I'll Let You Go

by Bruce Wagner

  He wondered: what would it take to actually purchase Beverly Vista’s hundred or so surrounding residences? The duplexes couldn’t go for much more than $600,000 apiece, though it wouldn’t have mattered if they were $10 million. (He had the capital.) Dodd Trotter could buy up entire blocks: all the crappy five-story condos with fancy names—Rexford Plaza, Rexford House, Rexford Park—and outlying grids with private homes, too. It was a stroke of genius. He got that adrenalized, impervious feeling in blood and brain that usually presaged a buying jag, only this time it wasn’t from skipping meds. He would call his consultant and let the acquisitions begin. His companies had more than sixty thousand employees now—dingbats and multi’s would be purchased for secretaries to live in gratis for their first six months of employment; houses and duplexes tagged for newly relocated low-to-mid-level managers. Stealthily, he would mount his campaign—Marcie would be the only one to know. Hadn’t Marlborough School in Hancock Park done the same thing? Bought up the neighborhood for their expanding needs without anyone being the wiser? The trick was to pull it off without displacing schoolkids … disrupting the community was the last thing he wanted. Maybe he’d focus on buying out the childless, first—then snap up houses of parents with Vista students at the very end, just before construction commenced … or maybe buy the properties now but have everyone sign covert agreements allowing them squatters’ rights until given notice to vacate; that way no one would be inconvenienced. He’d offer three times the fair market value, and if they hit a snag—if someone got stubborn and wouldn’t sell—they’d sweeten the pot with Quincunx stock options. Everyone had his price.

  “Frances-Leigh?”

  “Yes, Mr. Trotter?”

  “Were you able to locate him?”

  “Yes sir, I was.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “In Simi Valley.”

  “Isn’t that, like, Cop World? What’s he doing out there?”

  “His son’s in law enforcement.”

  “Son? I guess Trinnie was wrong.”

  “Wrong?”

  “About him being a fag.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that!”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Sure did.”

  “Let’s call him up.”

  Dodd sat there in his Aeron. When she had Dr. Janklow on the line, he rocked a full minute before picking up.

  “Dr. Janklow! It’s Dodd Trotter.”

  “Well, hello!” said the voice on the other end—gone reedily eager and tentative with age. “Gee, that was quick! The woman told me you were going to call.”

  “How are you?”

  “Miserable! Had cancer three times already. Cancer loves me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “I just like to bitch and moan, that’s all. But I’m all right. Getting my fifth wind up here in beautiful Simi.”

  “Well, it’s great to hear your voice.”

  “You did rather well for yourself.”

  “Got lucky, that’s all.”

  “Now, I don’t know if I believe that. Been reading about you on the Internet.”

  “Ugh.”

  “Don’t worry!” he said with a laugh. “Nothing too terrible.”

  “Dr. Janklow, I can’t tell you how often I’ve thought of you—what an important force you were in my life. You were always there for me.”

  “That’s a wonderful thing. A wonderful thing to hear.”

  “And I wanted to call to say hello and see how you are—and if there was anything you needed.”

  “Well, no—unless you were thinking of dropping a few billion on me. You know, I’m set pretty well. My son’s here; he and his wife and the grandchildren live close by. I’m doing all right. But now … what is it that you need, Mr. Trotter?”

  That was the Dr. Janklow he remembered; the sage who gently turned the tables. “Would you—I’d love to take you to dinner.”

  “Well, I … yes, that would be nice! Certainly, yes. That’s one wish I can grant! But I don’t drive so well anymore … and I don’t like imposing—”

  “I’ll send a car.”

  “It’s quite a ways.”

  “There’re a few things I’d like to talk with you about—about the school. Beverly Vista. Some thoughts and plans …”

  “Marcie told me.”

  “Marcie did?”

  “Oh yes—you know Marcie still keeps me up on all the doings. She’s a little compulsive that way, but she means well. Does well by the kids, that’s for sure. Always has their interests at heart. Now, Marcie said you were cooking up some wonderful things and I don’t doubt it. But I had no idea you’d call.”

  “She’s the one who brought me back to it.”

  “She’ll do that if you’re not careful! I’ve been knowing the Millards forever. Do you know Peter? Peter Millard?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Helluva surgeon.”

  “Well, we are ‘cooking up’ some wonderful things—and I’d like you to be a part of them.”

  “I’m an old man, you know. And I’m disgusted with what’s going on in today’s schools—all of ’em.”

  “We’re going to change that.”

  “Disgusted! I don’t know how I can be of help.”

  “Just sitting down and breaking bread with you would make a difference.”

  “That sounds rather biblical! Guess my age elicits that. But, Jesus, the guns changed everything. Schools have become damn shooting galleries. I retired before all that, thank God. The minute kids started bringing guns to class—well, that was just the end of the world, far as I could see.”

  That night, Dodd told his wife he was divesting himself of far-flung ruins—his hobby had played itself out. They made love for the first time in months, and afterward Joyce nervously told him about her special project; how she bought land at Westwood Village Memorial Park because those babies needed a home that wasn’t a potter’s field. She said she hadn’t yet told his father, and Dodd agreed that was probably a good thing. For the time being, anyway. He was so gentle and understanding, and it felt like they were coming to new ground. He said he needed to get back in physical shape, and she made him promise to do yoga with her at the house with Ana Forrest. They spoke of their children and general good fortune. Dodd suggested they go away on a little trip around the time the kids took off on their summer holiday. There were plenty of jets to go around.

  As they fell asleep, Joyce touched his shoulder and whispered, “Thank you.” She wasn’t sure that he heard; she wanted it to be more than subliminal. So she said it again.

  CHAPTER 26

  Globe-Trotters

  The children were away for a whirlwind three-week tour; and while travel was Edward Aurelius Trotter’s métier and he never felt more anchored than when bonds to earth were severed, the hardships he so gracefully endured amid numbered leave-takings from the softship of his father’s customized cabin were notable and should be recorded for future invalids, real and imaginary.

  Exactly who was part of this airborne sodality? Let us first introduce those professionally engaged. The retooled 737 came with six pilots, whose tag-team approach allowed them to enjoy more than a few sights (one might think this arrangement was on account of Dodd Trotter’s largesse, when in actuality it was his wife’s suggestion, being Joyce’s sensible opinion that a happy, rested crew made for a safer voyage); two in-flight helpers—a hunky Greek, whom the overheated Lucy fantasized about on days when Tull was particularly distant and uncaring—and a stewardess, whose protracted, ritualized reapplication of lip gloss and outliner may as well have been a morbid surgical procedure for all the fascinated attention it received from the boys of Four Winds; a portly medical doctor by the name of Dr. Raff, who was a part-time resident of the hidden clinic at Olde CityWalk, hence well familiar with Edward’s condition; two homely, overqualified nurses—whose looks still proved eminently watchable to certain of our younger captives, and who seemed on this trip t
o stick thermometers in more mouths than they could remember—their technical skills and general know-how being of emergency-room caliber; a physical therapist and self-proclaimed tai chi instructor (dubbed Slouching Tiger by Edward) for whom no one seemed to care and who, to his credit, cared less in return and, aside from massaging the first cousin, which he did well enough, mostly took up “carrying” duties familiar to Epitacio, Eulogio and Sling Blade, delicately hoisting the boy in his arms on request; two techies—one, an expert in upkeep, maintenance and troubleshooting of aspirators, defibrillators and assorted hose-and-pump gewgaws (an inventory that remained, thankfully, unused) and the other, a kind of practical engineer, who saw to it that Edward’s portable AirBuggy, a more modest version of the bulkier trademark dry-docked at Olde CityWalk, would be up and running and not sputter out on the Via Whatever in front of Ruin XXVII; three bodyguards, charged with the security of the group and who were to be sure no kidnappings, hijackings or explosive surprises ensued; two cuisiniers particuliers and their assistants, all of whose glacially indifferent dispositions challenged one’s romantic notions of the fiery cook-as-artist; and finally, one of Dodd Trotter’s crack efficiency mavens, whose only job was to facilitate hemispheric, longitudinal and latitudinal comings and goings, VIP clearances, embassy liaisons, passports and vaccinations, baggage wranglings, concierge-strokings and hotel check-ins, general politics, skullduggeries and laundry. That would be dry-cleaning and fluff ’n’ fold.

  Let us examine the next level up. Here resides the venerable Mr. Hookstratten, whose civilian clothes and multiplicity of camera gear first severely embarrassed the children, as they weren’t used to seeing him bustle about in the real world. (It felt way too intimate.) The teacher was joined by his life partner, a supposed expert in the field of celestial navigation, whose name was Reed, apropos for an attenuated, fuzzy-haired body that seemed to tilt sardonically in the wind, and who smiled at the little ones with the benevolence of a sadist who’d already poisoned their pie. There was a professor of medieval history with terrible breath, who was wont to accompany himself on guitar singing Middle English “ditties”; he was eventually exonerated, even extolled, after Edward proclaimed the man’s knowledge to be authentic and of enormous range. Rounding things out came a chess-master-cum-alpinist upon whom the physical-therapist-cum-tai-chi-master instantly fixated as nemesis.

  Having dispensed with the above, we now arrive at a small VIP subset: the actress Diane Keaton and her daughter, Dex—the latter already slated to be a Four Winds scholar, class of 2012. As previously noted, Tull and the actress shared a dog walker, but the ties went deeper.

  Trinnie and Ms. Keaton had a reunion of sorts at the oft-referred-to Animal CAT-scan Ball, which, the reader cannot fail to recall, was attended by Ron Bass himself. Diane, a former client of Marcus Weiner, had always been captivated by Katrina (the actress being a fabled cognoscente of style, genius and tragedy) and had long followed her career in the garden journals and magazines, coincidentally even visiting some of the heiress’s more acclaimed and faraway private commissions. While Mr. Bass commiserated with the now-former “Rafe” Mirdling, Trinnie poured out some of her scandalized heart to the entranced and startled Ms. Keaton, filling in the gaps of the actress’s knowledge, which of necessity had been dependent on gossip and newspaper accounts read long ago, now almost forgotten. The two had lunch at Il Pastaio, and Trinnie even went so far as to accommodate her old acquaintance and newfound friend (Ms. Keaton, to her eternal regret, had been unable to attend the wedding) with a moonlit tour of the near-virginal grounds of La Colonne. In the months since the benefit, the actress had met the entire Trotter clan and become enamored of them, as anyone would. While Trinnie was the initial connection, credit must be given to Joyce (who never receives enough) for suggesting that Diane and her sweet-banged Dexter join the kids for at least part of their international campaign.

  At last, then, the student body: Tull, Edward, Lucy, Boulder and eighteen of their fellows, the latter of whose individual attributes and shortcomings will remain unsung—but let us say a fair cross-section of overachievers, with archetypal brainiacs and bullies to bracket the middling. It is heartening to note that for the length and breadth of the voyage, there wasn’t a single disciplinary problem of substance (and not a weapon, real or makeshift, brandished): the children, sensoria taxed and disoriented by constant movement through culture and time zone, shocked lungs breathing the recirculated air of an albeit opulent airship, had been transformed from jackasses into sweet, humble citizens of the world—in no time, the little dears possessed the poise and plenitude of UNICEF emissaries. They behaved with grateful worshipfulness toward their immediate hosts (Edward and his sister) while still managing to pay cousin Tull the worshiped-by-association homage or lack of it required by his given mood. Suffice to say that within mere days after the Los Angeles departure, the normally boisterous, disrespectful Four Winds mob became fine-tuned choristers, whose vocals could swing from ragtime to near liturgical at the instructive glance of any adult—or Trotter—on board. Oh, but they were good.

  Let us address their itinerary. For the reader who tires of such inventories, a solution is at hand: accidental tourists may skip ahead, while the more adventurous (it is hoped, the majority) will be asked to surrender their passports forthwith. The trip will be swift—or perhaps feel swifter than our prefatory remarks—and cover much ground.

  We are already in New Orleans; for Edward wished to visit a place where Mardi Gras masks are made.† The atelier outshines Olde CityWalk’s by a long shot. Not that Edward is covetous—it has the opposite effect. He is utterly seduced by all manner of feather, bead and sequin. But the legendary city is oppressively humid, and this does not make anyone happy. A prearranged visit to the home of Anne Rice salves their wounds. The sequestered writer is ill and graciously sends her regrets; an extensive tour of the imposing, atmospheric grounds is offered by her handsome son, also a novelist. Lucy is at once besotted, but cannot compete with Boulder, who already whines that if she’d been old enough she was certain to have been chosen by his mother to “limn” the part Kirsten had played in Interview with a Vampire. She is a snake! thinks Lucy uncharitably of her best friend, who keeps posing and wriggling and “limning,” and the young man seems fairly entranced. Disgusted, Lucy dumps Christopher Rice without him ever having known they were a couple.

  England-bound. Cabin lights dimmed in readiness for sleep. The student body lay in flattened, cashmere-upholstered lounges while Tull Trotter, prompted by a certain mischievous cousin, entertains the spellbound Four Winders (and one or two anxious adults, who pretend not to listen) by reading aloud from a book of transcripts containing the blackbox recordings of fatally crashed airplanes. Aside from Tull’s radio-play voice, all one can hear is the drone of engines in the howling void, from which they are separated by a metallic husk of mere inches. Edward—whose king-size head, it may be too painstakingly observed, rested upon a $2,500 oversize Legends eiderdown pillow, its feathers collected by hand from Icelandic nests so as not to harm the ducks—titters devilishly from beneath his 435-thread-count filigreed oyster-colored silk hood, while Lucy, that high-flying authoress, tries to cadge a few moments with her Smythson Blue Maze Mystery journal, sending a scowl or two Tull’s way. Other than Edward, the only person deriving any real pleasure from this theater of cockpit cruelties is Mr. Hookstratten’s consort, the very weedy Reed; Tull’s tasty morsels (particularly monologues that end with pilots screaming for their mothers) elicit a steady, sardonic grin. The man is in his element.

  Trinnie had insisted that while in England they visit her mentor—Randoll Coate, maze maker extraordinaire—for a tour in Gloucestershire. The extremely tall, extremely eccentric eightysomething gent was among the most amicable and learned of men (that would include Mr. Emerson Tabori) the Trotter children or for that matter the entire troupe had ever had the pleasure to meet. He spoke a great deal in phrases and whole paragraphs of other languages, and it was not a b
ore to wait for the enlightened translation, though sometimes the wait was very long indeed; some of the group is waiting still. At first defensive, for he was loath to have the Saint-Cloud maze upstaged, Tull gradually conceded that the Master’s creations were, well, different and, as such, not really competitive with his mom’s (or “mum’s,” as Lucy would have it, for while in England her pronunciation of words had subtly shifted; though to say the newly adopted accent was English would have been too generous). Some of the hedged puzzleboxes were barely three feet in height—Mr. Coate not subscribing to any hard-and-fast rules when it came to grafting his imaginative constructs onto garden or hillock.

  As the Four Winders helped feed one of his egg-shaped foliated creatures bonemeal, he glanced up to ask—first in Italian, then in English—“What’s the difference between a book and a labyrinth? Nothing! There is no difference.” (He was full of koans, beans and majesty.) Lucy flushed at the revelation and instantly put pen to Smythson, certain that Merlin had just solved the Mystery of the Blue Maze. But Edward knew that Borges had said it first.

  He led them deeper through a breathtaking lunar puzzle while recounting the minotaur’s tale. For the children, it was like hearing it afresh; such was Randoll’s art, they could almost smell the flatulence of that hairy, mythic beast. When he said “labyrinth” was thought to derive from the Minoan labrys, or “double-headed ax,” Edward, in the tireless arms of his carrier, cursorily added (and much to their host’s enchantment) that the item was most accurately defined “as a unicursal spiral to the center whereas a maze is a multicursal route: junctions and deceptions.”