Trophy Kid (4 page)

five

At breakfast several days after the bowling-for-the-homeless charity event (where, with Tom’s help, I’d broken one hundred for the first time in my life), Greta announced that Tom should accompany us on our trip to Washington. The President was going to present Robert with a Medal of Freedom.

“It will make a great chapter in your book,” Greta had said to me at breakfast, before Tom arrived at our house. “I’m not sure Tom is getting the right impression of us as a family.”

I was pretty sure Tom was getting
exactly
the right impression: our family was one big photo op. Once upon a time, families lived off the crops they grew on their land. Later, people began to live off what they could produce with their hands and minds. Our family seemed to live off having our pictures taken. It was as if we were some strange species from another world that would die if people didn’t see our images on TV or in the newspaper. Every time our names were read or our pictures were seen, our lives would be prolonged until the next crisis of “lack of exposure” threatened us.

Whatever impression Tom had been getting of us, I was ecstatic that Greta was planning on inviting him to come to Washington—which made what happened next all the more enjoyable to witness.

Guava didn’t have to be at the studio until later in the day and was seated at the round “egalitarian” table opposite me, eating a wheat-free waffle topped with strawberries and a tablespoon of whipped cream.

“I want more whipped cream. Send it back,” Guava said imperiously.

“Honey, we’re not at a restaurant,” Greta said. “You know we don’t want you to look pudgy on your show.” I didn’t think that Greta was being mean; she was simply talking to Guava as one actress to another. Even I knew the camera added ten pounds.

“I’m not pudgy,” Guava protested. “Fine, then I won’t eat anything,” she snapped, pushing her plate away.

Robert walked into the room, dressed for tennis. He played doubles on our private court with a few of his actor friends three days a week.

“What’s going on?” Robert asked.

“Oh, she just wants more whipped cream on her waffle,” Greta said.

“After you wrap the show, we’ll let you have your normal ration of sweets,” Robert said firmly.

“I’m quitting the show!” Guava screamed. “I hate you!”

Normally at this point, I would have excused myself from the room, but since Tom and I had started writing the book, I had been trying to observe my adoptive family more objectively, and this was definitely worth observing.

“You want more whipped cream,” Robert said sternly. “Okay. Octavia, could you bring us some more whipped cream for Guava’s waffle?”

“Robert, what are you doing?” a worried Greta asked.

“I’m going to give her what she wants,” Robert said, not taking his eyes off Guava, who had her arms crossed over her chest and whose mouth was in the tightest pout I’d ever seen.

Octavia walked in with the can of whipped cream. Robert took it from her. “Thank you, Octavia.” He then walked over and stood above Guava, who reached for the whipped cream. Robert pulled it away.

“Allow me,” he said, in a sweet but menacing tone. It was a line from one of Robert’s early movies, in which he played a psychotic serial killer. You knew that whoever he said “Allow me” to would be his next victim.

“Robert, don’t do this,” Greta protested.

Robert ignored Greta’s warning and added an additional dollop of whipped cream to the tiny amount already on the waffle.

“More?”

At once suspicious and impatient, Guava said, “Yes. Give it to me.”

Robert jerked his hand away. He added another dollop.

“How’s that?”

“Give it to me. I’ll do it myself!” Guava shrieked.

“Perhaps we’ll allow you a little more. Just this once,” Robert said. He was smiling, but I knew from experience that he was about to teach one of his children a lesson.

Robert once again held the can of whipped cream over the waffle and pressed the nozzle, only this time he did not stop at a dollop, a tablespoon, or even a cup of whipped cream; he kept going until the entire contents of the can had been emptied onto Guava’s waffle. The huge mountain of whipped cream caused the strawberries and waffle to vanish.

“Is that enough for you? I can have Octavia bring me another can if it isn’t,” Robert said obligingly.

Guava, who had inherited Greta’s fair complexion, was turning a reddish purple. Her tiny nostrils were flared and her normally cheerful hazel eyes seemed to flash red as she took in and released great lungfuls of air. I braced myself for the explosion. But to my surprise, she picked up her spoon and calmly said, “This is perfect.”

She then ate the entire mountain of whipped cream, along with the strawberries and waffle beneath it, while the rest of us stared at her in disbelief. When she finished, she said, “That was delicious. Thank you, Daddy. I’m going to get ready for rehearsal.”

If Guava got sick from the whipped cream, and she probably did, nobody ever knew it. I had new respect for Guava.

Two weeks after the whipped cream incident, everything had returned to abnormal (as opposed to extraordinarily insane) and we were all in the first-class cabin of a plane headed for Washington, D.C.

Greta and Guava were seated together, looking through fashion magazines, while Robert sat next to his lawyer, Larry. They were going over the speech Robert would make when the President gave him his medal.

Tom and I were in the row opposite Greta and Guava.

“How come Robert gets a medal and not Greta?” Tom asked. “Isn’t she into all the same causes he is?”

“Yes and no,” I said. “These days she’s less into feeding starving children and more into feeding Guava’s acting and singing careers.”

I thought it was pretty obvious that Robert wanted to go into politics. The whole Medal of Freedom ceremony was one step toward his ultimate goal to run for office. Part of my duties as a trophy kid was going to fund-raisers and rallies for political causes and candidates Robert supported. I actually thought Robert might make a good governor or senator. It was like Tom said: whatever his motivations, Robert helped a lot of people.

“You know, I’ve never been to Washington,” Tom said. “But you’ve been there a lot, right?” It was early afternoon, and the flight attendant had just set down our trays. Tom had gone for the steak, while I had ordered chicken and mashed potatoes.

“Yeah,” I said. “One time I even spoke before a Congressional subcommittee.”

“Really? Tell me about it,” Tom said, cutting into his steak.

Robert and I were greeted at Dulles Airport by flocks of reporters and photographers. I was six years old going on seven, and this seemed perfectly normal to me. After all, the first time I’d ever flown on an airplane was when Greta and Robert had brought me from Croatia to Los Angeles, so I figured every plane flight from anywhere to anywhere else had hundreds of people waiting for you on either end of the journey holding cameras, notebooks, and tape recorders.

We were taken directly from the airport to Capitol Hill and into the office of Senator Preston Morgan of Iowa. Morgan was chairman of a special committee that Robert and I were going to testify before. The committee had been formed to determine whether the government was putting its money to the best possible use when it came to relief efforts around the world.

“Great to see you, Robert,” Morgan said when we entered his office. “And how are you doing, Joe?”

“Fine,” I said, taking an immediate disliking to the man, who smelled like aftershave and shoe polish.

“I got you a present,” Morgan said in his oily way, and handed me a toy pickup truck whose bed was filled with stalks of corn. There was writing on the truck’s cab door.

“That says ‘Buy Iowa Corn,’” he said, a broad smile on his face.

“Thank you,” I replied, not liking him any better for passing a toy on to me that I suspected had been given to him by someone else.

“You can play with it over there while I talk to your dad,” he said, pointing to a corner of the room.

I didn’t like his telling me what to do. I stood there for a moment even though I wanted to escape his smell.

“Go ahead, Joe,” Robert said.

I did as I was told but listened to their conversation as I rolled the truck back and forth along the wood floor. Even at six going on seven, I was amazed at how oblivious adults were to the fact that kids pay attention to everything.

“With your help, Bob, the future is going to be very bright for the party,” Morgan said behind his desk.

I tried to figure out whose party we might be going to later that day.

“I’m here to help get funding for those relief organizations, that’s all,” Robert said.

“Said like a true politician,” Morgan laughed. “Of course, you know that I can do a lot more for these organizations from the Oval Office.” The senator winked.

“You just tell me where to be and when,” Robert said smoothly.

“And your Hollywood friends?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good. I knew I could count on you,” Morgan said, rising from his chair. “And you know when the time comes, the party will be there for you, too.”

Was a party coming to our hotel room that night? I wondered.

The two men shook hands.

“See you this afternoon,” Morgan said.

Robert called to me, “Come on, Joe, let’s go.”

Later that afternoon we were in a large room, sitting at a table facing a row of senators. Behind us were reporters and spectators.

“Would you mind answering a question for me, Joe?” a senator with a thick Southern accent asked.

I looked at Robert, who had told me beforehand what I would be asked and how I should respond. He nodded to me that it was okay.

“No, sir,” I said.

Robert had coached me to say “sir” to any of the senators who addressed me.

“Very polite, I like that,” the senator said. “Those of us from the South put a lot of value in manners. It shows respect for yourself and others.” The Southern senator leaned forward. “Joe, if you had one wish, what would it be?”

“To see my mom,” I said. “I mean my other mom.” I looked at Robert, who gave me a slight, approving nod.

“Of course,” the senator said, taking off his glasses. “Joe, like you, I lost my parents at a young age. I was lucky and had an aunt and uncle who took care of me. You’ve been lucky, too, having new parents who love and care for you. But not all children are as lucky as you and me. So if you had one more wish for other orphans, son, what would it be?”

“That they could be lucky, too, sir,” I said, as rehearsed. A flurry of flashbulbs went off.

“Thank you, son,” the Southern senator said, putting his glasses back on. “Thank you for your bravery and your good heart.”

The “that they could be lucky, too” clip was on all the news programs that evening, and before long the Senate approved a 25 percent increase in spending to poverty-relief organizations around the world. But even though some good came out of my performance, looking back, I felt like a little of Senator Morgan’s oil had dripped onto me.