Hollywood Boulevard. Janyce Stefan-Cole

out of his once- upon- a- time sharp eyes but because of that once- upon- a- time itself. A time when Harry Machin called the shots, was mother hen, pissed- off daddy, and fighting superagent who could make me feel anxious or secure, who'd shaped so much of my and others' lives. Maybe it was a wave of compassion for my own past too. I pictured Harry walking heavily down the Croisette, at Cannes, after a press conference, telling me I'd done well. Telling me the plan if I won Cannes, how we'd take the whole world. Harry was going to see to it that I arrived and that I got there in style. That was the day he tried to buy me a new dress for the award ceremony.

      The table was cleared and tea brought out, green for Harry, black for me. I asked for milk. Harry was scanning me, that old Buddha scan, quiet and penetrating. "What?" I said, knowing what was coming.

      "I could work you. Goddammit, you still have it. You have it more than you ever did. You're just approaching peak. Don't you know that? This is a crime."

      Was I a horse? Place your bets? "Harry . . ."

      "What are you doing these days? Writing haiku, flower- arranging classes? Ah, a memoir, perhaps?" The sarcasm came with a kind of bluing of his lips. His eyes were dark underneath.

      I started to stand. "I should probably go."

      Harry held up his hand. "I'm going to stay calm, though I'd like to slap you around, to make you come to your senses. Do you think life gives you a choice?"

      "I don't know what you mean." I felt heavy and tired and sank back into my chair.

      "If you have something to give the world, it is your duty, your God- given duty, to take that something— talent— and make it live, push it to the limit, and bring it home." As he spoke his left hand tapped each word out on the table.

      "Don't, Harry. This isn't necessary."

      "Not necessary?" That fierceness I'd sensed when I'd arrived was piercing now, like a knife blade in the sun, a hawk about to dive at its prey. "Then give me a reason; tell me what you would not tell me before."

      I shook my head slowly.

      "WHY DID YOU QUIT?" he thundered, banging his hand on the table.

      I flinched. The housekeeper came running into the dining room. "Mr. Machin! Mr. Machin? You mustn't upset yourself." She gave me a dirty look.

      Harry waved her away. He stood up, hands grabbing the edge of the table. To me he said— his eyes boring into my smallest, most curled- up corner— almost in a whisper: "Why?"