by Bruce Wagner
“They call the place Twin Towers, and a more evil set of twins you’re unlikely to meet! It wasn’t easy receiving visitors, and frankly, I’m glad for it—I wouldn’t have wanted Janey to see me that way, all shackled up. It would have upset her no end.”
They looked at him, and looked away too.
“What is it, then?”
The one who had first discovered his talents with a saucepan took Marcus by the arm and walked him away. “There is bad news.”
“Let me have it, man!”
“Jane … is dead. She was murdered. It happened the day after your arrest.”
“My arrest?” He repeated it, as if it related to someone else. “How—”
“In the old Tropicana … that’s where they found her. A man killed her—”
“The Tropicana? A man …—what man?”
“I don’t know. She killed him, too—stabbed him dead.”
“Stabbed him—” He said the phrase over and again, like someone frantically trying to recall a crucial code by saying key words aloud. “Stabbed who?—”
“The man who attacked her.”
Sling Blade, that Ph.D. of misery, had been eavesdropping, and moved closer to put a hand on Marcus’s biceps for support.
“We’re sorry, William. She was doing so great. Of course, she wasn’t happy about you being arrested … When I went to identify her—one of the officers who found the body recognized Jane from having seen her on the night they took you—I claimed her property. She had a knapsack, and that was all. We’ve got her hearing aids, if you want them. She had something of yours—she was on her way to the jail to give it to you.”
An associate had already fetched the item, stowed in a slick gray garbage bag with a built-in bright yellow cinch, and passed it to the one doing all the talking. It was handed to Marcus, who gingerly looked inside.
“That’s it, no?” asked the counselor. “What we gave her from your locker?”
Marcus reached into the bag and pulled out his diary, still wrapped in grocery paper and hemp. There was a brown smear of blood on it.
“Isn’t that what you asked Jane to bring you? She was probably on her way when she got mixed up with the man who attacked her.”
Slipped beneath the frayed string was an envelope addressed “To my Darling Will.”
Toulouse fled to Stradella House for Thanksgiving supper as the mood at Saint-Cloud was forbidding. His mother had taken to bed, and the self-righteous boy guessed drugs were at fault. Bluey was dragged kicking and screaming all the way to Alzheimer’s World; Grandpa Lou took her absence hard.
We lied when saying Toulouse “fled”—the old man ordered him to go, knowing the domestic air to be clouded even more than usual. The truth was he didn’t want Trinnie blabbing to the boy about the reappearance of his dad, which in her current state she was resoundingly capable of.
The cousins took this forced reunion as a welcome rapprochement. In short order, with much thanks to Pullman (a natural icebreaker), the three were together again as if never parted. They caught up on various enterprises, and gossiped, too—about a few “pieces of intelligence” regarding Trinnie’s beaux. The first, from Toulouse, seemed anticlimactic on the telling: the detective and his mother had definitively broken it off. Lucy was particularly thrilled, never having completely gotten over her crush; now and then during class, her pulse quickened while daydreaming that she had Mr. Dowling in the 747 ready for takeoff. The second bit of news was more delicious. As it turned out, the Screenwriter Formerly Known as Rafe had struck paydirt and was now actually dating Diane Keaton. Edward said the great actress had even asked him to punch up the movie she was directing (featuring Boulder Langon as the juvenile lead). But there was no discussion of the runaway girl; the subject was too radioactive. Toulouse slept in the main house, and took great care in avoiding Olde CityWalk altogether—the mere thought of the Boar’s Head garret and the perfect picture of that sad-eyed gamine staring down through its trapdoor were enough to cause a catch in his throat.
In the late afternoon, they gathered at table. Joyce shabbily asked where his mother was on this Thanksgiving Day, and Toulouse, not half because Amaryllis was still on his mind, spontaneously said, “A dinner for orphans.” Lucy nearly choked on her marshmallow’d yams; Edward grinned—touché—for his cousin had killed two birds with one stone: not only had he boldly referenced their illicit boarder, but he had also stood on Joyce’s nerve by implying that Trinnie would be more inclined to help the abandoned living than the abandoned dead.
But his comment had a deeper meaning—at meal’s end, he promptly announced that he wished to go home.
He thanked his hosts and said heartfelt good-byes to Lucy and Edward. That was the wondrous thing of being their age; they hadn’t yet the sophistication to shut a final door—whereas in adulthood bruised feelings born of shared adversity become the stuff of feud, and mysteriously acquire permanence. The spite of children is truly child’s play; grown-ups hate for all eternity.
The light in his mother’s room was on, and he decorously rapped at the door. She softly asked if it was Winter (who’d been told she could stay on indefinitely even though Bluey would not return) and was surprised when Toulouse answered.
He slipped in with her assent.
Trinnie lay in bed in the dark, in a crumb-stained Ghesquière caftan. She asked him to hand her a glass of water. She looked druggy.
“Are you sick?”
“No—why? And why are you looking at me like that?”
“Are you … taking drugs?”
“No, I’m not taking drugs. Are you? You’re not being very respectful. I’m tired. And I don’t feel well.”
“That’s what you say when you’re taking drugs.”
“I thought you were with Lucy and Edward.”
“I wanted to come home. I need to talk to you.”
“You mean you need to torture me—I told you: I’m not taking anything, OK?”
“I wanted to talk to you about the girl.”
“What girl?”
“Amaryllis. The one Samson was looking for.”
“What about her? You didn’t get her pregnant, did you?”
“No,” he said, bringing all his youthful contempt and puritanism to bear. “I want you to talk to Samson. I need to know if they found her.”
“You really like that wild child, don’t you? ‘The diplomat’s daughter.’ ”
He shyly nodded, averting his eyes.
“C’mere.”
He crawled into bed and snuggled up. “I’m worried about her—I just feel like it was all my fault. We could have worked it out, couldn’t we? Grandpa could have made it so Amaryllis could have stayed …”
“You can’t save the world, Toulouse. And you can’t save everyone in it.”
“I don’t want to save everyone—I just want to save her.”
“People have their own lives, their own destinies. Their own karma.”
He didn’t want to hear any of her negative mysticism. “I—I just worry that I’ll never see her again. Like—you and Dad … only I didn’t get a chance to really know her. At least you and Dad—at least you got married—”
He didn’t want to hurt her; he thought to himself how he was always ruining everything.
She blew her nose and looked at him with a face disfigured by irresolution. “Oh, Toulouse! You should know this, you should know this …—but I promised your grandfather I wouldn’t say!”
His heart stuck in his throat. “They found her … something happened—”
“I can’t, I can’t!” she said, scurrying to light a cigarette. She was wild-eyed now. “I said I wouldn’t, but I can’t keep it from you! I promised him—but I can’t!”
“She’s dead, she’s dead!” he cried. He stood and shouted—demanded to know: “Who killed her!”
“Tull, it’s your father—your father came back, Tull! He came back, he came back, he came back!”
He reeled away, and only t
he wall held him up. His mother nattered on, sobbing and mumbling and blowing her nose as she rushed to the bathroom, then out again, inadvertently exposing one tit, then another. In his shock, he heard only a few isolated phrases: “jail for murder,” “Grandpa got him sprung,” “four hundred pounds!”
That night he stayed in the Dane’s great villa, curled into the dog like a pup. As Half Dead before him, Toulouse licked his wounds in preparation for war.
†Thanks to the efficient plasma-protein bindings of Olanzapine.
CHAPTER 40
Phantoms and Convocations
Louis Trotter ignored the calls from his physicians. He’d been feeling much better since the emergency-room visit; his collar buttons were even fastening again. While such indifference to “follow-up” was perhaps unwise, it should not of necessity be considered a harbinger of doom—the old man had survived all manner of assault to his various systems, in degrees both large and small. It would take a lot to bring him down.
He busied himself with Bluey, who was still settling in—if that’s the appropriate phrase when all the settling is done for you, and nearly against your will. He held her hand and occasionally ducked or broke away when the going got rough; then clucked and chuffed and asked of her his pet question over the years: “And how, little girl Blue, do you like your new digs?” (The thin humor of this being that she had always called him the digger.) “I don’t like them at all,” she said cogently and it pierced him through and through.
She asked why he had put her there, and while Louis remorsefully pondered a reply, Bluey shouted he was trying to kill her and that she’d fix his wagon good. She reached in her diaper, pulled out a hand smeared with feces and gave chase. The dapper old man dodged and parried as nurses in arm-length latex gloves scrambled—Marx Brothers by way of Dante.
The staff was careful around him, because they knew he was a donor and had billions and that his daughter had even designed the wandering garden; but Louis still worried about what they’d do to his wife when he wasn’t there. He would have to hire special people to stand around, like NATO observers; more men in suits. No … best not to meddle. He was horrified to find himself comforted by the fact that Bluey bruised easily—a handy indicator of skulduggeries. Maybe he would install a webcam in her room so that he could watch her from Saint-Cloud. (He thought of a friend whose wife had lost her mind. The suspicious man set up a secret camera to document the abuse—as it had turned out, the one being abused was the nurse.)
He rushed out, unable to bear any more. Passing through the doors, he found Winter on her way in; they could hear Bluey’s chilling chorus of “I’m afraid!”s.
“Can’t they give her something, Winter? Why don’t they give her something to knock her out?”
“I’ll go see about it, Mr. Trotter. Don’t you worry.”
He sat by himself on a bench. He had yet to share with the old nanny any details relating to the purchase of the “condominium.” He wasn’t sure how to bring it up; there was time enough for that. There would be time … But it was real. The condo was very real.
He surveyed his daughter’s handiwork. A profusion of honey locust trees with underplantings of fern and Siberian iris abounded, in the intimate style of a sixteenth-century garden; lining the Yorkstone path were bluebells, cosmos and mini-narcissus. Senescent creatures walked this eternal return of heavenly road—more surreal by far than anything made of yellow brick—waxen-skinned foragers on a looped and loopy veldt.
The boy waited impatiently in the foyer—Mr. Trotter could not help noticing him from the living room, where he entertained his fiftyish, rumpled guest. About half an hour later, he ushered the visitor to the door, where they exchanged earnest good-byes.
Upon entering the Withdrawing Room, he saw his grandson among the grove of tombstone maquettes. One look told him all he needed. “I see you’ve spoken to your mother.”
Toulouse nodded glumly. His face was puffy from worry and sleeplessness; a rough night in the doghouse all around.
His grandfather pursed his lips, a habit carried over from business— a “hardball” rictus unpleasantly familiar to those who had sparred with him on the corporate level. “What would you like me to do?”
“I want to see him.”
“He’s not ready for that, Toulouse.”
“Is he sick?”
“That’s a complicated question, isn’t it?”
“It doesn’t sound complicated.”
“Let’s say he’s getting better.”
“What’s wrong with him? Is it the schizophrenia?”
His grandfather laughed, then chuffed. “You might put it that way! But he has the best care now and the doctors are seeing to his every need.”
“Was he in jail?”
“He was.”
“For murder?”
“For a crime he did not commit. That is why he was released.”
“What crime?”
“That is irrelevant.”
“Has Mother been to visit him?”
“No. Refuses to—and I’m glad. I don’t think he’s ready to see anyone.” He added, “I don’t think she’s ready.”
“Is it true he weighs four hundred pounds?”
“He’s not that heavy.” He laughed, knowing whence the exaggeration came. “A nutritionist has his diet completely under control.”
“Then why can’t I see him?” The boy dug in; he had his grandfather’s genes after all.
“Because it is not the time,” said the old man insistently.
“If it wasn’t for me,” said Toulouse, scowling, “you would never even have found him!”
“How’s that?”
“I’m the one who called Harry and Ruth—”
“I know it. And you shouldn’t have imposed on them that way.”
“They were glad we went to see them. And I’m the one who bought the jellies that reminded her of him! I’m the one who wanted to find my father in the first place! No one else did—”
“You know that isn’t true, Toulouse.”
“But it is true! No one wanted to find him enough. And you didn’t want Mother to marry him in the first place! And she didn’t care—it was better for her with him gone. That way, she could be happy taking her precious drugs! If he did come back, what would her excuse be then?”
Though his words stung, the old man stifled a swell of pride at the boy’s sagacity. “That’s enough now! You’re far too young to sit in judgment of me, let alone your mother. You will see your father in time—and that will be soon enough. Do a few months really matter? Do you want to ambush the man before he’s ready? Are you that selfish, Toulouse? I don’t think so. He is your father, regardless of how he behaved in the past. He has been pursued by Furies, and now we are trying to chase those demons away. Or as many as we can. He needs all his energy for that struggle, do you understand? I don’t want him derailed by certain—well, let’s just say I want him stronger before he has any more shocks. For you will be a shock to him. Now, do we have a deal? You agree that you will see your father when he’s ready?” He held out his hand, and the boy grudgingly shook it. Toulouse had been persuaded; his grandfather’s logic was sound.
“Deal.”
“Good. And not a word of this to anyone—not Lucy or Edward—not anyone. And leave your mother alone about it! What you said about her is true; before she sees him, she has to shed lots of dead skin. And it’s not an easy thing. But she’s holding up. Doing damn well, she is.”
He put an arm upon the boy’s shoulder while walking him out.
When they reached the door, Toulouse looked into his eyes. “I’m so sorry about Grandma,” he said sweetly. “I’d like to visit her soon.”
“She’d love that.” He was moved by the youngster’s politesse, for that was another visit of large proportion that needed the old man’s sanction. “Epitacio will take you whenever you like.” He leaned to kiss his head. “You’re a wonderful boy, Toulouse. You’ve a strange lot in life, but you
’re unforgettable. I am proud you’re my grandson, and will do anything I can for you in the years I have left.”
While Toulouse acceded to his grandfather’s wishes, his pact did not prevent him from listening in on a visit paid his mother by the lovelorn detective. Though Trinnie remained beguilingly, if morosely, in bed for the occasion, her son’s efforts were made easier by an open door. He assumed Samson had left it that way on purpose, to let his mother know he didn’t have any big ideas.
After the usual awkward chitchat of the recently estranged, Trinnie inquired after her husband (she knew Samson had been spending time with him). He affably responded, happy to have alit on familiar ground. It was all very conversational; one would never have suspected the extraordinarily baroque details involved. The detective told her that Marcus had a “pretty good setup over there.” Toulouse hoped “there” would be named, and was not disappointed.
The Hotel Bel-Air wasn’t far—the boy felt the flush of the downhill walk, and the flush of illicitness too, not dissimilar from the feeling that had overtaken him when he had first climbed through the broken hedge of La Colonne. He had promised Grandpa Lou not to interfere and would keep that promise; yet, as in the trespass of the forbidding park on Carcassone Way, he seemed powerless to stop his legs from propelling him forward.
He waved to Kevin, who knew him well from two years of Pull-manesque peregrinations. The valet let him park the dog by a sleeping Ferrari while he went in to investigate.
Toulouse struck out over the bridge, glancing down to the postcard pond with its swan fantasia. His plan was to dash through the small lobby and walk to the pool, then back past the bar and restaurant in hopes of “seeing something.” Before he had the chance, he noticed a figure crouching at the edge of the water. It was Sling Blade, who vied for the attentions of the long-neck’d, floating beauties while grinning at some remark a man nearby had tossed off. The man laughed, the laughter itself as full-bodied as the throat from which it poured out—
