Memorial

by Bruce Wagner

  “It’s a no-brainer,” he said, coolly macho.

  The kettle was whistling and she joined him in the little kitchen. She always brought her own tea.

  “I think you should do it.”

  “Really?”

  Laxmi seemed genuinely surprised. He could tell she was relieved.

  “You need the money, right?”

  “I so need it. And it’s like a lot. I do not want to ask Maurie for a loan.”

  He could tell she thought that was something he might like to hear. She was right.

  “And I’m really—things are going really well right now with my journaling. I’m starting to paste together sections for the book and I just feel I have kind of a momentum, and—”

  “That totally makes sense, Laxmi.”

  “—the money would so help! And the thing is—part of what I wanted to talk about—I could probably get a job at Ürth—I filled out an application—or the Bodhi Tree—they’re hiring in the ‘used’ store—but I think my hours would be really bad at 1st—I’d make more at Ürth but nowhere near as much as on FNF. I mean, for me, it’s ‘crazy money,’ but I’m just so conflicted—”

  “Listen, Lotus Girl”—she smiled when he called her that—“believe it or not but I’ve actually watched that show, and everyone seems to have a good time. Even the so-called Vics. I think I was kind of an aberration. An anomaly, whatever. Shit happens. Right? So don’t get your hippie head in a lather—just go for it. If it’s gonna help you finish your book, do what’s necessary. TCB. Elvis out. Do what you gotta do.”

  “Oh my God, Chester, that is so understanding of you.” She hugged him close. “That is so heartfelt. I would never do anything to hurt you. You have to know that!”

  “I do, honey. I do.”

  He poured water over the teabags.

  “And I just didn’t want to lie. I had to talk to you about it.”

  “It’s totally OK.” They sat on the couch. “And thank you.”

  He took some more pills. They relit and smoked the joint.

  He took her to dinner that night at the Polo Lounge. Brett Ratner, Jake Gyllenhaal, and Jay-Z were there, at separate bar booths; it was kind of a scene. (She wanted to go to the Dime but he didn’t think they could get in.) He was doing all right with his pain. Chess ordered an expensive bottle of wine to celebrate her getting the gig, and him getting the 10K from his mom.

  XLIV.

  Marjorie

  “ARE you Marj?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Bonita Billingsley—a friend of Lucas’s.”

  The woman was dressed in YSL. She was in her early 60s.

  “Oh! Hello!”

  “I’m from Ojai. I’m a Blind Sister!”

  “Oh! Dear! Yes! Lucas said he drove up to see you.”

  “He did, and made me very happy. So: how does it feel to be filthy rich?” she said, eyes agleam.

  “Well, I don’t feel filthy just yet…but I’m looking forward to it!”

  The woman had an easy laugh.

  Marj invited her in.

  She looked all around. “What a beautiful house! Is your husband here? I don’t want to interrupt.”

  “He passed, about a year ago.”

  “I am so sorry—mine did too. On the 18th, it’ll be 3 years. ‘18 holes,’ ” she said, whimsically. “He loved to golf.”

  “So did my Hamilton.”

  She admired Marjorie’s wedding ring, which the old woman never removed—a fire opal surrounded by diamonds that reminded her of “the color of my beloved India.” Once she said it, she sounded hopelessly pretentious. Marj realized how nervous she was; she wasn’t used to being social.

  “You’ve been?” asked the visitor, with eager respect.

  “Oh yes—but not in a while.”

  “I’ve always wanted to go, but I guess I’ve been a little scared.”

  “I’m planning another trip.”

  “Well, maybe you and me should hit the road!”

  Marj smiled—maybe so.

  “My friend Cora and I call this ‘Widow Street,’ ” she said, bringing them back to commonground. “Cora lives next door. And there’s a gal across the way whose husband died just a few months ago—we’re not that close.”

  “Fred had stomach cancer. The kids were there—all 4 of em, at bedside. But I was working, back east. I’m a sales rep. Well, I was. Not anymore! I really kicked myself that I wasn’t with him when he left us, but then Lucas—Mr Weyerhauser—read me something a great guru said. Yogananda. Have you heard of him?” Marj looked quizzical, but reflected back that same sort of civil curiosity the woman had earlier demonstrated. “He wrote The Autobiography of a Yogi.”

  “Oh my, yes!” exclaimed Marj, involuntarily touching her visitor’s arm. “The Self-Realization Fellowship—I’ve been to Sunday services there. Beautiful.”

  “Aren’t they glorious? Krishnamurti lived in Santa Barbara—that’s where we’re from, originally. Lucas showed me a passage in the book where Yogananda said that he wasn’t at his guru’s side when he passed and felt just awful about it. But then Yogananda realized it was the grace of God that allowed him not to be there at the end, to spare him the suffering of seeing his teacher die. (That’s how I think of husbands and all kind of folks—our own personal gurus, warts and all.) Well, when I read that, poof! It made everything all right. I felt 100% better. The guilt just washed away. And I don’t mean to be sacrilegious, but I think it’s by the grace of God that we were selected for this marvelous gift. I just wish Fred were here to play with some of my new toys. He would love the new Lexus. My gosh—when you back up, a little TV shows how close you are to the car behind. Warning whoops and everything! Fred hated the way I parallel-parked!”

  How strange—Marj recalled her neighbor going on about the very same thing. That’s how we seemed to advance, in America; if you heard about enough people having something, why, eventually you just had to have it yourself.

  Bonita went on to say that she’d won an “enormous” amount in “the shadow” and there was a great big party being thrown in New York for the “Sisters”—in about 2 weeks’ time. Hadn’t Lucas mentioned it? (She made no bones about having a crush on him.) She said the Blind Sisters was the most exclusive “country club” in America, and the State of New York was chartering a jet to fly in the winners. Everyone was “bunking” at the Four Seasons here in LA the night before, so “we can all get to know each other.”

  “There’s going to be a fancy dinner at Spago.”

  “I hadn’t heard,” said Marj, with a smile.

  “On Saturday! Did you apply for the Expedited Award Program?” The old woman was nonplussed. “I gave Lucas a check when he came up—for the Windfall Tax. Almost killed me to write it. But within 72 hours, the 1st payment was wired directly to my account, just like he said: $1,140,000. Marj, I nearly fainted!” The women cooed like pigeons. Then Bonita asked, “How much did you win?”

  Marj didn’t want to say; a shyness born from her upbringing when it came to things like money.

  “I hope my question wasn’t impertinent!”

  “No! Not at all—”

  “Oh, I understand!” she said, patting Marjorie’s hand. “I didn’t want to tell anyone about it—in fact, Lucas warned me not to, he was very serious about that—until I actually drew the money out. That’s when it became…real.” Her eyes teared up and Marj handed her some Kleenex.

  Then, realizing she might have appeared vulgar, the guest grew contrite. “I’m sorry if I busted in on you.”

  “It’s fine. It’s really fine!”

  Now it was the old woman’s turn to feel sorry. The last thing she wanted was to come across as “hoity.” She reached out and patted Bonita’s hand.

  “It’s just that I’ve been so happy!” said her visitor. “So excited—and I haven’t had anyone to share…”

  Marj wanted to “open up,” but felt constrained for a tangle of reasons. She let Bonita talk, grateful for the com
pensatory rush of words.

  “It’s just—I know miracles happen, but I never thought they would happen to me. I’m not a young woman but I’m not ready to die either. I want to go places and do things and meet people I would never have gotten the chance to meet. Do you see that car?” She pointed out the window. “It’s an SUV hybrid. I paid for it in cash. I have never paid cash for anything in my life. Can you understand? Do you know where I drove it today? To Children’s Hospital. I sat in the lobby awhile and just listened. I learned more about suffering in those few hours than I have in a lifetime, and my life hasn’t been a cakewalk. But I’ve never—knock on wood—had to suffer through the sickness of a child. I went to the bank and came back to the Ronald McDonald’s—where the families stay while their kids have the chemo—that same afternoon. Gave out little packets: $5,000 each. And the nurses who work so hard got their packets too, oh yes. They are unsung! You cannot imagine how that made me feel.”

  Marjorie was moved, and quietly wept. She shared with Bonita what had happened to the liquor store owner and how she had tried to do her part; and given a gift to Cora when her dog fell ill. She felt a little awkward blowing her own horn—the sin of pride was on her mind—but the visitor was so full of life it was contagious. Bonita proclaimed them “kindred spirits,” old and wise enough to know how to spread joy with their great, good fortune, not to squander it, and that was a blessing from the Lord (“and Lucas”) Himself.

  “I guess people like us, who were relatively comfortable before the shadow drawings, well, we tend to think, ‘Why did this happen to me?’ That nagging feeling that someone else was more deserving.”

  “Yes! Yes, it’s true.”

  The woman hit a nerve, and it was nice for Marj to be able to air things out.

  “But it’s God’s way. I think that’s what Yogananda would have said. And it is God’s way how we choose to disperse those monies—we are His instruments. Well,” she said, standing, “I don’t want to preach at you! Or take any more of your time. I’m so sorry I barged in—”

  “It’s all right, Mrs—”

  She searched for the name.

  “Billingsley. Bonita. And I certainly hope to see you at the Four Seasons—maybe before! I’m gonna give you my cellphone number; don’t know how to work the damn thing, but here it is, it’s a ‘917,’ don’t ask me why. (The area code.) Oh: you should talk to Lucas about the Expedited Awards Program—he’s not the pushy sort—well, he is but in a good way—because he knows how overwhelmed his Sisters can get at the news—the ‘1st blush’—it’d overwhelm anyone—and Lucas doesn’t like to foist things on people till they ask. And as much as he does tell us, I sometimes think he believes we’re supposed to find out the rest by osmosis. But I’m telling you, gal,” she said racily. “We are going to have one helluva time on that plane!” She reminded Marj of a character from an old movie—like a saloon girl, or some loosey-goosey roommate of Claudette Colbert. “I, for one, plan to get extremely drunk. I’m going to get drunk and stay drunk—for a month! On Baileys Irish Cream!”

  “I’m a Baileys girl!”

  “You are?”

  “Keep it right by the nightstand.”

  “Well, then!” She gave out a hoot. “We are going to get along gangbusters,” said Bonita, making her way to the front door. “But if I don’t see you, give me a call—here’s the number in Ojai too. Though I shan’t be there for long. My kids’re all grown and I have a very funny feeling it may be time for a Roman spring. The Roman Spring of Mrs Billingsley! I’m having my 7-year itch, only I waited awhile—it’s my 28-year itch!”

  The women exchanged profuse goodbyes at the door, and as soon as she left, Marj ran to the mahogany bureau and took out the check to scrutinize it. There it was: $1,863,279.47. She was proud of herself for not having divulged the amount. Lucas Weyerhauser’s business card sat on top but this time she dialed his cellphone instead of the State of New York Blind Sister Beneficiary Hotline.

  You have reached Lucas Weyerhauser. If this is regarding the State of New York Blind Sister Shadow Drawing, please press 1. If you’d like to leave a message for Lucas, please press 2. If you are a federally sworn merchant or vendor, please press 3.

  She smiled like a schoolgirl then cut herself a piece of Marie Callender’s rhubarb pie.

  XLV.

  Joan

  AXEL was the boy who’d done the tsunami/Katrina edit with the Bobby Darin soundtrack. Joan thought it mordant, and not unclever; Lew said that ever since his son had read a story about teens doing good for others, he was stoked to come up with his own way of helping, but a devilish streak kept getting the best of him. He was that kind of kid.

  His father told her that Axel got acutely strung out on People magazine’s Make-A-Wish PR porn: the adolescent with acute lymphoblastic leukemia who created videogames for other badass baldies where action figures zoom around on skateboards zapping cancer cells and collecting shields against chemo side effects…that one really got him going. There were a hundred more Leuk Skywalkers where he came from, all dying to get into the weekly rag, any rag, itching to join the American Idol deathrace decathlon. How we love to manufacture little saints—Stepanek set the bar pretty high. Then came the budding entrepreneurial altruists, cataclysm whores and parasites, their sinister stageparents hoping they’d be noticed, lauded by the Gates Foundation, invited to DeGeneres or GMA, everyone would somehow get their funky fame fix, teens and tweens healthy in body but inevitable burnouts by the time they hit their 20s—like the 9 year old who raised ¾ of a million to build water wells all over Africa…the snobslut from Maryland who donated 27-hundred prom dresses to seniors living in the Big Uneasy.

  Axel Freiberg had higher aspirations.

  Lew had 2 others, Drea and Fanny, but at 13 Axel was the oldest. (Joan confirmed, to her horror, that he was named after Axl Rose.) The boy had been obsessively into the tsunami charity thing, even though Banda Aceh & Co. had long since been upstaged by Katrina, and more or less forgotten. His own father wanted to tell him both causes were passé—too many cooks had spoiled the largesse—but how could he, there he was lavishing time and money on an upscale minimalist grave, and besides, anything to stitch the boy into Family, anything to ground him, was golden. The “pimpy” therapist of course concurred.

  After watching Willie Nelson and a bunch of unknown loser-types do their part on MTV for the 200,000+ dead, Axel wanted to pull a Geldof and organize a concert but was having trouble focusing when it came to Indonesia vs New Orleans. He didn’t want to dis Dad re wrong tragedy. (The boy was half hoping, half waiting for another catastrophe to come down the pike.) He wanted Lew’s help getting in touch with people like Mark Cuban and Russell Simmons to coproduce an event. Axel’s shrink conferred with Lew and they decided he wouldn’t make any calls on his son’s behalf but would agree to enlist someone at Guerdon LLC to support Axel’s efforts. Seemed the healthier thing to do.

  But then Lew found another stash of DVDs, more tsunami/Katrina footage, with a fresh soundtrack. Axel had lifted lyrics from the MTV special and put them over horrific images of floating bodies. Willie Nelson jauntily sang:

  Still is still moving to me

  And I swim like a fish in the sea all the time

  —the last ending with the body of a tiny corpse being wailed over by its mother. Then came I’m drowning in a whiskey river, bathing my memories in the wetness of its soul—more bodies, putrefaction, stupefaction, and flood.

  Lew confessed to Joan that it got much worse; his son was sick. He had downloaded Russian kidporn off the Web and this time used a creepy a cappella version of an old standard to accompany the image of an unseen fat man raping an infant.

  You must’ve been a beautiful baby

  Cause baby! look at you now—

  The discovery put the kibosh on Axel’s plans to be a world-class concert promoter. Lew canceled delivery on the mega-toy International 7300 CXT—the world’s largest pickup truck (he admitted it was partially for himself)�
��and the 45,000 dollar Opus foosball table being hand-delivered and assembled by a technician from Edinburgh, both gifts for the boy’s now-canceled birthday celebration. The foosballers had tiny 3-D heads of Axel’s friends and family, fastidiously customized from photographs. The shrink said the boy was starting to cross boundaries—Lew: “Duh!”—and that interactions with his sisters should be closely monitored. Lew was getting ready to ship him off to a wilderness camp for psycho kids, something even his ex agreed on.

  He was having 2nd “and 3rd” thoughts about the efficacy of the therapist, whom he was paying $20,000 a week to be on call for his son, and whose main clients in the last few years had been highly profitable, highly dysfunctional rockers trying to get it together for reunion tours. Lew vilified the man because he was part of a group of psychiatrists who’d rushed to Phuket (and New Orleans; another scam—“hurricane counseling appropriations” were now above the 200,000,000 dollar mark). Freiberg scoffed at the presumptuous, demoniac do-gooders, “disaster bastards” he called them, hating that sort of hubris: Western professionals who thought they could help those who’d lost mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, dogs, houses—all through the magical art of talk and handicrafts. He also knew that part of the reason the shrink went to Tamil Nadu was to ingratiate himself with Lew, but it had the reverse effect; all that hidden disdain for indigenous healers and outlandish fixation on PSS made him puke. Oh, he’d learned a lot since his brother’s death—that’s why he was helping the animals. Calamity Jane already made 3 trips to the 9th Ward and was probably cheating on his wife with other trauma-chasing funhouse hotzone narcissists. Lew even read an article saying the Jungian high priests were having nervous breakdowns themselves, sobbing as they went door-to-door in Plaquemines Parish, distributing self-help guides and getting paid for it. Bunch of pussies.