Johanna obeyed without fuss. Arthur descended the rest of the steps and stood before Morgan. They just stared at each other.

 

“Do you have something you want to tell me?” Morgan asked coolly. Though she was very good at hiding it, he guessed that she was just as shaken as he was.

 

“I need you to tell me the truth.”

 

“About what?” she snapped, “You had your DNA test. What more could there be?”

 

“It’s not about that. I want to know why you had her.”

 

She glared at him. “The birth control failed. I told you I don’t believe in abortion. There was no other choice left but to have her.”

 

He shook his head. “Morgan—”

 

“You want to know why I fucked you in the first place? Is that it?” she snapped, “You want your ego stroked? You want me to tell you that I was all caught up in your charms, enraptured by your beauty? You want to believe that I was struck with awe and lust, that I could think of nothing else but my own gratification?”

 

She took a step forward, and he took a step back. Her eyes were wild with rage, and her voice seethed with venom.

 

“I’ll level with you. I’ll be honest. I wanted Michael Jackson, not you. I’ve wanted him my whole life. Fuck me for not being born famous like your mother.” She laughed callously. “Even though I eventually made it here, I didn’t think I’d ever have a chance—then you fell right into my lap. I thought I could be like Grushenka and play with both father and son. I knew you wouldn’t stick around willingly, so I made sure you had no choice.”

 

A sniffle broke her train of thought. Purplish tears streaked her face. “I was imagining him coming to visit his first grandchild. I wanted him to be there when she was born, not you. I thought you wouldn’t care, but I knew he would. I knew he would…”

 

Her voice cracked, and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing her makeup. Arthur was speechless. He felt hollow.

 

When he didn’t say anything, Morgan got in her car, still crying, and started the engine. He watched her drive away until she was out of sight, then slowly, he turned around and went into the house.

 

Johanna was in the living room watching TV. “Daddy’s here,” she announced to her teddy bear. Wearily he sat beside her, wrapping one arm around her and kissing the top of her head.

 

 

“Daddy’s here.”

Chapter End Notes:

*Grushenka is a character in The Karamazov Brothers by Fyodor Dostoevsky. She is the object of the affections of a father and son, who fight viciously over her.

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