by Bruce Wagner
Meanwhile, Jane Scull walks the Promenade when SeaShelter chores are done. She is alone, and that’s how she wants it, for she is unwell in body, mind and spirit. There are things she cannot discuss with anyone—not William or the shelter folk or even the street pastor, who still visits to wish them well, the tail of each utterance lilting skyward like a smoky question mark.
What would the Catholic have told her that she didn’t already know? He might have reiterated the sublime workings of the Lord … but she knew His lessons and workings, though in all humility could not understand why He would wish her to be so miserable after bestowing her dear William—for the Lord had brought him to her, and William was her life. It was for him that she diligently stood before the looking glass with a self-tutored apostrophe of plosives, affricates, surds and sonances; it was for him she now bathed; it was for him she now breathed; it was for him she spoke glottal poems that, because of her shyness, he would never hear, a phonemic rhapsody of diphthongs, yaps and rhotacisms, blubbers and brays, thunders of ictus and rictus and hail of caesuras—electric elocutions, all for him and for hymn and for Him. For William …
Weeks ago, he spoke of a spastic child—was it Jenny?—a daughter he implied to be his own. Surely she could not have known that because of the receding tide of his delusion, Jenny—William Morris’s Jenny—had already drifted to farther shores. Yet it struck her deeply; this Jane did not wish to burden him with another, a boy or girl not even his!
For it was Jilbo’s: she gagged on his name.
Nearly seven months gone, but no one could tell.
Hand to belly she walked, forlorn and agitated. Distraught and devoted …
The dirty man approached.
“Hey, good-lookin’. Now, why you trippin’?”
She frowned at the gimp.
“Had my eye on you—big girl! Like that. Like a big hug. Lot to hug there.”
She moved away, and Someone-Help-Me trailed after, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, for he had undergone a transformation himself, purely cosmetic, and was now called the same as the plea of his spanking-new signage: Please-Help.-Bless.
“What, too good for me?” he barked, taking care not to get too close. The girl could do him damage. “Watt? You sellin’ it? Fuckin’ cow with dirty titties want fuckin’ heehaw?”
He was in her hair a block or so when Jane wheeled and almost spoke. But she didn’t want to give the pest ammunition.
“Hey shit,” he said, a smile metastasizing on his face. “I like big girls, that’s all. Got a man? Man friend? Everybody need a friend. Everybody need milk! Yer fine. Cain’t talk? Dat—wull, fuck me!” He slapped at his britches and howled through a rotten mouth. “Whoa! Got motors in your ears! Cain’t talk! I knew that. Nuthin’ to say—leas’ tha’s honest! Shit, people talk all shit anyhow.” He guffawed again. “Like a big girl who can’t talk. But kin ya hear? Can ya hear with them motors, big-tittie girl?”
Jane lunged and grunted contemptuously, a forceful combination that took him by surprise. Adding to her unhappiness, she noticed passersby throwing sideshow stares. She strode off, and Please-Help.-Bless could not catch her.
Hobbling in her dust, he shouted, “I seen you on Pico, by Clare—hey!—you smoke?” He pulled a ratty pack of Pall Malls from a shirt pocket and, propelled by his cane, precariously offered it up. “Kin you hear me? Come on, big girl, where you stay at? Where you stay! Aw,” he said, coming to a winded stop. “You cain’t fuckin’ hear shit.” He lit a cigarette. “Gonna fuck ya, big girl. Gonna fuck out yer big cow brains.”
He laughed before darting into traffic, whereupon the shameless minstrel-show mugger courted drivers with his cardboard namesake’s entreaty.
“Is he worse?” Tull asked.
“I don’t know if he’s worse,” said Lucy, mulling it over, “but he isn’t happy.”
“Can’t they give him antibiotics? I mean, tetracycline or whatever?”
“They are—they’re swabbing stuff on him. But he’s still got the intense zits. And he picks. It’s, like, totally volcanic at this point.”
Tull shook his head. “That is so fucked.”
“Evidently, it’s from the Apert’s—I mean, the acne. I went on-line—”
“I wish I could get my hands on Mr. Fucking Apert … how could Edward’s genes be so—shitty? It’s like nothing works.”
“Except his brain.”
“Right. And that works better than anyone’s.”
The Four Winds term had just begun. The cousins, on a long walk from school, were strolling down Montana. Pullman loped behind, drawing the usual stares. They got a Jamba Juice and crossed the street to pick up goodies for Bluey at her favorite new confectionary haunt. Their grandmother had been furious with Gilles Mott when he dared to foist on her a pale substitute for that mouthwatering almond-and-pomegranate delight before informing her (under duress) the originals were no longer available; then one day Tull brought home some high-end morsels from Le Marmiton and, voilà, her faith in sweets and mankind was restored.
Pink pastry box in hand, the trio migrated north toward the Brentwood Country Mart.
Lucy spoke up: “My mom said Trinnie’s seeing that detective. Romantically.”
“Yeah.”
“Is that an old thing?”
“You mean, from before?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“I mean, do you think they porked when they were younger?”
“I hate it when you use that word.”
“Well, did they?”
“I told you, I don’t know.” Then: “My mother has to be with someone or she flips out.”
“That’s harsh,” said Lucy, while agreeing to herself it was probably true. “Have you talked to him?”
“Who.”
“The detective.”
“About what.”
“Your father.”
He shook his head.
“Did she dump that guy Rafe?”
“I don’t know. I guess so.”
“How’d he take it?”
“I have no idea. And it’s Ralph. He calls himself Ralph now.”
“Don’t you think it’s kind of … weird that your mother and that detective—I mean, the guy who was searching for your—”
“Yeah I think it’s weird. I fucking hate it. All these people reuniting after … hiding everything all these years. It makes me sick.”
“It’s actually kind of cool—I mean, about your mom and the cop. Very forties. You know, you shouldn’t be so judgmental, Tull. Trinnie hasn’t had the easiest life. You’re not the only one stuff happened to.”
“You’re so Zen,” he said nastily. “Are you a Buddha-bitch?”
“Fuck you.”
She sulked, slowing her pace as they continued uphill. Pullman sniffed at the elaborately coiffed flower beds along the pricey road.
Tull turned back to make a peace offering. “He ate dinner at the house the other night—Sherlock Dowling—and I could tell Mom wanted us to talk. Wanted me to talk. Creepy! What am I supposed to say? ‘How come you couldn’t find Dad?’ Or, ‘Hey, can I see your gun?’ ”
Lucy laughed. “He’s probably not such a horrible person. Anyway, I’d like to talk to him.”
“For your book?”
“He is a real detective—and I am writing a mystery, you know.”
“Oh, right! You know I am so happy that my personal tragedy is bringing everyone together!”
They both laughed this time.
The Mauck sat in its blue-zoned berth outside Four Winds. A gull wing cantilevered over the passenger’s side just enough to accommodate a chill demitasse of September air.
Edward was depressed. Today, he didn’t have it in him to admire the orchids, freshly arranged; or to engage the mechanism that would eject the cushioned, canopied buggy into the scholastic world. He had ordered Eulogio (Epitacio was off with Grandpa Lou) to take a walk—he didn’t want to have to look at hunching, da
ndruffy shoulder pads while the driver labored over his Spanish crossword. He didn’t even want to see the gang; the gang was doing well enough. All were preoccupied, he thought somewhat sardonically; Lucy with her bestseller, Tull with his mythic search, Boulder with her new little film … let them go with God. Allah be praised! As for Edward, he’d had enough. He was tired and in pain; aside from the acne, a cyst in one of his kidneys was now saying hello. He felt sorry for himself, an indulgence he ordinarily loathed. But today there was a moratorium on his usual rigor. Today, Headward the First, as the witty bully had once anointed him, cried real tears.
“You and me, Pullie, we’re two of a kind,” he said, kneading its neck.
The mottled dog looked up with an eye the size of a horse’s.
“We’re almost ‘done,’ aren’t we? But who would I rather be … would I rather be Tull, or Lucy? Eulogio? Would I rather be you? For an hour, I would—or a day. I’d like that, Pullie, if you could arrange it. I’d run and run like a fucker.” If the Dane had any reciprocal yearnings, albeit not for running, of which he did precious little, but for living like a sweet and damaged human king, he kept them to himself. “But you’re a healthy sovereign. You’re the anomaly—you’ll live forever, won’t you, Pullie?”
The dog and Grandpa Lou were his only confessors, but they were enough. He lifted the silken hood to dab at his eyes—today would be a gaudy blowout, a veritable Mardi Gras, a saturnalia of self-pity! He wailed, letting loose a torrent; his body shook convulsively, chin knocking against titanium support, chronicle of a short life foretold.
Then something peculiar happened.
Shadows fell across the front seat, accompanied by a sharp intake of astonished breath.
“Eulogio?”
For a moment, the hair of his fissured head stood on end. A tiny thing with matted hair looked in—dirty wet chick, beneath aluminum wing.
“Who are you!” gasped Edward, naked-faced and weeping.
He could not stop his ejaculations—water still sprang from stunned eyes, and body still shook. She stared at the cousin with the horror of a toddler at the fun house; yet much like before, her actions contrary to her fear, the waif found herself inside the truck.
As she walked toward him, zombie-like, Edward’s tears abated while his panic grew. “You’re the girl—the girl from before!”
Pullman tardily stood to greet her, and the sudden bigness of the beast gave her a final push off the ragged cliffs of consciousness, dropping her hard at the mouth of some faraway cove. The Dane tongued her cheek while Edward shouted for help.
Eulogio rushed in and regarded the collapsed girl with confusion. The cousin imperiously ordered him to make a getaway, and when he balked, Edward made it clear that if he did not secure the Mauck and drive off at once, he would be sacked, as would his brother, Epitacio; as would his sister, Candelaria; as would his Mexican mother and Peruvian father, wherever they were; as would all Monasterios who walked the earth, making sure to include Eulogio’s present, past and future wives, unborn children and children’s children. The reinvigorated cousin added (in Spanish, for effect) that he would then fire Christ and the Devil himself.
“Comprendiste todo? Then, vamanos!”
Neither father nor mother was home; smuggling her in wasn’t a problem. A more serious hurdle would be to keep the nursing staff at bay—of late, they’d been hovering too close for comfort.
After carrying the groggy girl to his employer’s apartments, poor Eulogio was upbraided further. While he did not relish his role as torturer, Edward knew how far he must go to ensure that the easygoing minor domo held his mud. Thus said, it is unnecessary to elaborate on the cousin’s scoldings; they were adequate to achieve their end.
Finally, alone with the girl, an assessment was required: was she ill or simply exhausted? Amaryllis stirred fitfully on the couch, looking more frightened than anything else. He would nurse her back as one might an eaglet fallen from a nest; with medicos in residence twenty-four/seven, it would be safe enough to monitor her progress and seek immediate attention if the need arose. There was no reason to raise a flag, for now.
“My name is Edward Trotter,” he said, handing her a cup of lovingly, if laboriously prepared, hot chocolate. “You, if I recall, are Amaryllis—like the flower. And, more vaguely, as my dear friend Tull attested, like the Texan city.”
She nodded gravely at her host, as if he had exposed her last and deepest secret.
“Can you talk?” he asked. She cautiously indicated that she could. “Well then, would you?”
“Where am I?”
“At my home,” he said, “otherwise whimsically known as the Boar’s Head Inn—there’s even a sign ouside: established 1843. It’s where I maintain my apartments and workshop. My parents—you shan’t be meeting them—stay in the main house; and my sister—who you have met—lives up the ‘street,’ above the Majestyk—that’s the movie palace—the whole of our fair town being called Olde CityWalk and bordered by Stradella Road, which passes through the exceedingly dull principality of Bel-Air … itself a part of Los Angeles County, I believe. I don’t think we’ve seceded quite yet.”
The shell-shocked Amaryllis could make no sense of what he was saying. She dumbfoundedly looked to the dog, whose long, fat body now hibernated amid piles of books and dry, deformed papier-mâché.
“And that,” he went on, “is Pullman, noblest of harlequins (remember?)—property, so to speak, of cousin Tull, né Toulouse, who I’m confident you do recall. At any rate, he was the first of the clan you laid eyes on. It was actually Tull who introduced us: ‘us’ being myself, the well-known Boulder Langon and the less-well-known Lucille Rose Trotter, sister and future novelist of note.”
This time she didn’t ask about his condition, which gave him leave to inquire after hers. Did she hurt anywhere? Was she feverish? Did she—yet before he could finish his examination, Amaryllis doubled over and ran to the trash, where she threw up what little she’d imbibed. With clucking self-reproach, Edward realized the poor girl was starving; cocoa may not have been the best idea. While she lay on the divan, peering at him from beneath a comforter, he rang the house kitchen for chicken broth and Popsicles.
A few days later, the cousin invited Tull and Boulder to join him and Lucy for a light supper at the Boar’s Head. Edward forsook his customary face covering and, while not commenting directly, the children thought that remarkable. A molten rage of pimples had subsided, leaving a rash of burnt-out villages in its wake, their charred remains artfully covered by hypoallergenic makeup.
After heartfelt remarks on how well he looked and how buoyant seemed his spirits, the children occupied themselves with Four Winds gossip—fallout from the Easter Island faculty debauch, et alia—while young Candelaria shyly set the table. Another helper wheeled in a cart with boeuf bourguignon, yellowfoot mushrooms and Ligurian chickpea cake stowed in heated steel cabinets. A box of Le Marmiton tartes Tatins and thumbprint cookies awaited for dessert, wedged prominently between a Yupik Eskimo puppet and Julie Taymor–made goblin that Aunt Trinnie gave Edward on his last birthday. After the tossing of the mâche salad the couple was dismissed.
But a fifth place had been set.
“Who are we expecting?” asked Boulder, glancing at the empty spot.
“Wouldn’t be Detective Dowling, would it?” added Lucy, an eyebrow archly raised. It was obvious she had in her possession an insider’s “piece of intelligence”—some fresh mischief of her brother’s was afoot.
“I don’t think so,” said Tull. “He’s with my mom at a screening.”
“Poor Rafe,” said Lucy wistfully.
“It’s Ralph,” amended Tull.
“So easily replaced!”
“Don’t worry about him,” said Tull, blasé. Then he turned to his cousin, tired of the game. Edward smiled like a mosaic mandarin; his much-operated-upon face looked digitized. “I hope it isn’t some Jewish thing—you know, waiting for Elijah-slash-Marcus Weiner? That would be so d
umb. And boring.”
“Two things I’ve never been accused of,” he said smugly.
The invalid used a cane while meandering to an open door. He stood inside its frame and looked expectantly offstage. With not a little sense of showmanship, he faced the group again, ridiculously clearing his throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I reintroduce to you … Amaryllis Kornfeld!”
The appearance of his father may have been the only thing to surprise Tull more than the sight of the girl, who had never really left his thoughts. The orphan haltingly entered as she had the Mauck that long-ago day, but the old terror was supplanted by a diffidence, a charming acquiescence that filled Tull’s heart.
Lucy ran to shore up their guest, who in the last seventy-two hours had already regained some weight if not a good part of luster. Aside from making sure that she fed her face around the clock, Edward had steeped her in the finest of emollients, and her hair, though in need of shaping—the MacLaren “stylist” left much to be desired—seemed to grow wilder and more beautiful by the hour. Tull (he still thought of himself as Toulouse around her) now waited nervously in the reception line, directly behind Pullman, who for some intolerably annoying reason chose this very moment to spend more time with the wayward child than he ever allotted to anything, living or dead. Lucy stroked the girl’s rosy gold-brown cheek while Boulder, above it all, busied herself with Edward, praising his gambit and twittering over its daring illegality.
