by Bruce Wagner
Ever since she gave them the money, the grieving family treated her with what sometimes felt like an awkward obsequiousness, which was perhaps cultural as well. The son slipped small gifts into her hand that his mother had delicately wrapped, packages of sweets or modest scarves of silken fabric. When Marjorie came in, the young man warmly greeted her and never let her leave unescorted, not only for safety reasons but it seemed from deep respect and gratitude. (Another facet of Indian society was to respect the elderly, which was wonderful, because lately, with all the excitement, Marj Herlihy sometimes felt her age.) She had the means to lighten their heavy load, which she did, and Bonita helped her to feel humbly ennobled. My God, look what Bill Gates does with his billions! Say what you like, but he gives away more money than any other person on planet Earth. By helping Riki’s family, she was nurturing her connection to Mother—Mother India, whose arms in which she would soon be embraced.
SHE had given a check to Lucas for the Expedited Award Program and when Marj checked her balance at Wells it reflected the 565,000-dollar debit. She was surprised the State of New York had cashed the monies so quickly but Lucas said he was the court-appointed caretaker and after he explained, it made sense that the faster the check was “converted,” the faster the “upstream” of “shadow monies” would “flow” through Marjorie’s account. It was nervous-making but exciting as well.
There was a message from Bonita on the answering machine asking if she wanted to “do a little New York shopping,” and to “please place a call to the darling bungalow—22B—where Ms Billingsley is currently residing, with her retinue of shirtless manservants, at the very pink and very posh Pink Palace.” She went on to say—it was a long message—that “a little birdie” told her Marj had enrolled in the EAP and after shouting “Congratulations, Moneybags!” reminded her of the dinner at Spago on Saturday night. “Your 1st check should be in by then and honey, let’s splurge! We have got to get our rich asses over to Hermès!”
She used salty language but Marj didn’t mind—Bonita was a fun new friend. How long had it been since Marj had a new friend? She couldn’t even think when. And what in the world was the Pink Palace?
She had planned to stop by Cora’s: though now her heart was racing! Manhattan…she was dying to tell someone but had been warned of “interstate (intrastate?) disclosure penalties,” something like that, she probably had it wrong, yet there definitely were consequences. Even Bonita told her not to “gab” until she got that 1st installment. Marj didn’t want to jinx anything.
She dipped her hand in the mailbox and tore open an envelope with a check for $150,000 from a company called Amerimac. At 1st she thought it was a Blind Sister copayment but then she looked closer and stamped across was THIS IS NOT A CHECK. She read the attached letter; she’d been prequalified to consolidate her debts. Well, she didn’t have any debts. It said One Low Payment, and No Equity Required, and Refinances Also Available. She decided to show it to Lucas—it was the kind of thing that would make him laugh. He’d come up with some witty remark to put those junk mailers in their place.
Another letter was from Who’s Who.
Dear Our New Member:
Congratulations, MARJORIE HERLIGHY. May I take this moment to personally congratulate you as a new United America’s Who’s Who in Families and Professionals member? You will be pleased to learn that we have formatted the publication to make it even easier for our members to produce beneficial business relationships with other United America’s Who’s Who people, so that you might contact others of your immense professional status.
United America’s Who’s Who in Executives and Professionals takes great pride in formulating as successful a directory as possible each year.
We appreciate your support and look forward to a continuing relationship.
Very Truly Yours,
Randall Wolcott-Jones, President
The old woman presumed the invite had been triggered by her recent admission into what Bonita called the “country club” of Blind Sisters; or maybe it had something to do with the EAP. The puzzling thing was that no one was supposed to know about the prize yet—though organizations like Who’s Who probably had some sort of inside track. That would be something else to ask Lucas. (Even Hamilton had never been solicited to join the august group. Marj always wanted to be in the Blue Book but it seemed you had to be born in Pasadena or San Marino to make the cut.) It said there was a fee, which Marj assumed covered printing costs. She put the “congratulations” in the drawer, with the Amerimac check.
The phone was ringing—
My, am I popular this morning!
“There you are!”
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Trudy! Trudy Gest. Now what’s all this I hear about you wanting to go to India, Mrs Herlihy? Did you find yourself a boyfriend?”
“Oh heavens no!”
That was the sort of thing Trudy liked to say, even when Ham was alive. It was her style, and reminded Marj of Bonita, though not quite the class act. Then it occurred that she was only thinking of Bonita as “classy” because she knew how wealthy her new friend was; and that just wasn’t fair. Shame on you, Marj Herlihy. The old woman asked after her health. The Travel Gal responded that she was still “putt-puttin along”—an area she obviously didn’t feel comfortable talking about (again, the reprimand: What a busybody I’ve become). Trudy probably suspected Nigel had blabbed, and Marj hoped he wouldn’t get in trouble on her account.
“If you want to go to India, I’m going to have to start calling you Mother Marjorie—as in Mother Teresa!”
Trudy went on about how excited she was with the potential itinerary, before interrupting herself.
“Guess who I talked to?”
Marj thought she was going to say Lucas but she said Joan instead.
“My—daughter?”
“She still is, the last time I checked! I couldn’t get ahold of you, sweetheart, you’re a very busy girl. Out painting the town red, no doubt—or whatever color they’re using now. The merry widow. You don’t have to tell me. And Joan was just thrilled—she wants to help us plan. Now, I understand Nigel had a very lovely conversation with you about Mumbai. Nigel tends to get a little enthused: if you’re not careful, you can walk away with a severe case of TMI…that’s Too Much Information!”
“Is Joan coming?” she said, a bit flustered.
“She’d be a fool not to! But you know our Joan. A little stand-offish—Lord, she’s even busier than you are! Bless her heart, I wish my children were that busy. But, sweetheart, you have got to let me talk you out of spending too much time in Mumbai! Especially if you’re going to travel alone.”
Overwhelmed, Marj went on default.
“When I was a girl, my father took me to the Taj Mahal.”
“Oh yes, I know!”
“I want very much to see that place again.”
“It’s the one place you must see if you go all that way—but the Taj Mahal is a ‘far piece’ from Mumbai, sweetheart. Why don’t we put you in Delhi, Mother Marj? We’ll get you a bed on Singapore Airlines. That airline is marvelous. Next time you’re at the market pick up Travel + Leisure, or any of those magazines: Singapore Air is consistently rated the absolute highest. Par excellence. Did you know they will even come right to the house to pick up your bags for check-in? Now, I think it’s a 17 or 18 hour flight, but—”
“I meant the Taj Mahal Palace—the hotel, in Bombay.”
There was a pause before Trudy horse-laughed.
“Oh, I’m sorry! Of course you did! Now I remember…Nigel’s notes are a mess—he’s been out sick for a week. The Taj is lovely—the old wing. Bill Clinton’s absolute favorite, by the way. But don’t you want to go to the Taj Mahal? In Agra?”
“Only if Joanie comes.”
“I’ll talk to her again.” Before Marj could raise an objection to that, Trudy said, “Now, if you do stay at the Taj Mahal Palace and Towers in Mumbai—I want to make sure I have that straight!—
I wouldn’t recommend leaving! Marjorie, the city is a horror. If the taxis don’t kill you, those street urchins will! We have had people run down by cars. Oh yes. The filth and the smells—I personally don’t have the stomach. I think you may be romanticizing! Which is what our memories do…my friend Florence was just there. She gave one of those little beggars a single rupee, and made a friend for life. They will not leave you alone! They chase after you for miles. The Indians! One step outside the hotel…they’re all petty thieves!” (Marj winced, thinking of Riki and his family.) “Flo had a pregnant girl come up to her and when she tried to give her a few coins, the girl said she didn’t want any money, all she wanted was milk. Flo kept saying, ‘I’ll give you money and you can buy milk.’ But the girl insisted. Flo said she looked like an angel. It was very convincing. How can you turn down an angel who’s asking for milk instead of money? The land of milk and money! The little criminal pointed out a place where Flo could buy the milk. Well, by now my friend’s curiosity was piqued, Flo is very inquisitive, and hard, may I add, to get the better of. You’ve got to wake up pretty early to do that, and let me tell you, these Indians are early risers! So Florence buys the angel-faced girl milk then walks away and hides; 10 minutes later, she sees the girl go back and return it! She’s in cahoots with the people who own the shop! Flo said she wasn’t even sure she was pregnant, that she thought it might be padding. Do you see, Marj? It’s a sham! The merchants pocket the money and get the milk too and the whole thing begins all over again! Florence was extremely impressed. The Indians are the most extraordinary bunco artists. That’s why they use them in the call centers. They learn English perfectly and the next thing you know they’re phoning at dinnertime—with perfect American accents!—and you think you’re getting someone from AT&T! When they’re 10,000 miles away! Oh, the companies that hire them here in the States are no fools, I assure you. But are you certain that you and Joan don’t want to go to Italy? Or Spain? Or Scotland? Scotland’s wonderful this time of year. We’ll put you at the Balmoral. There’s a marvelous train that beats the pants off the Orient Express. Hands down. It winds through the countryside and during the day, you picnic with royalty, right in their castles. It’s a 4 hour layover in Newark and you’re there the next morning. That’s what I think you should do, Mother Marj. That’s what I think you should do.”
LIII.
Joan
JOAN and 3 interns tweaked the maquette of the Freiberg Mem. It was huge—about 10 by 4—and Barbet kept saying how amazing it looked.
The finely detailed creation comprised the valley void itself, ringed with artfully xeroxed leaf cutouts of weeping spruces and blue elderberry. The “water grove” of green-veined marble was a rectangular trough, theoretically difficult to apprehend unless one were very close—not to the model, but the eventual elegant gutter itself—the set piece’s formal entrance being a walkway through a pair (representing Samuel and Esther) of yew-carved rooms. The tub was just 18 inches deep; through a complex computer-calibrated system of ducts, drains, and siphons, it would always remain level with the meadow floor, after, or even during, minatory Napa downpours. Joan got the idea from a book on the Ajanta caves in Western India—an early, stalwart survivor of her messy Freiberg archive—where 2nd and 3rd century artists used sunlight caught by centralized pools to illuminate the recesses of honeycombed darkness so as to be able to make filigreed paintings of gods and goddesses (the scholars’ theory, anyway). Barbet occasionally had a numbskully idea—like the notion of the grand groove periodically flooding over, à la human tears—something so asinine it made Joan question the forces of nature that had adroitly conspired in favor of their partnership, in both business of design and sexual congress.
Lew called from a bungalow at the Bel-Air.
She went right over.
MORE gifts—bangles and cuffs made from exotic maples and milo wood. Lew muttered that the Indian government had officially denied his request to uproot and export “the hangman’s (spirit) tree.”
He muted the TV. The tsunami anniversary was upon them, and CNN was rerunning Larry Kings.
“Larry’s such a horny old fuck! And he farts. I know people who’ve been on that show—he farts during breaks! Just lets it rip!” He rang room service for drinks and steak. “Look,” he said, pointing to the silent screen. “It’s that supermodel whose fiancé died in Phuket. Larry just asked if she was in the shower when the wave hit. The shower! Dream on, Larry! That musta got him farting, big-time! So Miss Supermodel says, No. She’s trying to be dignified. And Larry says, ‘I understand the force of the water tore off all your clothing.’ Look! Watch! He says ‘You’re nude during all of this?…nude out in the sun 8 hours. Did you have skin damage?’ ” Lew slapped his knees in jubilation. “Not only is ol Larry farting like a goat but now he’s got a righteous furry goat hard-on! Then he specifically asks about her pelvis.”
He was relishing his role as Human Subtitler.
“She says, ‘Vell, yes’—she’s got that supermodel accent—‘but, Larry, you don’t even sink about being nude.’ So she’s in a palm tree, in her birthday suit, and these guys come along and she says they try to lift her but she’s in too much pain—did you read about this chick, Joan? Remember her? She was all over the place, cover of People—really milked it. Broke her pelvis. Shattered it. Wrote a memoir, formed a charity—‘Give2Asia Happy Hearts.’ I’m serious. Give2Asia Happy Hearts! Give to Larry’s Happy Farts! Brilliant, huh? A real Vassar chick. So Our Lady of the Martyred Supermodel says the guys leave and she doesn’t think they’re coming back. She’s nude in a tree, looking the way she looks, probably shaves her bush, waxes her poo-hole, and she doesn’t think they’re coming back! Fuck no, course not! Why would they? They’re gonna go rescue some fatassed village women instead! They’re going to go save some babies. They’re gonna dig a cow out of the mud. So Supermodel says, Lo and behold—the guys come back! And she’s so shocked at their fucking kindness! You know how teary-eyed and grateful supermodels get when someone lends a helping hand. But this time, she says, not only Thai guys, but Swedes and Bulgarians and whomever show up! Like, a whole brigade. You know what’s funny, Joan? This stuff I always find fucking interesting. Larry asks about the fiancé, if they had a wedding date set, and Supermodel says no. But they talked about it, she says, on the night before the tsunami. The night before. Supposedly she says in the memoir that when the 2 of them met on a photo shoot, ‘there was no bolt of lightning.’ Like, a dead connection. Then, 6 months later in Majorca on another shoot, she suddenly realizes they’re soulmates! Soulmates, Joan! Did you ever notice how in big tragedies people always seem to be talking about really important shit the night before? Planning out their whole fucking lives together. Like that couple who died in the earthquake in Iran…I don’t know why this crap sticks in my head. That’s how whacked out I am, bet you haven’t noticed, huh. The Iran thing: this American couple—I think they were from the Bay Area, maybe that’s why I remember. Both kind of eccentric, not so young, been dating awhile, have a little money between them, love to travel, they’re on one of their chic weekend getaways strolling along the Champs-Élysées and one of em sees a poster in a travel shop. For Iran. So. Being the intrepid soulmates that they are, they decide to go to Iran for a fucking holiday. Where do they go? To the quaint city of Bam, right when the earthquake hits. And in every single interview—it’s all about the interviews, honey!—the woman—she’s the one who survived—why does it always seem to be the woman who survives? though I guess sweet Esther would argue with me about that one—the woman, in all the interviews, says that the guy proposed to her the night before. There it is again: the night before! Of course, the next day, the quake hits and a ceiling fan goes right through her fiancé’s chest. But at least he got the chance to get down on his knees and propose! I mean, it’s like all these victims have the same fuckin publicist! Look! Joan, look!” He pointed to the screen like a 10 year old on a sugar jag. “There’s Larry, asking Our Lady of the Martyr
ed Shtupermodels about the funeral for her fiancé and she says—Joan, you gotta look at her! Dumb as a fuckin pony!—she tells that horny farting goat about the funeral. In her memoir, she says they toasted the deceased with some drink called a Slippery Nipple! Jesus! That’s what her memoir says, I am not shitting you! The guy is fully ignited and she writes about how she’s getting ‘tipsy’! I guess that’s what you call a Polish cremation! And by the way, I think she semi cops to being addicted to laxatives (I can’t believe this diarrhea is actually in my head) which her soulmate was in the process of detoxing her from right before the wave took him out! And the funeral’s in London or wherever and she’s going on about how Superfiancé wouldn’t have wanted anyone to be sad, he’d want everyone to have a good time—I hate that. When people—if you can call a shtupermodel a person—when people make that bizarre fuckin leap in their heads so they can feel better, you demean the dead by projecting how instead of mourning they’d have wanted you, you know, to have the big celebration and fight for your right to party! So they all go out and dance. I don’t even want to think about the motley crew who showed up for Shtuperfiancé’s burial. That’s too fuckin horrible. They dance through the tears! The poignance of it all! Yeah right, I’m sure, that’s exactly what Sir Soulmate would have wanted! ‘I died drowning, getting thwacked by garbage and dead babies breaking the bones in my face as I screamed and my lungs sucked in animal feces and gasoline—but party on! And now I’m in some kind of waterworld Dante-esque hell, but you should be dancin, dancin, dance the night away!”
