I'll Let You Go

by Bruce Wagner

  He went to the shrink twice a week, refusing to speak of mother or father. The therapist didn’t seem to mind; he had all the time in the world, he said, and at $250 an hour, Tull was sure he was right. The boy did speak of Pullman, who had grown listless, and become chief repository of the analysand’s worst fears. He dwelled morbidly on the topic of longevity and developed a penetrating anxiety that his noble consort, that Apollo of dogs, that “Continental Gentleman,” was in fact on his last legs. (Because of the breed’s short life-span, Trinnie had initially opposed the Dane’s adoption, but Tull fell in love. Mother and son were at a children’s party in Malibu when Greg Louganis, the famed Olympic diver, walked by with three at the reins. Thereafter, Epitacio chauffeured the eight-year-old boy to Mr. Louganis’s hillside home almost daily; when a pup became available, he wouldn’t take no for an answer.) While the therapist thought it a wonderful way to work through abandonment issues, Tull became terrified to the point of sleeplessness of losing his pet—repeated visits to the veterinarian uncovered none of the usual suspects that befell a Dane: no heartworm or Von Willebrand’s or dysplasia of hips. As a preventive tool, a regimen of hedonism was prescribed—his large companion suffered Shiatsu massages three times a week. On Sundays, he took Pullman to a ranch in Carbon Canyon, where a hippie woman practiced “touch therapy”—small circular motions designed to release tension (the “form” Pullman liked most was called Clouded Leopard). The creature visited the chiropractor for adjustments; a crew in a van came to attach magnets and inject B-12 into acupuncture points along chi meridians. He was put on a diet of raw venison, bonemeal and flaxseed oil (when Lucy wasn’t letting him cadge from her brother’s strongbox of marzipan). Tull even brought him to a psychic, who while pronouncing him in the best of health still saw fit to prescribe Bach flower remedies and St.-John’s-wort to her amenable client, and dispense Elavil samplets to “take the edge off an innate sense of sadness.” Like another troubled Dane before him, the dog seemed too aware of his transitoriness on Earth—such fatal, neurotic knowledge, the psychic assured, was in the breed’s collective bones. Major karmic cleansing was in order.

  The two took afternoon naps beside the armillary sphere, a dogeared copy of When Elephants Weep: The Emotional Lives of Animals splayed upon Tull’s chest. It was thought that Pullman needed more exercise, so they hired Kali Guzman, the very same who took Diane Keaton’s and Michael Ovitz’s dogs on their morning runs. That was good, because Tull needed to find someone to work with the Dane in the summer while the Four Winds group was traveling. He didn’t feel like going on the supersonic excursion but didn’t really want to stay home, either—he wanted to get away from his mother; he wanted to get away from the ghost of his father; he wanted to get away. Still, Tull worried about leaving Pullman behind.

  As he sank deeper into gloom, Lucy tried futilely to entertain by reading aloud selections from her book, but Tull was glacially indifferent to the apparent majesties of The Mystery of the Blue Maze. She drew solace in knowing Mr. Hookstratten had at least passed some of the pages on to a highfalutin editor in Manhattan.

  After an hour of wheedling, the redhead got him to accompany her to the little hangar that had been built behind the Majestyk to house Edward’s most recent diversion: a 747 simulator. You sat in front of banks of instruments while a computer initiated takeoffs and landings—the same one that pilots trained on. Lucy liked the way it projected constellations onto a “night sky”; but the best was when the computers made turbulence.

  That afternoon, while fiber-optic stars bloomed outside the cockpit windshield, Lucy asked if he wanted to make out. Tull shrugged and she took that for a yes. She popped out her retainer, jumped onto his seat, and, straddling him, Frenched away. Tiny orange fuzz glowed on her upper lip as O’Hare or Heathrow or some such impossibly unnavigable complex receded into incandescent view on a virtual vector far below; he watched the vertiginous ten-thousand-light runway as they kissed. He liked the way her mouth smelled. When Tull focused on her, Lucy’s lids were slammed shut in a CinemaScopic swoon. With sweaty hand she removed steamed eyeglasses—they folded up like a copper spider—without pausing in her business. Her neck, pale and faintly pulsing, looked ready for vampires. They’d been fooling around for six months now (though this was their inaugural flight) and the last few times her hand had drifted down, flopping onto his crotch with the occasional serious back-kneading of knuckles. His mind wandered during their rites and sometimes he even pretended to be with other girls, a fantasia that inevitably ended with Tull back in the Mauck kissing the homeless one called Amaryllis; in the cockpit, he would slowly open his eyes in a squint, trying to make his cousin look dark and leonine-haired. No such luck.

  “Ho ho ho! Well what have we here?”

  A damp-haired Edward, in chenille robe and silvery beaded hood, floated at the laddered entrance; toothy Eulogio (Epitacio’s kid brother) held the boy up as if making an offer to Aztec gods. Lucy involuntarily jumped, knocking her head against the ceiling before fumbling for her spectacles.

  “Oh my God, Eulogio! Look! It’s incest!”

  Eulogio grinned, clucking like a simpleton.

  “It is not incest,” Lucy remonstrated.

  “Tell it to the court!”

  Tull winced in embarrassment. “We were just … messing around,” he said sheepishly.

  “You better get down, Edward!” she said, sternly pulling rank; he was her younger brother. “Take him down, Eulogio! You’ll be in big trouble if he falls!”

  “Can’t leave ’em alone for a minute!” said Edward.

  There was a movie tonight at the Majestyk—Journey to the Center of the Earth. Eulogio carried the boy outside and set him in the buggy before going to turn on the popcorn machine. A gloating Edward waited patiently for his shamefaced cohorts, who, smoothing their skirts, soon joined him. They rode back to the cobblestone streets of Olde CityWalk.

  “So,” said Edward mischievously. “Ready for tomorrow?”

  Tull was blank-faced.

  The cousin turned to his sister. “Didn’t you tell him?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Do I constantly have to be the one to surprise you?”

  “I talked to your dad’s father,” said Lucy.

  Again, Tull was blank.

  “Your grandfather,” Edward enlightened.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Well, you wanted me to find them, didn’t you?” said Lucy.

  “I—I guess …”

  “You guess,” said Edward. “Have you no concept of the amount of time and money that little maneuver of my sister’s involved?”

  “He’s teasing, Tull. The Weiners are still in Redlands; they’re listed. I got their number from 411.”

  “Where is Redlands?” asked Tull, trying to be flip.

  “About an hour from here. But we don’t have to visit,” said Edward archly. “I mean, you don’t really seem all that excited.”

  “No, it’s cool. My father’s probably been in touch with them. Then maybe we can put an end to all this.”

  “Whatever,” said Edward, rolling his eyes at Tull’s unconvincing sangfroid. “Hey they’re your grandparents, not mine.”

  “Not really. I mean, my father was adopted.”

  “You know, you really have an attitude problem,” Edward said.

  “You actually talked to them?” asked Tull of Lucy.

  “Of course I talked to them. I said I did.”

  “Someone has to do the legwork,” Edward said disparagingly.

  “What did you tell them?” he asked Lucy.

  His cousin answered instead, with campy hauteur. “That the Trotter kinder were descending en masse.”

  “Harry and Ruth Weiner!” said the braided detective, beaming. “How’s that for Jewish?”

  †Unlike their detractors, Tull and his father know nothing of fiction—they only know of the magic of this “fierce and beautiful” world. Ironically, it is the cynical reader himself who is
threatened with fictionalization; yet such a bewitching seems unlikely, for, like characters in a threadbare novel, little has happened to these cynics, nor likely ever will. Thus may they go to their graves.

  CHAPTER 23

  To Redlands and Beyond

  What’s there, beyond? A thing unsearched and strange; Not happier, but different.

  —Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton

  The arrival of the Mauck in the Riverside County suburb could not have made more of a stir than an X-Files alien ship. The pitch-black vehicle, abristle with various satellite dishes and antennae, was strange enough; its crew, subsequently disgorged onto the usually lonesome dead end, had a nearly traumatizing effect on neighborhood denizens, mostly children on Razors who, like tugboats, had accompanied the craft a number of blocks during its slow-speed arrival to dock.

  First came the space-age spreading of the gull wings; then Epitacio exited the driver’s side with impressive stoicism while his brother Eulogio, being less experienced, played to the crowd with not inconsiderable élan. The two met congenially at the MSV’s rear.

  The onlookers swelled to about fifteen now, including three or four adults, who, looking busily preoccupied as only adults can on a weekend, still deigned to make their way over. One of the bolder kids seemed about to make a general inquiry when he was arrested by two happenings—Harry Weiner appeared on the front porch and made a tentative albeit silent greeting to the Monasterio brothers; moments later, the hatchback rolled up with a great hydraulic whoosh to reveal the Mauck’s outrageous innards.

  A girl with long orange braids stood blinking at the inhabitants of this brave new world. Gambling there was oxygen in the atmosphere, Lucy decided the best thing was to step forward. From behind her came a boy of around twelve with freckly skin and hair the color of dark wine. She nervously took his arm, and he joined her in deploying the universal smile that said We Mean You No Harm. We Are Here to Learn.

  Eulogio helped them down while his brother gamely supervised—first Lucy, then Tull.

  And now, the real show began.

  The wary mob took a great startled breath as the canopied buggy, with steady percussive bleat, began telescoping itself outward upon its iron ramp. After an étude of whirrings and pneumatic rushes of air, both ramp and cart had protruded as far as they ever would. The rubber-wheeled carriage, steered by our intrepid first cousin, lowered then suavely disconnected its own umbilicus, free of the mother ship.

  It carved a cool arc over the asphalt, leaving gasps and other outbursts in its wake, for there was Edward at the wheel—or rather a small, misshapen, genderless figure in green satin mask and muumuu, its chin supported by what looked to be some sort of metal rod (like a science-fiction Jesus). The buggy drove into the street away from the house as if taking its leave, yet all were too astonished to follow with anything but their eyes.

  By now Ruth Weiner appeared in the drive, having opened the gate that led to her backyard and covered garage. With unfailing timing, Edward, nearly a quarter of the way down the block, triumphantly returned—the cul-de-sac crowd parted for him while he waved a dashing “Hi, everyone!”—before noiselessly gliding onto the sidewalk, into the driveway and through the gate. A few younger ones nervously waved back, the way half-frightened children do at Mickey Mouse before he bounds over and sets them to tears. The neighborhood kids finally whooped it up, gleefully following his trail, yet politely stopping short of the Weiner border like Third World ragamuffins following a prince. (That would make Edward, to use a favorite expression of his aunt Trinnie’s, most Fourth World indeed.) While Ruth held the gate, Epitacio, cracking a smile at last, strode through, followed by Tull, Lucy and Harry, the latter of whom was so pale that his lips were as white as his skin.

  An explosion of three staccato barks caused heads to snap toward the Mauck. After a suitably dramatic moment, Pullman appeared at the rear and languidly stretched before standing, nearly tall as a man, his speckled head never more ham-size or handsomely commanding; Tull’s flurry of coddling had done him well after all. Even the grown-ups scattered as he leapt from the thick Hokanson onto the street, glanced this way and that, then cantered to the driveway and through the entry, which Ruth Weiner finally fastened behind him. A jubilant crowd burst into applause, then made a beeline to the MSV, desperate to glimpse as much of the exotic orchid-filled high-tech interior as the beaming, gap-toothed Eulogio would allow.

  Meanwhile, as awkward introductions were hastily made, the Trotters entered the quiet backyard and saw that a picnic table sat in readiness upon a stained-redwood deck under the shade of a tarp. The exciting details of their arrival—the built-in celebrity of Edward and his mastery, both stylish and technological, over physical misfortune—proved a beneficial distraction during what inevitably was a discomfitting moment. Tull thought Lucy wonderful in making the elderly couple feel at ease—so selfless and assured, and her efforts all for him. He felt a kind of ardor for her, shot through by pangs at how much he took her for granted; and vowed then and there he’d begin to appreciate this girl for all she was worth.

  Yet watching the interplay afforded him time to step back and observe their hosts.

  Summoning the ectoplasmic image of his mother’s Kodak, he struggled to see his father in the bones of Mr. Weiner’s physiognomy before reprimanding himself that Marcus was not of their blood. One side of the newfound grandfather’s face sank down a bit as if today it had decided to sleep in. The eye was rheumy, and wept into a small yellowish crust at its corner; the same had formed like grains of dirty sand at the edges of mouth and nostril. He’d shaved as closely as he could for the event—that was touching to Tull—with some small patches on the droopy cheek bypassed or overlooked. The skin was waxen and lacked tension; the smile still bright, yet one had the sense it too would “sleep in” one day soon. Harry had dressed for the occasion in bow tie and insignia’d blazer, and this too moved young Tull. He shuffled his feet (shod in comfy old bedroom slippers) when he walked and had a faint odor to him, like brine doused in talc.

  His wife, in flowery bonnet and sundress, was all loose ends. In contrast, her features were severe and controlled, more harshly “Jewish” than Harry’s. Her graying hair was short as a terrier’s, with nails impeccably groomed. Ruth Weiner looked like someone you wouldn’t want to tangle with—a consumer-rights ombudswoman or Judge Judy type. But those looks belied; as Tull watched, she seemed more and more a woman who had unraveled.

  She busied herself with small talk and place settings, barely glancing his way. He thought the call from Lucy must have been an amazing blow; under the circumstances, the lady was handling herself exceptionally well.

  Epitacio lifted Edward from the buggy and sat him at table’s end on a high-backed chair the old couple had thoughtfully provided—they had done their homework. Easing into it, the cousin declared the unexpected provisions to be happy ones. Hamburgers and pink lemonade were served by Ruth, who fluttered to and from the house forestalling Lucy’s requests to help. Pullman was given a rather too large patty on a thick paper plate, which he dutifully ignored. When Ruth finally joined them, all fell silent, as if it were time for someone to say a few words of import or at least acknowledge this momentous event; instead, the woman stood up and began to quiver. After a stab or two at intelligibility, she hurried inside. Lucy swiveled on the bench wondering if she should follow, but Harry reassured that his wife would be fine.

  So they ate awhile in silence, save the occasional honking (Eulogio allowed a few members of his appreciative audience to take liberties). Epitacio glowered in his reckless brother’s direction before politely excusing himself from the table. Discussion resumed, touching on diverse topics—the especial enormity of Pullman’s frame and the sage qualities of his breed; the preferred route from Bel-Air to Redlands proper and the odious state of traffic in general (a topic that naturally led to the Mauck and Edward’s custom buggy)—finally settling on the cousin’s costume, selected for today’s occasion from a vast wardrobe
handwoven by the boy himself.

  When Lucy offered that he had been taught to sew by Tull’s mother, Harry said, “Katrina? My goodness! How is she?”—reminding the children afresh of everyone’s connection. But the query was somehow hollow, as was Tull’s response (both came from too far a distance). Conversation trickled back to Edward and his affliction. Harry was given a cordial crash course on Apert Syndrome and related “orphans” of the craniofacial ilk. He wanted to know if the boy had had surgeries, and Edward said many, when he was younger; adenoids and tonsils removed and nasal passages enlarged to ease breathing; clubfoot, webbed toes and fingers more or less corrected; nose and cheekbones separated from skull, then reattached with metal plates, widening the space between, so new bone could fill the gap—this being accomplished by encasing the prodigy’s head in a birdcage for a few months while expansion screws were slowly, torturously turned, “thus making me the person I am today. Hey—what was I expecting? The Spanish Inquisition?” Lucy and Tull laughed as always at the reference to the old Python bit, but Harry was oblivious.

  Mr. Weiner asked if the kids all went to school together. Lucy chattily filled him in on Four Winds (and the upcoming summer field trip), while Tull looked anxiously toward the house. He left the table, slid open the screen door and went in. Lucy watched for a moment, then turned back to her host; she thought it a good thing that Tull and his grandmother had some time alone.

  A ceiling fan turned in the cool, dark room, its Danish shelving system filled with tchotchkes. Menorahs acted as bookends to Yiddish-humor books, New York Times crossword-puzzle collections and the complete hardback works of Stephen King. A crocheted blanket lay across a La-Z-Boy with Harry’s aluminum walker beside its pleather ottoman.