It had been kind of eerie, actually.
But as he walked back into Live Bait, to see Francesca staring at him expectantly, the possibilities that had occurred to him the moment he'd seen the man walk by began to play themselves out. If a vertically challenged pedestrian with a sense of humor could make the man who created Grumbler take a second look . . .
"I just had a brainstorm," he said, picking up his Coke glass once more.
"Is that what you call it?" she asked archly. "I would've thought you'd seen your car about to be towed or something."
Thomas smiled, mind working. "What about live-action?" he asked. "Why haven't we ever really discussed the possibility? I mean, I know what they'll say, 'Oh, Willow had a dwarf in it, and that tanked!' But Grumbler's just one character."
A man rising from his seat behind Thomas bumped his chair and didn't bother to apologize. Thomas barely looked at him, engrossed in his own thoughts. Francesca was contemplating, looking at Thomas over steepled fingers.
"I know what you're going to say," he preempted. "'It's too expensive.' But with the digital computer tech these days, it wouldn't cost that much. No more than animation, probably."
"They never did Winnie the Pooh live-action," Francesca finally said, allowing a thick strand of red hair to fall across her left eye. She didn't brush it away. Too focused.
"Not true. They did it once, but very cheaply, and very badly. Nobody ever really invested in it, but that's because the Pooh characters are supposed to be stuffed animals, which makes suspension of disbelief even harder than usual," Thomas countered. "This is different. All the creatures in Strangewood are intended to be flesh and blood. It's magical, but it's a real place."
Francesca looked away, then. Her eyes scanned the restaurant for nothing in particular. Thomas had known her too long, and this particular reaction meant she had something to say that she didn't think he'd want to hear.
"What?" he asked. "I don't understand why this idea isn't working for you."
It was several moments before she faced him once more. She chewed her lower lip in a way that might have been sexy if there were any physical attraction between them. Instead, it only frustrated him because she was holding back.
"Frankie, what?" he pleaded.
"I'll pitch it if you want," she relented. "But I don't know if anyone will go for it."
"For God's sake, why the hell not?" he asked, incredulous. "It's the most popular series of children's books in decades. Why wouldn't somebody pick it up?"
"They may," she explained. "But — and again, this is just me — I think that Strangewood in live-action might actually be kind of frightening to some kids, and I worry that the studios will feel the same."
"Frightening?" Thomas repeated. "You're joking! Well, obviously you're not joking. This isn't your kind of humor. But, still . . . what's scary about Strangewood?"
"There are a lot of scary things about Strangewood," she insisted. "That's half the fun, and half the reason it's so popular. But live-action is too . . . I don't know, too real. But, look, I'll pitch whatever you want."
Thomas was kind of cranky, now. He understood what Francesca was saying; had to admit to himself that she was right. There was an air of menace to almost everything that happened in Strangewood. Grumbler, for example, was so well-loved was because he was a bully, a potentially dangerous character, no matter how loveable. He carried a pair of Colt Peacemakers in armpit holsters. In the books he'd threatened the life of Mr. Tinklebum at least a dozen times. And the way Thomas wrote him, Grumbler had meant it.
But still . . .
"Look, just put out some feelers, all right?" he concluded. "With Disney snapping up the animation rights, it's going to be a hot property. Even without Nelson DeCastro."
"You're the creator," Francesca replied.
For some reason, the response struck him as amusing, and Thomas grinned. "Yeah," he said, "that'll be my epitaph."
* * * * *
The afternoon sunlight glowed orange off the glass and steel as Thomas piloted his Volvo sedan along the Saw Mill Parkway. Nathan was in kindergarten at St. Bridget's in Tarrytown, where he still lived with his mother. Thomas had moved to Ardsley, only a few miles away, right after the separation. Just close enough, and just far enough.
On Fridays, Nathan was in the afterschool program so that Thomas could have a full workday before picking him up. Most weeks, when he didn't have to be in Manhattan for a meeting as he'd had to today, he showed up around three o'clock anyway.
Now it was going on five, and traffic on the Saw Mill was snarled. Sister Margaret would wait, of course. She was a lovely old woman, not even the slightest whisper of Sister Teresa, the ancient, belittling crone who'd taught Thomas when he'd attended junior high at St. Bridget's.
The school was as boring and nondescript a hunk of real estate as ever graced the real estate rolls of Roman Catholicism. St. Bridget's church, in and of itself, was a gorgeous edifice, with a towering spire and an enormous oval stained glass crucifixion scene above the altar. But the rectory across the street, and the school next to that, might as well have been military bunkers.
When Thomas pulled the Volvo into the lot behind St. Bridget's, it was twenty minutes past five o'clock. Sister Margaret was on the rear steps watching Nathan clap erasers, a beatific smile on her face. As Thomas slammed the car door, she shot him a stern glance. It occurred to him that nuns just weren't as imposing now that contemporary thinking had allowed most of them to wear civilian clothes rather than the traditional black-and-white habit. Still, Sister Margaret was forbidding enough without the penguin outfit. If you didn't know how sweet she was.
"Hi, Daddy!" Nathan cried happily, all smiles, though he squinted through a cloud of chalk dust. "I just have to finish with these erasers, and then we can go!"
"You got it, buddy," Thomas replied, chuckling to himself. Nathan was a conscientious little boy. Truly a good kid. His eyes were ice blue — Paul Newman blue, Emily had always said — and his hair a sandy blond that could go either way, lighter or darker, as he grew. Bright, healthy, handsome, gregarious. That was Nathan. The Randalls — back when Thomas and Emily could still be collectively referred to as the Randalls — had been extremely fortunate.
But even the joy of Nathan's presence only delayed the inevitable. Thoughts of Emily brought to mind one of Thomas's favorite songs from the seventies. It was the Manhattans, he thought. "Some people are made for each other, some people can love one another for life. How 'bout us?"
He'd always believed wholeheartedly in such romantic drivel. At least until real life had intruded on radio daydreams. It had been quite a blow to him. The truth of the answer — which of course was "no" — hurt him deeply.
Entropy. Love fades. Nothing gold can stay. Time flies.
Depressing shit, all of it. But at the end of the day, he had a successful career, and he had Nathan. So in spite of the heartaches, Thomas was a relatively happy man.
"My apologies, Sister," he said as he mounted the school steps, remembering quite well the respect drummed into him over the years he'd spent at St. Bridget's.
"I'll forgive you this time, Thomas," the nun warned, though the smile had already returned to her face. "But only because you're usually so early."