by Bruce Wagner
“Yes!”
They sat under a pergola near—appropriately enough—the “Tête-à-Tête” Narcissi.
“So: you were William Morris.”
“Yes.”
“It’s funny—not funny but odd.”
“It is funny.”
“It is. And kind of fascinating.”
“He was an interesting man. He and his circle.”
“You already knew a lot about him.”
“Yes.”
“From when you were at Oxford.”
“Yes indeed.”
“He went to Oxford, too, no?”
“Yes. And I learned a good deal more—I mean, through the years. Firsthand! So to speak.”
“You were always making jokes about ‘the two Williams.’ When you were an agent.”
“The joke was on me, I’m afraid.”
He smiled disarmingly while she laughed. “You’ve got a bit of an accent there.”
“They tell me it’s fading.”
“I like it. I mean, it’s not too bad on you.” She took cigarettes from her purse. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all!”
“Do you know who has a lot of Morris pieces? Andrew Lloyd Webber, the composer. He did Evita and Cats.”
“Oh yes.”
“He’s a tremendous collector of the Pre-Raphaelites.”
“Is he?”
Marcus seemed quite thrilled, which he actually was, but more because this woman was finally in front of his eyes. Though he did not yet know what that meant.
“Oh yes. I did one of his gardens, in London.”
“Really. Whereabouts?”
“Belgravia. He’s got Burne-Jones tapestries—”
“My, my!”
“And portraits of Jane, Morris’s wife—”
“Jane Burden.”
“Well, of course you know who Jane is,” she said, chastising herself. “He’s got a portrait of her by Rossetti.”
“Now, there was a character. A wicked, wonderful character, Rossetti. Loved the low life, that one. Took tremendous walks—like Dickens that way.”
A pause wherein it was tacitly acknowledged that Marcus was a well-known—or at least inveterate—walker himself.
“How do you find Santa Barbara?”
“Very tranquil. The beach is lovely—a tonic. Though part of me misses the city, vile as it’s become.”
“The bustle.”
The bustle, he concurred. They fell silent again.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I can cook something.”
“No thank you. I’m not sure how long I—how long I should stay. The children—”
“Of course.”
“And Joyce isn’t well.”
Pause.
“What a horrible, terrible thing. Someone so gifted and so young.”
“Toulouse said you met him—Edward.”
“He came up with his sister when the boy and I had a swim in the ocean. We all rode back together to the house on Stradella. He was a bit introverted, Edward—I drew him out. And now it feels like he may have had a … foreshadowing. He seemed to be very special that way.”
“He was an extraordinary boy.”
Her voice was beginning to lilt and dip like a bird on wing; it was contagious.
“And how is our—how is Toulouse bearing up?”
“All right, I think. Thank God he and Lucy have each other.”
“A marvelous girl, that. So perspicacious.”
“Neither has experienced a death before. With you … it was different. I told Toulouse from an early age—” She stopped herself, not wishing to repeat what she’d already written in a letter. Besides, it was gauche.
“I’m so sorry about all of it, Trinnie.” He amended himself by saying, “Katrina.” Then: “I’m sorry about it all the time.”
“No, please. I didn’t mean to sound callous.”
“Not at all, not at all.”
“With what happened to their grandmother … well, it’s been a difficult year. And it’s not half over.”
A pause.
“You look well! You look fit.”
“They work me out all right up here. Still a ways to go though, still a ways to go. There’s a marvelous gymnasium on the other side of the property, overlooking the pool. I’ve had my share of time in that body of water. Do you swim?”
“Oh yes.”
“It’s marvelous. I’m dropping stones on a daily basis.” Pause. “I meant to say pounds. How is your father bearing up? I’ve been worried—haven’t seen or spoken to him. He was quite close to the boy, no?”
“It’s a bit of a mess.”
“In what way?”
“He didn’t come.”
“Come?”
“To the funeral.”
“I can’t imagine!—”
“I suppose you haven’t heard.”
“He’s ill?”
“No. There was a bit of controversy—over the placement of the grave, of all things.”
“How strange!”
“It’s one of those awful, ridiculous family things. I’m sure it will make its way to the A&E biography.”
The reference was lost on him, but he let it rest.
There was a long pause.
“Are you certain you wouldn’t like me to cook you something?”
“I really shouldn’t stay.”
“It’d be no trouble.”
“That’s all right.”
“Not even a salad? You’re sure, now?”
“No thanks.”
“Yesterday I made a pot of turkey chowder; don’t know exactly why, but I was very much in the mood. The réchauffé’s always better, no? Wouldn’t take but a minute—”
“I should probably get back.”
“Well—it was good of you to come.”
“Goodness had nothing to do with it. As they say.”
“I’m glad you did anyway.”
“I’m not sure what we do now—where we go from here.”
“As my half-dozen psychiatrists would urge me to say: ‘I think that’s OK.’ ”
They had a laugh. They stood and he awkwardly shook her hand. Not much voltage there—none of the anarchic, voluptuous ardor that a death sometimes confers in its wake. Still, Trinnie felt herself cleave toward family, the sacramental, primal pull of blood.
They walked in silence along the side of the house until reaching her car.
“Did you ever hear that saying about answered prayers?”
“No,” he said, curious.
“I think it was Saint Theresa—according to Truman Capote, anyway.” She groped for the quote. “ ‘More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones.’ Or something like that.”
“Is that what I am, Katrina?” he asked, callow and open-faced. “An answered prayer?”
She smiled, with kindness and sorrow. “More a forgotten one, Marcus. I wonder if anyone ever said anything about tears shed over prayers that were forgotten.”
There may be those who feel the transformation of Marcus Weiner improbably contrived (though it is hoped the cynical reader would have long since abandoned our tale). For the skeptic who has held on, stubborn as he is dubious, the author merely suggests—for nothing is being sold here—that there is ample precedent to Mr. Weiner’s awakening and that the precedent has a name: Mystery.† We will leave it at that.
The day of the funeral, Marcus kept an appointment he thought would not be fitting to cancel. Besides, he could be of no solace to his son moping around the Santa Barbara estate. The men in suits knew how to reach him and had an explicit directive to do so should Toulouse need his counsel or company.
When Trinnie saw him stepping from the Town Car, he had just returned from an emotional reunion with none other than Amaryllis Kornfeld.
It has been noted that on Samson’s Montecito visits, Marcus used to inquire after the girl—and was delighted when the detective eventually called to say she was living in the home of his old fr
iend the baker. He felt guilty about not having replied to Gilles Mott’s kind note while in jail—and over his shabby treatment of Mrs. Mott, too. After all, the man had been faultlessly generous in providing sustenance in food and moneys, which in turn allowed Marcus to feed that poor soul and her brood. Now fate had decreed that Amaryllis be properly with them—just as “Topsy” had wished all along. He owed the couple a debt and was, naturally, anxious to visit his onetime ward. He owed her, too, for she had been as an angelic tutor, rousing and nurturing in him all the feelings he now had for his discovered son.
Much as the children had been, Marcus was of course astounded to learn the connection between Amaryllis and the Trotter kids; yet because so much of his life had seemed, and still seemed, a dream, it struck him as being perfectly right. He thanked the detective for enlightening him, and was glad he’d been told before Edward had brought it up.
At the risk of further complication (from which the author has never shied), it is important to note that Amaryllis had herself not yet been apprised of “Topsy’s” tortuous connection to the Trotter familia; as a stipulation of his being allowed e-mail privileges, Trinnie had forbidden her son to share the revelation. She said things were already messy enough. When a date for a rendezvous had been set, Lani called Marcus to reiterate that he was not to bring any of it up, just yet—they would tell their foster daughter in time.
Marcus had other concerns; he wondered if the child even remembered him. Lani assured that since being told of the impending visit, “Topsy” had been very much in the girl’s thoughts. Yet with youngsters, she added, one never really knew.
That afternoon Marcus sported the same staid, bespoke ensemble worn for court appearances. When he stepped from the car, he was concerned that his formality might be misinterpreted as high-handed. Gilles rushed out to greet him, dispelling all worries with a deep-dish hug. He explained that Lani and Amaryllis had taken Felix to the vet after the cat had “got into” some flea-control gel. He was in the middle of cooking, or at least midwifing, a meal Lani had begun—and quickly enlisted a neighbor to watch the stove while they dashed to the bakery. Gilles said he’d forgotten something.
“Fancy!” he said, getting a load of the Lincoln and its driver.
“Don’t have a license yet—Mr. Trotter’s been kind enough to allow me use of the car. Shall we avail ourselves?”
“Hell, yes! Let’s avail away! Always knew you’d make it to the top, William!” He hesitated. “Shouldn’t call you that, huh?”
“William’s fine.”
“No—you’re Marcus. But Amaryllis still calls you Topsy.”
“Does she?” He smiled, pleased that she called him anything at all.
“Well, let’s hurry—they should be home before too long. Don’t want to keep ’em waiting!”
They climbed in the Town Car and wound toward Beverly Boulevard, Gilles hamming it up like they were a float in the Rose Bowl parade. The chauffeur pulled into the alley behind Frenchie’s, right around where he’d left off the orphan girl nearly a year ago. Marcus loitered halfway between car and dumpster while the baker went in. For a moment, he had that hunted feeling and needed to remind himself he was no longer a wanted man. He almost went inside for old times’ sake but thought better of it; Gilles emerged holding a soiled pink box tied with thin white string.
The Volvo was there when they got back. Amaryllis bounded out to tell Gilles that Felix would be all right but needed to stay over for observation.
“Good, good, good—now, say hello to an old friend.”
“Hello,” she said, staring at Marcus.
“Hello!”
He smiled and hung back, not wishing to crowd her. She looked beautiful—so much longer than when he had carried her on his back from the Higgins—with shorter hair, and some fat on her, too.
“Well, don’t you know who it is?” the baker said.
“It’s Topsy,” said the girl nonchalantly, as if idly identifying a photograph. Lani called from the kitchen, and Amaryllis sprinted off, disappearing through the front door.
Marcus asked the baker if he felt the visit was a good idea. Gilles reassured that she was shy and had actually been awaiting him with great anticipation. That made him feel somewhat better, but he wasn’t sure if it was puffery. He followed his friend into the house.
Lani served lunch in the backyard (roasted guinea hen stuffed with nutmeg and parsley) on a glass-topped wrought-iron table set with wild-flowers. Marcus even drank a glass of wine, which he usually eschewed owing to various meds. Table talk skirted anything related to hard times, and while now and then he caught the girl staring at him with a kind of formidable acuity, it was readily apparent that they would share no intimacies—at least not here. His focus drifted. Toward the end of the meal, Amaryllis brought up the place called MacLaren and told her mother how much she wanted to go for a visit, especially to see Dézhiree. Plates were bused while Gilles went inside to arrange the surprise.
For a moment, the two were alone. He told her how pretty she looked, and she deadpanned that he looked “different.” She asked where his beard had gone and remarked that he was a good deal thinner than she remembered. He laughed, but she only smiled, and by then Gilles had returned with a tray of desserts: mille-feuille of custard, almonds and honey. By the taste of it, he could tell the flour had been rolled “hot”—Marcus always made sure, as his father had taught him, to run his hands under cool water while evening out the layers. Still, it was a lovely, magnanimous gesture, true to the baker’s form. Lani returned with little cups of espresso and partook herself of the lemony Moscato d’Asti.
Soaking in the sun (he’d hung his coat on the back of the chair), his broad face dappled by leaf shadow and the skittish attentions of a silver fritillary—soaking up all the space and time the four of them had traveled since being apart—well, Marcus thought it more than a small miracle.
Suddenly, it was over. The men smoked cigars while Amaryllis helped at the sink, though Lani shooed her away (she wanted her outside, with their guest). Gilles asked about his arrest and imprisonment, then talked all kinds of harmless nonsense about his fascinating recovery and how if he should write the whole incredible story up in screenplay form it would win fourteen Oscars, and so on. Marcus heard raised voices; then Lani’s alone. She was talking to the girl, not harshly but firmly.
When mother and daughter re-emerged from the wings, Lani announced it would be a wonderful idea for Amaryllis to show her old friend the Shakespeare Bridge.
“No, no,” said Marcus, mindful of the girl’s feelings. “Another time, another time!”
“Go with her. It’s nice to walk,” said Lani.
“Go!” said the expansive Gilles. “You should see it!”
“Oh, the bridge won’t go away! I’m sure Amaryllis has other things to do,” he said guilelessly.
“I’d like to show you,” she volunteered.
He was surprised, because she sounded quite sincere. Only human, Marcus had mistaken a child’s nervousness on seeing a mythical figure from her own Dark Ages as a sign of indifference. He grabbed his coat, and they set off, first passing through the coolness of the house.
Lani stopped him just inside the front door.
“Tell her,” she whispered, “about who you are—if you want to. I mean, she should know. I mean, the hell with it—when she came to stay with us, I said, ‘No secrets!’ But you do what you like.”
They walked through the neighborhood in relative silence, but this time the girl led the way, unlike long-ago peregrinations. Watching her chug along on her own steam as an independent (if still tiny) person, he couldn’t suppress a smile.
After a time, she spoke. “You don’t talk with an accent anymore.”
“Did I have a thick one? I didn’t think it was too bad.”
“It was,” Amaryllis said, and he saw her roll her eyes. “Were you just pretending?”
“I wouldn’t say I was pretending—I really did feel I was someone el
se.”
“Were you crazy?”
“Did I seem crazy?”
“No.”
“I don’t think so, no. I think that—that I had concerns—preoccupations, if you will … that others—well, most people—don’t have.”
“You were in jail,” she said, not looking back at him.
“I was. A terrible place.”
“The detective thought you killed my mother.”
“Yes.”
“The lawyers came and talked to me.”
“I was grateful for what you told them about the scarf.”
“But you didn’t kill her.” She looked him tentatively in the eye, wanting him to tell her what she already knew.
“No, Amaryllis, I didn’t. To be accused of something like that was the hardest thing. And that it was your mother—”
“But they found the person who did it.”
“Yes.”
“The man who owned Half Dead?”
“Yes.”
“He was your friend?”
“He was.”
“Did you know that he killed her?”
“I did not—and was shocked when they told me. I had no idea he was capable of such a thing. Did you ever meet Mr. Fitzsimmons at the encampment?”
She nodded. Then: “He used to come around with that dog. He tied him up outside when he came to see her. She always made me go leave, but I never played with that dog.”
“I wanted to call you the moment I found out what they were accusing me of. I couldn’t believe it! But they wouldn’t allow me. And then so many things happened … I moved to a hotel—and then to a house on the coast, where I now live. I finally got my wits about me and the energy to come see you. I ask your forgiveness for the delay.”
They had reached the bridge, and sat down on its bulwark.
“Not as big as the one on Fourth Street, is it?” he said.
“I like it better.”
She stared into the canyon. The spirit of the child he knew was hidden by armature grown these past rough seasons. Cars rumbled by, and they watched birds and planes and insects. The world was filled with flying things.
“Do you like living with Gilles and Lani?”
She nodded.
“Marvelous people. Good souls. Have you seen your brother and sister?”
“Uh-huh. They live in Lawndale.”
