I'll Let You Go

by Bruce Wagner

  As said, I did not initially respond, because I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression—that any kind of romance could be rekindled. If this sounds vain, then let it—I may as well be “up-front” and put all the cards on the table (forgive the cliché). For I am past all that, Marcus. Another reason for my hesitance was I’d hope that if it did come to pass that you saw Toulouse—that you were serious when you said “I would not leave without the boy’s consent”—then I became suddenly fearful you might misinterpret my “interest” (i.e. any sort of correspondence) and that would become the driving influence on your decision to remain, at least for the time being, here in Los Angeles … or in our lives or however one wants to put it. “Waiting for the next letter,” so to say. I know this might sound monstrously egocentric but I must speak my mind. I know you have affection for the boy but as you have not yet met him, he is still an abstract. He might better remain that. I am hoping that by making it VERY clear that I do not wish to pursue anything romantic—or anything really at all—that you will—if that is the main thing that was holding you here—that you will leave this city before seeing our son. In other words, I can’t know your motivations, and while I do believe you’re a good soul, and always believed that (and always will), I would not condemn or judge if you felt you should move on—cut your losses so to speak. Your seeing Toulouse cannot be contigent on something between us which is not (& I suppose was never) meant to be. I’m sorry to speak so crudely but I am protective of my son. If after reading this you do have a mind to leave then I implore you do so before seeing him. For what good would it do, other than to perversely appease a curiosity?

  (It is a day-and-a-half later.) I let this sit awhile, because I felt a bit self-righteous upon finishing. I’ll add this to it, rather than attempting to revise; I don’t think I have it in me to revise anything anymore.

  Perhaps I “spoke” too soon. If you are planning on going away again it might actually be a “far better thing” for you to actually meet with Toulouse, so you can (both) “get it out of your system.” I don’t want to be the Gestapo.

  I suppose there aren’t any rules, are there? So for me at this point to try and make them seems a little arrogant. I do not mean to sound all over the map, and am sorry for that. But I am

  Sincerely,

  Trinnie Trotter

  A THIRD LETTER

  Dearest K,

  First off, may I say how gladdened I am you took the time to read my letters, and also took time to so thoughtfully respond.

  Secondly, your point on the “romantic” front is well-taken. Katrina, I think the world of you, but promise I do not harbor such illusions notions. You are to me—aside from being the mother of my son, which is itself a new and astonishing complication—like a friend with whom I once shared many things, turbulent and joyous, and with whom I have recently had the pleasure and good fortune to make reacquaintance.

  As for the boy—I can’t say they are forever dead but whatever demons drove me—well, they are so quiet or at least now so distant that I can’t make them out against the general landscape. Perhaps they lie in wait, as on that long-ago morning; perhaps they’ve met their match in therapist’s pharmacopia. But your point was, as usual, well-made, and well-taken.

  I see the above was a bit unclear. What I meant to say was that the sirens do not call. Not anymore. And that I have not commingled your presence—the existence of you—with the boy’s. And that my head is on straight about it.

  [three hours later] Katy, I must now divulge something which it now seems clear you’ve not been told—I have met the boy. I know that

  [one hour later] If I have violated a confidence, so be it—it does me no good to part with information which my sponsor, my father-in-law if I may, might rather I had kept to myself. He never said as much, mind you, so I don’t feel the complete opprobrium of betrayal; still, he has been so kind and I am uncomfortably shy in exposing him. But I fear if you WERE told—you may be in possession of such knowledge at this reading for all I know—if you WERE told and I did not mention this development, you might feel again wronged by me and have fuel for myriad resentments and suspicions. I do not wish such emotions to come between us. It has been difficult enough.

  Katy, I do not know what goes on at this time between you and Louis; but I do believe that your father, for reasons which I shall put forth in a moment, must have had the very same thoughts as you regarding the urgency of a summit between Toulouse and myself, and so arranged a meeting on Christmas Day. (He had his own “intelligences” for believing the boy was in fact ready to see me, or ready as he might be.) An opportunity to meet him on home ground dovetailed with your absence; why he decided on Saint-Cloud I am uncertain. He had brought me there to show the maze, and we were then, I had been told, to move on to the Hotel Bel-Air for a rendezvous with our son. But then your father felt poorly and rubbed a bit at his neck as if something pained him so we stayed instead and cold tea was brought for him to drink and a wet towel to lay on like a poultice.

  The most peculiar thing was that I had already “met” the boy without having known it (this is the “intelligence” of which I spoke). You see, I had a grievous chore to attend to and the vehicle called the Mawk was borrowed when our own broke down. When Toulouse found out I was to be onboard, he stowed away. It was such a sad errand for me, Katy, that I saw him but did not really notice, and thought he belonged to the the driver, Mr. Blade. In any case, I was certainly not introduced. When Louis learned of it, he said to himself what I imagine to be the very same thing you put to letter: well, that the two (or at least Toulouse) should “get it out of their systems.”

  Anyway, I won’t go on much more just now—I’m only hoping THIS piece of intelligence, as dear Louis might say, finds you in a charitable, forgiving moment of your day. Lay the blame on me if you wish, for I can bear it, especially from you, but your father was not at fault. He is the best of men, with the best intentions. Katrina, forgive me! My words sound rife with patronization, but I’d rather be back on the streets, mindless and unhinged, if they were to be taken as such, which is the furthest from how they are meant!

  Earnestly, and with

  Devotion Respect

  MW

  P.S. I recall that Louis was emphatic in voicing his desire that you should know that meeting took place; perhaps he has not yet found the right time to convey what transpired. I hope the time I found—and took—was not the wrong one.

  A FOURTH LETTER

  Katrina,

  I understand your silence. In my fear you would sever contact, I selfishly failed to even mention how the meeting with our son Toulouse went. It did not go all that bad. I made inquiries of his schooling and while the boy was reticent to engage in much discussion, he was clearly not afraid, or intimidated. This, I know, does not sound valedictory or sanguine—but is relevant in that he might have heard many unfounded but terrifying rumors about his father.

  I have not seen him since, though I long to. I am leaving it to Louis—and to you—and to the boy himself of course—to decide otherwise. I know that you desired to limit your correspondence with me and I don’t wish it to seem I am enlisting you into some sort of contract where I await your delegations; this is so damn difficult, Katy.

  I will leave you in peace and am sorry to have disturbed you but felt compelled to send this corollary.

  May you have a Good Day,

  Marcus

  A FIFTH LETTER

  January 24th

  The Post Ranch Inn

  Dear Marcus,

  It is all right about you meeting Toulouse; how could it be otherwise? Didn’t I suggest it in my letter? I was taken aback that it happened at Saint-Cloud, and accept your explanation (with some concern as to Father’s health. I have since called his physicians). But I’m not sure why he had you there at all. I do respect your relationship with Louis and have not mentioned the “incident” for precisely that reason, though it is not my job to protect anyone. (It was one of the
housekeepers who told me you were there.) Nor could your telling me have any repercussions; Dad might have half-understood you would pass it along to me anyway. He does know we are have corresponded. He isn’t so petty—nor am I. It’s just that I am not feeling very close to him at this moment. I would ask you though, for my sake, to decline any further invitations to Saint-Cloud; if you are to see Toulouse, I feel it should be on neutral ground. Our son He needs to feel safe in the house where he lives; by “safe,” I mean, Toulouse needs to be secure there won’t be any big surprises thrown at him there. Surely, you understand?

  I am traveling and shall not be returning letters. It is probably best we break this off.

  Wishing you the Best,

  Trinnie

  A FIFTH LETTER

  February 10

  Katy,

  Thank you for your response, and of course, I will not revisit the house—as you wish. Thus far, a request for an encore has not been received! Not to worry.

  And yes, sadly, I accede to your desire to end our exchange. I hope this will not prevent you from thinking well of me, and at least on occasion, too. I have a long road ahead to be sure. I am getting to know my parents again and will soon make the trip to Redlands. I am catching up on the historical goings-on of this country and the world since I went in abeyance—am finding the computers absolutely extraordinary. I’ve been shown how to play some astonishing games on the keyboard by the boys—around here we call them “the men in suits”—and am already whupping them, to their great chagrin. Have been to a few films in the Westwood Village (how that place has changed!). I’ve seen the most elaborate cartoons, where the characters look almost as real as people. They are also apparently made by the computers.

  All told, I’ve lost nearly 80 pounds in the last 4 months—no mean feat, considering the side effects of the medication I am currently prescribed tend to seriously enhance one’s avoirdupois … Soon I’ll be wearing Louis’s fancy hand-me-downs!

  That was in jest—

  I’ve taken to reading Variety and am staggered at the amount of money films now take in. And the venues! Three thousand theaters, all at once

  I know I shan’t “speak” to you, so am trying to cram much in … forgive my foolish mouth (and pen) while it tries, and fails, so valiantly to keep up with my heart. Please have a splendid journey, Katy, WHEREVER you may go! And may you be secure in the knowledge there are those who value your great, tremendous spirit and demand nothing of you—and so—and so

  You have my everlasting admiration, support, and dare I say, Love. Please, know that I will always be

  Your Hu

  Your great good Friend,

  Marcus Weiner

  CHAPTER 44

  Close to Home

  You have been mine before,—

  How long ago I may not know:

  But just when at that swallow’s soar

  Your neck turned so,

  Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.

  —Dante Gabriel Rossetti

  Marcus put away his wife’s letters but couldn’t help think of her, especially while leafing through the garden of his Montecito home. Though Louis said his daughter had never set foot on the property, the husband felt her hand there nonetheless: in the purplish echinacea, magenta cosmos and—most powerfully—in the white bridal veil of Dendrobium superbum. He spent an inordinate time watching caterpillars fatten on parsley before attaining their samadhi posture, necks arc’d to twig, perfect yellow-green sarcophagi suspended by strands of silk. In time, the single wing of a black swallowtail previewed through a diaphanous cocoon; then out it came, lucky enough to have dodged the wasp.

  He went around picking up snails as when he was a boy, gently provoking them to retract their gelatinous antennae. One of the suited men had shown him a magazine article about a certain parasite that began its life cycle beneath the shell of one of those curious creatures. When the host was eaten by a fish, the parasite sent a pulse through the fish’s brain, commanding it to surface, thus increasing the odds of being plucked from the water by a gull. There was beauty, he thought, in being snatched heavenward from the deep blue sea. For so many years he’d marched to schizophrenia’s viral drum—what was each living thing, he thought, if not a parasite of God? Now he was free; he’d been commanded to surface. A great bird was bearing him aloft.

  One morning, Marcus had a dream that made him rush to the ocean for cleansing. He had conjured the tower—and Katrina on their wedding bed. He came in her and was still ejaculating when he woke up.

  He went out far enough to make his chaperons briefly consider stripping for a rescue before he turned around and bodysurfed to shore like a doughy crate. As he strode from the heavy water, the Great Dane he had met at Saint-Cloud nearly knocked him over before taking a desultory romp in the foam. A small figure trudged tentatively forward, dappling the sand with its footprints. A suited man handed Marcus a towel as the boy approached.

  “Hello!”

  “Hello!”

  “We went to the house. They said I could find you here.”

  “And they were right!”

  The boy was staring at the tattooed heart that encircled his name. Marcus dipped down to give him a better look.

  “Want to come in? The water’s fine.”

  Toulouse hesitated.

  “Not too cold today—are you a swimmer?”

  “Mostly in pools. But I like to Boogie-board.”

  “Do you? We’ve got one right there!” He pointed to the fiberglass plank, stuck in the sand like a shark’s fin.

  Toulouse cracked a smile.

  “Well come on, then!”

  “But I don’t have a suit—”

  “You’ve got skivvies, don’t you? That’ll do—there isn’t a soul around! And these gentlemen,” he ribbed, with a wink to his keepers, “well, they don’t count!”

  “Oh my God, Edward, are they taking off their clothes?” She strained her eyes mightily. Lucy and her brother had stayed behind in the parking lot, where they sat in the buggy like tourists in a safari park.

  “Incredible.”

  “Edward, let me see,” she cried, grabbing at his binoculars.

  She tugged again, but he was busy getting his magnified jollies; the fabric of the Mizrahi Christmas shroud bunched atop the lenses like a soft, thick cord. He relented his hold.

  While Lucy adjusted focus, Sling Blade rolled up his trouser legs and blissfully ambled in the sand.

  “Oh my God,” said Lucy. “They’re going in?”

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s … beautiful.”

  Edward watched with naked eyes, transfixed, the veil held up by a gloved, sequined finger. He lowered the cloth, and on its way to his chin, the Moroccan weave blotted tears from his eyes.

  The scene was primeval: the father, a large, pale mammal, with the jittery seed of his progeny floating near, ducked under the greenest crepuscular swell, the very air aglimmer from a drunk philanthropist sun who carelessly cast a trillion coins down. (You could see the milky wave’s arterial underside.) Edward thought of his own father, Dodd, a man who’d been here all along—on Stradella Road—not a swimmer, and with whom he would never float in seas real or imagined. He envisioned the body of his grandfather on a bier, cast onto wavelets, lapping toward oblivion, then drifted back to the iroko tub where his mother bathed him—he could summon all the years spent soaking there—and closed his eyes, wondering how it might feel to be in the ocean with her: a baptizing and a going-away, bobbing in the deep with Toulouse and Marcus and Trinnie and Lucy—Pullie and Bluey and Grandpa Lou. Winter and the Monasterios …

  “They’re coming out!” cried Lucy.

  Like bizarre cabana boys, a row of suited men held bath towels in readiness.

  “Let’s go to the Mauck,” said Edward, who was himself just surfacing.

  “But why? Don’t you want to meet him?”

  “Do you want them to see us gaping?” he snapped. “Jesus, Lucy, they’ve hardly met—
allow them some dignity!”

  Apprehending him stirred by forces larger than the ones at hand, she sheepishly trailed after while Edward steered the buggy to the ramp. It docked and was pneumatically lifted.

  Holding a tidy package of dry clothing above his head as they descended the low dune that overlooked the lot, a shivering, towel-wrapped Toulouse proposed a jaunt to Bel-Air. (The plan all along was to introduce Mr. Weiner to the peerless pleasures of Olde CityWalk. The cousins had wisely chosen a day when the in-laws were out of town.) Marcus enthusiastically agreed, begging the chance to first run home so he might make himself more presentable. It was exciting as hell to be courted by his son.

  While Pullman leapt ahead, entering the MSV through the passenger side, Toulouse confessed to having brought his cousins and hoped Marcus didn’t mind. The man proclaimed it a delight. Seconds later, the dear, inquisitive face of Lucille Rose hung like a small pink lantern beneath the Mauck’s open wing, the long neck attached to a body still hidden in that amazing vehicle’s recesses. Mr. Weiner caught a glimpse but was diverted by the arrival of Sling Blade, who threw his old acquaintance a cocky salute. Lucy had by then retreated—and Edward was nowhere to be seen.

  The small convoy left the lot, with Marcus in the Town Car ahead. Edward busied himself in the lavatory while Toulouse gingerly removed the sand between his toes and quietly mused; he still tingled from the sea and from other things, too, and the corners of his eyes stung from salt.

  Lucy could contain herself no more. “Well, what did you talk about?”

  “Not too much. We mostly swam.”

  “Not in the water—on the way back.”