I'll Let You Go

by Bruce Wagner

  The woman who had raised his father sat upon a couch turning the pages of a photo album. Tull sat down next to her. She proffered the book as one might a Torah; delicately, he took it in hand. He stared at the picture of a boy in yarmulke and tallith.

  “You look so much like him,” Ruth said. She’d been crying. “Do they know you’re here?”

  “You mean—”

  “Your mother. And grandfather.”

  “No. At least … I don’t think so.”

  “We were so fond of her—your mother. Katrina. And Louis and Berenice.” He’d never heard anyone call Bluey that before; it was all so formal and remote, the way people spoke in documentaries. “Those were happy, happy times. They met at a party, your mother and our Marcus. Did you ever hear that story? Did she ever tell you? From different walks of life but … que sera. God moves in mysterious ways. I thought there would be problems because of the money.” She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. “Who knew? And who was I to tell them? They loved each other and that’s all that mattered. I believe that to this day. It’s a rare thing—if you find it, you have to hold on. When things started getting very serious between them, there were dinners. Family dinners. We ate! Your grandfather sent a car for us—all the way to Redlands. At first it was fun, but then we thought it too grand. With the neighbors ogling. So we drove ourselves. I’m not sure if Louis was offended, but I know that Berenice was not. I had more in common with your grandmother.” She looked out toward the patio. “Harry hasn’t been able to drive for over a year. I got a call from the DMV saying he’d failed his test. ‘Come get your husband,’ they said. That was humiliating for Harry.” She sighed, then picked up the thread where she’d left it. “Your mother came from great money reserves, and your father—we owned a bakery. Two miles away. We made a nice living, but not like your grandfather! Or your uncle Dodd. That kind of money comes once in a blue moon. A lot of people who had it suddenly don’t have it anymore; for a while it seemed like everyone was a billionaire! We lived modestly, but Marcus wanted for nothing. In fact, had more than most.”

  The screen slid open, and Mr. Weiner led Lucy in. Epitacio followed with the cousin in his arms. The old man pointed to the La-Z-Boy and Epitacio gently lowered Edward down, covering his legs with the blanket. Pullman entered and Lucy grabbed his collar to lead him out, but Ruth said it was fine for the dog to come in “as long as he didn’t make a mess.”

  “We have wonderful photo albums,” said Harry with a nod to his wife. “Wonderful memories.”

  Lucy’s authorial heart soared—they were getting to the nitty-gritty. She resisted the urge to jot “bird notes” in the silver-edged Smythson pad (specially bought for the occasion, its covers lined in hot-pink silk); that would be tacky.

  “Do you remember,” said Ruth to her husband, “when we first met Edward and Lucy’s parents?”

  “At Trader Vic’s.”

  “The Beverly Hilton.”

  “That was before Merv Griffin bought it.”

  “Oh goodness yes. He had a wonderful talk show—better than any of them.”

  “Mike Douglas had a good one.”

  “Merv had a marvelous singing voice.”

  “Mike Douglas sang, too.”

  “Not like Merv. Not like Merv … Things were quite serious between your mother and our Marcus by then. They had already announced their engagement.”

  “At the time we are speaking of,” said Harry, convivially pointing at Lucy, “you, young lady, were a very young young lady!” He was starting to warm up.

  “She was an infant—and Edward had not yet been born.”

  “Lucky me,” came the voice from the La-Z-Boy.

  “Different worlds, your father and mother,” said Harry. “The Trotters were like the Cartwrights. Do you remember Ben Cartwright?” he asked of anyone who might respond. “Lorne Greene. A marvelous television show—Bonanza.”

  “Well of course they don’t remember Bonanza,” clucked Ruth. “They don’t even show it on reruns.”

  Tull slowly turned the leaves of the album without really taking anything in; it was all too much.

  “The wedding was so beautiful!” gushed Ruth. “And that peculiar house … we thought: why did he build them that peculiar house? When they could have had something so beautiful—anything. They could have had a ranch, a beach shack, a chalet … they could have had a little bupka. Could have had their pick. They saw it in France, remember, Harry? That was the story. Marcus was there all the time on business. They’d fly him out at the drop of a hat if it meant keeping one of their big clients.”

  “A very important agency. To this day.”

  “A weird, weird place. A kind of ruin they saw while they were over there. Well I guess Katrina showed pictures to her father—”

  “Of course she showed him pictures,” snapped Harry.

  “—to your grandfather. Pictures she’d taken. And that’s where he got the idea. Louis built it for them as a wedding gift. It cost a fortune!”

  “Didn’t he have it moved?” asked Harry. “Wasn’t it moved from wherever it was?”

  “No, it was not. Of course he didn’t have it moved.”

  “I thought it had been moved, stone by stone.”

  “I believe it is a French national monument,” she said, eyes beadily narrowing. “Louis Trotter has a lot of money, but not enough to buy a national monument!”

  “I was sure of it.”

  “William Randolph Hearst he is not. You’re thinking of San Simeon.”

  “Well that’s what Hearst did, isn’t it? Moved castles and churches from over there?”

  Ruth hadn’t the energy to continue sparring; she grabbed another album from a stack and passed it to her husband instead. He wobbily handed the tome to Lucy, who perched on the La-Z-Boy to share with her brother.

  “The time it took to build! So painstaking. It was not the house I would have chosen, but … done with such taste, such love. Your grandfather always put your mother first, that I will say for the man. On their wedding day, he had horses and carriages and footmen—at night there was Renaissance music and torches and beautiful dancing. Was it Tony Bennett who came and sang, Harry?”

  “Yes. Marvelous singer. To this day. Very active.”

  “It was stunning.”

  “A marvelous painter, too. Did you know? Tony Curtis also paints. The two painting Tonys. And Tony Quinn! He was a marvelous painter. Sinatra too—they all want to be painters. Isn’t that funny?”

  “And the people there—Meryl Streep, Goldie Hawn, Tom Hanks—”

  “And this before anyone knew who he was. Tom Hanks was still struggling. But our Marcus helped him, believed in him.”

  “Well I don’t know about that; I don’t think any of those people ‘struggled.’ But everyone was there and everyone was happy—all the people your father had helped so much, all of the people who loved him. My God, I was just bowled over. To see the impression your father had made on these famous, famous people, who would have done anything for him—” She stifled a tear, putting handkerchief to mouth. “And when the … when the terrible thing happened—the ‘disappearance’—I call it the ‘disappearance’—”

  “She still calls it that. To this day.”

  “—because what else can you say? Well, everyone was stunned, to put it mildly. No one even knew about it for the longest time. They all thought it was a long honeymoon! Louis hardly told us, the news was very late in coming. We were certain—Harry and I—that someone had hurt our boy. How else to explain? Because if he’d had second thoughts—”

  “—which was not the case—”

  “—but if he had, Marcus was certainly not the type to run away! That wasn’t his style. He had troubles in his life, but was so very happy—with Katrina. And in his work. In his life.”

  Tull cleared his throat. “My mother said something happened to him in England. When he was in college.”

  Edward and Lucy glowered at their cousin sideways; he’d be
en holding out on them.

  “He was studying so hard,” said Ruth. “So brilliant! History and literature.”

  “He liked to walk. A very powerful man. Powerful legs. Always liked to walk. Cleared his head.”

  “He didn’t like to walk that much.”

  “Yes he did. Yes he did, Ruth, don’t deny it. He went for a walk to Avebury.”

  “Harry, please—”

  “Do you know Avebury?” he asked of the children.

  “The monoliths,” came the veiled voice from the La-Z-Boy.

  “That’s right. He walked there and all around. That’s where the druids were—don’t know how he got his fascination. Walked and walked, said it was because he couldn’t sleep.”

  “It was because he couldn’t sleep!” said Ruth defensively. “He was worn-out, that’s all, from the studying. He was a scholar!”

  “They put him in the hospital. Didn’t tell us about it, not for a long time.”

  “It wasn’t such a big thing, you always make it into a big thing! Lots of students study too hard and—”

  “It was something, Ruth. It was more than ‘worn-out.’ There were other things, when he was younger.” She winced, knowing he couldn’t be stopped. “He put aluminum foil in the windows to prevent voices from coming in. That’s what he said—‘voices’ were coming in. Sometimes they were friendly, sometimes not so friendly. Foil, all around the bedroom.” He scratched his nose with trembling deliberation. “He was a brilliant boy. Always did wonderfully in school.”

  “He had an imagination, Harry, that’s all. Why do you make such a thing?” She turned to Edward. “You’re a brilliant boy,” she implored. “You know how hard that can be …”

  “Yes,” said the cousin, at a loss.

  “We adopted him,” said Harry. “But I’m sure you already know that. And I got damn mad—later on. Because that first time he went a little ‘off’ I made some … inquiries. Because he’d struck his mother, and that was not like him.”

  “Harry! He did not strike me—”

  “Whatever he did left a bruise, and I didn’t like it. Not one bit. So I talked to the adoption people, and well, you know, they sang a different song. Because it’s a business, and I understand that. I’m a businessman. But these are people’s lives, and it isn’t right.”

  “They told us his mother was a student,” said Ruth, resigned. “A high-strung woman having problems during the time of her college examinations. Just like our Marcus! They said they didn’t know who the father was; they never do. Anyway, that’s what we were told.”

  “Well, that was a lie,” said her husband. “Because by the time I asked, see, the law had changed. They had to tell me things, they were legally bound. Had to turn over files. And the files told a different story. Said that his mother was a ‘working girl’—”

  “Harry, we don’t know that’s true!”

  “No, but that is what is suspected, Ruth! Now, these children came a long way to hear our story and they might as well get it!” He scratched his nose and proceeded. “There’s all kinds of lawsuits against that place now; Ruth and I didn’t want to join the bandwagon. That’s not for us. But it’s a tragedy what happened in this country. Not that any of it would have made a damn difference to Ruth and me. Because we believe you do things out of love—you take a babe into your life not as an investment but because you have love in your heart. And you nurture that child and hope your love will carry you through. Carry the day. That is all you can hope for, any way you slice it. Now, what they said—what this gentleman finally told us—was that Marcus’s mother was a ‘working girl’ with many troubles. Tried to do herself in a number of times. Gave birth to Marcus in a public toilet. Oh yes—had a few screws loose, this woman. Left him there in the trash, but the police caught up with her.” Ruth began to weep, and Lucy went to her side. “Well, that’s the story. Draw your own conclusions. But we loved the boy—and we’d have him again. Not sure we’d do much different, but we’d have him again. A wonderful boy … and we miss him. We’ve missed him so—”

  It was Harry’s turn to shed a tear. His sleepy side had awakened under the onslaught, and he dabbed it with a wad of Kleenex pulled from a lacquered box they’d bought in Jerusalem.

  “What happened then?” asked Tull. “After he … disappeared? After the wedding?”

  “Oh, they hired a man to find him,” said Ruth. “But they never had any luck. I think that he—your grandfather—somehow blamed us. And it only got worse … because,” she said with delicacy, “your mother had such misfortune. But we felt awful enough already! The embarrassment and the pain! And not knowing what happened to our boy, if he was alive or dead! Your grandfather didn’t seem to take that into consideration.”

  “Oh I think he did, Ruth,” said Harry charitably. “I think he did. It was hard for everyone.”

  “Well, I never heard it from him. Never heard it from Berenice. They didn’t even tell us Katrina was pregnant!”

  “That, I agree, was not handled well.”

  “It was kept from us. After six months it became clear that Louis wanted all ties—anything connected to the past—to that wedding and the heartache it brought your mother—severed. Cut right off, the way you’d cut an arm. What could we do? Such powerful people. We did our best to put the past behind us. The only time we heard about your grandfather—or your uncle Dodd—was when Harry clipped something out of the Times.”

  “Or Forbes. The Wall Street Journal.”

  “Harry subscribed to them all.”

  Then, said Ruth, came the terrible, wonderful thing: a friend from Chicago mailed them a page torn from W—standing in a garden of her own design was Katrina Trotter and her son, Toulouse. Her son. It cannot be! said Ruth, but the photo haunted—he looked so much like his dad—and she had it enlarged, trying to plumb its depths. Harry finally told her to call the house on Saint-Cloud, for her own peace of mind. She did, and it was like throwing sand against a stone wall. A week later they received a letter warning there would be consequences should either of them attempt to contact the boy—their grandson! So cold! They sat in their car a few blocks from the Bel-Air house as recently as a year ago, watching Tull with his dog. They dared not approach … how humiliating it was! She was so ashamed at the poverty of it—the inhumanity. Like ghostly sightseers, tucked away while Toulouse and Pullman romped down the hill and stole onto the wedding grounds … In her paranoia, Ruth imagined Marcus had long since returned and the reunited couple taken up residence in that freakish tower with the boy; that the Trotters had somehow managed to turn her own son against her, and her grandson too. Harry hated to see her do that to herself, but Ruth assured she had no more tears—until now.

  Tull put his hand on hers, and the simple gesture meant all the world. “Did you ever hear from him?” he asked.

  “No.” Her husband stood up, excusing himself. He used the walker this time.

  “But we did hear from Mr. Dowling—the detective who was looking for our son. In the early days he used to call at least once a week. Sometimes we even saw men sitting down the block in their cars. Just sitting. Waiting. I half expected to see Jack Webb! We were worried for Marcus if he did show up, what they’d do—Harry almost called the police on them. But they were decent men. I went out there and gave them pastries. Sometimes Mr. Dowling sent over tickets for a game; Mr. Weiner used to like to go to the Forum. Little gifts, too—nothing too costly. I wasn’t sure if they came from your grandfather … I hoped they hadn’t. Harry and I felt like criminals, but we didn’t do anything wrong! I wouldn’t have told Mr. Dowling even if I had heard from my son. There was not much goodwill left.” Tears caught in her throat, and she apologized. “Such powerful people. Up until a few years ago, Mr. Dowling still called—usually right around the holidays. But no more gifts. I think he felt sorry for us.”

  Harry returned with a box. Handing it to Tull, he said it had come in the mail a long while back, without a note. Ruth uncomfortably pooh-poohed it,
asking Harry why he’d even bothered. Lucy (and Edward, much as he could) craned their necks while Tull took the lid off to reveal the copy of a book—the very same stolen from Tabori & Co. some fourteen years ago.

  Tull lay down on the bed—the bed that was his father’s as a boy—and stared at the ceiling much as he did in his room at Saint-Cloud, realizing Marcus would have done just that at his age: stared at this ceiling, these walls.

  He heard the voices of the others, like wavelets lapping—Lucy helping Ruth in the kitchen, Edward and Mr. Weiner having a tête-à-tête. News From Nowhere’s ex libris proclaimed its sheaves to be PROPERTY OF MARCUS WEINER. Tull delicately fingered the book’s gilt edges and felt its “prenatal calfskin” heft; he sensed the imprint of his father’s hands on the blue-black vellum. He flipped through it—this place called Nowhere seemed to contain an awful lot of news. One of the photo albums piled next to him was cracked open to a portrait of the psycho-prodigal bridegroom in top hat, tails and brocaded vest, his bride in tulle and classic veil, wildly throwing rice at a Bugatti. That’s what his parents had storiedly done, with playful surrealism: thrown rice at departing guests. If that were so, it meant someone would have tossed his parents a bouquet—his father would have caught it, no doubt.

  His lame attempt to nap a failure, the boy sat groggily at table while the rest ate desserts: pastries made of pomegranate and almond—a specialty of the old shop, said Harry. Tull thought it the saddest, sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

  CHAPTER 24

  Pixies and Tigers

  Summer—El Monte at eventide. The desiccated wings of insects make for a thin layer of heavenly blisters on the high battlements of MacLaren Children’s Center. The fragrance of sage, jasmine and honeysuckle fans over Mac’s dusky campus grounds past a waterless pool donated by Barbra Streisand; a mural of seagull and ocean spray, insipidly anodyne; the campus boutique wherein misbegotten children trade goodness points for CDs, T-shirts and donated effluvia—locked down tight.