Dreamer of Dune (42 page)

Dad and I went to see Mom at around 11:00
A.M
. On the way, he said Mom's best hope might lie in ongoing research into the body's immune system. If certain problems could be resolved, she might be able to receive a heart transplant. Up to that time, only a few hundred transplants had taken place in the entire world, and many of the patients had died when their immune systems did not accept the new organ or when other complications set in, such as pneumonia.

Dad said he had to do all of the cooking now, as Mom did not have the energy. He was feeling pretty tired himself, suffering his usual jet lag on top of everything else. He brought his manuscript along, but hadn't been able to touch it. “I'm too wrung out to write,” he said.

At our house that evening, Dad was showing Kim and me how to prepare one of his favorite meals, Oyster Sauce Beef. He took a call from his film agent, Ned Brown, in the midst of this and told him how Mom was doing. In some detail, they discussed a complete waiver that was being signed by Chilton Books, at the conclusion of which my father said, “Righto. They'll hold me blameless for everything and will never sue me, even if I urinate on them.”

Later at the hospital, Mom asked about the cut on Dad's head, which she hadn't noticed previously because of the effects of her medication.

“It's not serious,” he responded. “Just a little hole.”

Dad sat with Mom on the bed. He was a little too clumsy for her this time, however, with his arm around her shoulder so that it hurt her neck, and leaning against her so that she had trouble breathing. With a girlish giggle, she dispatched him to his chair.

When we were about to leave, Dad leaned close to Mom and held her hand, telling her he loved her and adding, “I wish you were with me.”

“Why?” she asked, looking at the cut on his forehead. “Then I'd have a hole in my head, too!”

On the drive home Dad said his income had doubled in a short period of time, but mentioned what I had heard before, that they were still having a great deal of trouble keeping up with expenses. I offered to loan him thirty or forty thousand dollars, if that would help, but he said that would hardly touch his financial obligations.

“I'll keep your offer in mind,” he said, “but I think I can pry something loose from my publishers.”

During the next week, Dad stayed with us most nights, but at least half the time he slept at the hospital near Mom, in a waiting room or on a cot they set up for him.

Jan and I visited Mom every day. To outward appearances she seemed too healthy to be in the hospital, and I was hopeful for her. She told me Dad was always making sure she had everything, and if anything was lacking or slow in arriving, he went in search of a nurse. He even monitored the medications she was receiving, and asked doctors and nurses to explain the purpose of each one, and the dosages. “Sometimes he orders the nurses around,” Mom said with a smile, “as if he were a doctor.”

Just before we checked Mom out of the hospital in early March, Dad told me the doctors only gave her two years to live. “I think she'll live longer,” he added in a resolute tone. “She's fooled the experts before.”

I was shaking, and he comforted me.

A few days later the telephone rang at my office, and I answered with my name.

To this she replied, “Hello, Brian Herbert.” She sounded surprisingly good, and it comforted me. She was in Port Townsend, and said Dad had been interviewed that morning by
The New York Times
. She had been to her doctor in Port Townsend, giving blood for a sample he needed.

I asked what else she had been doing during the week.

“Just giving blood,” she said. “I've been paying bills.”

“Are you swimming?” I inquired.

“Starting again,” she said. “Your father is helping me.”

Among Dad's many ideas in recent years he had mentioned the possibility of setting up a family compound near Issaquah, just east of Seattle. But Mom had her own input, which differed. They spent a day in the middle of March with a realtor, looking at houses on Mercer Island and in nearby Bellevue. They wanted a rambler due to Mom's exertion problem. No stairs. Jan went with them, and told me afterward that Mom had trouble breathing under the slightest exertion. They didn't find a house that they liked.

That evening, we went to dinner at a gourmet restaurant on Mercer Island, and I noticed the breathing noises my mother was making, too. I held her arm and walked with her from the car to the table. She seemed so delicate and small, but she was cheerful and smiled at me frequently. At the table, I helped her out of her elegant, long black coat. She wore a lavender Missoni dress and a pearl necklace with matching earrings. A gold Swiss watch adorned her left wrist.

I told Dad that for a couple of weeks I had been worrying about books I had in New York in search of publishers,
The Garbage Chronicles
and
The Client's Survival Manual
. I was quick to add that I was at work on a new novel,
Sudanna, Sudanna
, and this pleased him.

On Monday, March 28, 1983, Dad was scheduled to fly to Mexico City to operate the clapboard for the first scene of the
Dune
movie. Mom had planned to go, but her doctors felt that the altitude there (7,350 feet) and severe air pollution could make it difficult for her to breathe. Consequently, she would remain home. Deeply disappointed at not being able to be with him on such a momentous occasion, she was grouchy the whole week that he was gone.

Jan shifted her school schedule around to be with Mom, and arrived in Port Townsend just before Dad left. He explained my mother's dietary needs to Jan, and her exercise program, with this caution, “You have to stay with her every second in the pool.”

A strong swimmer, Jan told him not to worry.

Max Von Sydow, José Ferrer, Jurgen Prochnow, Linda Hunt and Sting would be in the cast, and they had a new actor for the leading role of Paul Atreides, Kyle MacLachlan, a recent graduate of the University of Washington acting school. He had played Shakespearean parts, including Octavius Caesar and Romeo, and when discovered by a
Dune
casting agent was playing in The Empty Space Theatre's production of
Tartuffe
in Seattle. MacLachlan, signed to a multi-picture deal for more stories in the
Dune
series, had been a fan of
Dune
since reading it at the age of twelve or thirteen. Remarkably, he had sometimes fantasized about playing the part of Paul. Two screen tests were required before he won the coveted role—one in Los Angeles and the second in Mexico City.

I spoke with Dad on the telephone early in April after he arrived home. He was not feeling well, having contracted what he termed
“mal de la pais,”
meaning “the ill of the country.” He was euphoric nonetheless, saying that the movie production was going extremely well. He said he had dined with Sian Phillips, Richard Jordan, José Ferrer and other members of the cast.

The filming was taking place at Churubusco Studios, near the site of the 1968 Olympic Games. Dad got to keep the clapboard from the very first take of the first scene, after he clicked it to start the cameras rolling. Later the film crew would shoot desert scenes in the Samalayucca Desert of northern Mexico.

“I shot off the starting pistol,” my father said.

Frank Herbert was pleased with the way that David Lynch was directing the project. “David understands the essence of my book,” Dad said. “He's translated my swashbuckler to the language of film.”

He said that half a dozen people recognized him on the plane coming home, and he suspected it would get worse after the movie came out. This comment was based not only on the general publicity but on the fact that he might do an Alfred Hitchcock–style cameo appearance in the movie. Some people were suggesting that he shave off his beard to protect his privacy. To this he replied, steadfastly, “No way. It's my trademark.”

He also said there was continued strong interest from Paramount Pictures about doing
The White Plague
as a movie, and that he'd been on the telephone with his film agent, Ned Brown, about that recently.

On Monday, April 11, Clyde Taylor called from New York with fantastic news. He said Berkley Books wanted to publish
The Garbage Chronicles
. After listening to an account of their offer, which he thought was satisfactory, I told him to accept.

The following Saturday we arrived in Port Townsend just before noon. The new Hood Canal floating bridge was completed and open, making the trip a lot easier and saving at least an hour of travel time.

That afternoon my father and I discussed our collaboration, the book about America. He had some intriguing ideas, and showed enthusiasm for a number of my suggestions. He also said to me, “You'll establish your name as a novelist. In fact, from what I've been hearing out of New York, you already have.”

Margaux ran around getting into things all day, with my mother and the rest of us saying, constantly, “No, no!” Finally, Mom quipped, “I've always wanted the kids to call me Nanna, but I'm afraid this one is going to think my name is Nono.”

The following morning I arose before dawn and went up to Dad's loft study, where I typed a couple of pages of
America
notes from the previous day's discussion. He had a big Olympia typewriter on a side table, in addition to the computer and printer, which were set up on the desk.

Dad came upstairs just as I was finishing. He wore a blue terrycloth robe, with the script initials “F H” embroidered in gold on the pocket. His blond hair was wet and slicked back, from swimming. “I
thought
I heard my typewriter going,” he said.

My father scanned the notes, then slapped them down on the desk and said, “Good. I'll add to them later. You want some orange juice?”

“Sure.”

We squeezed half a dozen oranges in his big manual press on the kitchen counter, poured the juice in glasses and drank quickly, before the vitamin C dissipated.

“I did forty laps this morning,” he said. “About average.”

For him, perhaps, but not for most sixty-two-year-old men.

He gave me a cast list for the movie, showing a number of names we hadn't discussed before, including Dean Stockwell, Francesca Annis and Dino De Laurentiis' wife, Silvana Mangano, who had been a renowned beauty in her youth. Dad said he and Mom were getting a percentage on sales of movie tickets, and a different percentage on toys, dolls, coloring books and other products.

Emerging from the master bedroom, Mom joined the conversation. She had ideas for a fuzzy stuffed worm and a breakfast cereal called Melange. (After the precious spice of
Dune
.)

“I'm taking your mother to the movies next year,” Dad added. “Our movie.”

She beamed.

We were getting ready to leave for home, when Margaux slipped into Mom's office and flipped on her electric typewriter. Dad got pretty mad about this, and yelled at Julie and Kim for not keeping a better watch on their little sister.

Later that month my mother telephoned me at work while I was assembling a vegetarian sandwich on my desktop. She said excitedly that
Sidney's Comet
had just received a rave review from
Publishers Weekly
, a prestigious literary publication.

This was a total surprise to me, as my book hadn't been published yet. Scheduled for June, I had been told it might be out as early as May. Mom said they must have reviewed an advanced reading copy of the book and said it was a significant step in my new career.

“We're very proud of you,” she said.

Dad got on the line and said something kind of corny, that I liked anyway. “That's my boy.”

Clyde Taylor called from New York that afternoon, and read the review to me. Then he mailed me a copy. It read, in part:

Two weeks later I received copies of the book in the mail, and began distributing signed copies to my family. On the title page, I crossed off my name and signed next to it, just as my father did. It had become a family tradition.

My mother was driving the Mercedes coupe now, giving her a degree of independence. She did pretty well, except for one day toward the end of May 1983, when she hit a garden stake with a nail on it that gouged paint along the bottom of one of the car doors. I took information on the claim from her.

On Thursday, June 2, Dad called to say a local bookstore wanted him to sign several boxes of his books for a special Frank Herbert display. He asked me to pick up the books and bring them to him. After work I picked up eleven boxes containing a mixture of his titles.

The next day we arrived in Port Townsend at 5:30
P.M
. It was cooler than it had been, around sixty degrees, and overcast. Only a few days before, the Pacific Northwest experienced record temperatures in the high eighties and low nineties.

Mom was reading Dad's just completed fifth
Dune
novel when we walked in. She was seated in one of the dark yellow recliner chairs in the sitting area adjacent to the kitchen, with manuscript pages spread out on the table beside her. She said it was great, that she couldn't put it down. She felt each book in the series was better than the one before, with plots and characterizations that were even better than
Dune
.

Dad said his newest,
Heretics of Dune
, was at least two hundred thousand words, and had gone beyond his earlier five-hundred-page manuscript projections. The words would probably be trimmed to 180,000 by Victoria Schochet, the freelance editor working on the project for Berkley/Putnam.
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