by Bruce Wagner
The hostess never stopped smiling. She made the old woman feel comfortable that there had been a mistake, and her party was certain to arrive soon. She led her to an empty table for 2, opposite the bar. She was lovely—and my, there were so many people there, yet she had been so personable! No wonder Lucas had chosen this place.
She ordered Perrier and after a few minutes pulled Mr Weyerhauser’s card from her wallet. Stupidly, she’d left the cellphone Joan gave her at home. (Her daughter would have been mad about that. She told her never to leave the house without it.) Marj asked the server if there was another Spago and was politely told there once was, but no more. She waited almost an hour. She left a kerchief on the chair so that no one would claim it, then went to the bathroom, passing parties of beautifully dressed diners who seemed to stare at her with respect—Marjorie Herlihy knew that tonight she exuded elegance, wealth, sophistication. The old woman splashed her face and the water felt good; she had diarrhea from her nerves and wondered how much longer she should stay. She found a payphone to call Lucas but didn’t have any coins.
She sat down at the bar for another 40 minutes—a gal her age, sitting in a bar! Ham would have laughed—nursing a glass of red wine. She wondered if there had been an invitation, and searched her mind. Did Lucas give her something with an address, something for the party? She told him she was coming—didn’t she?—but there wasn’t anything to RSVP. Usually, for a grand gala, there was a number you could call to RIP…no, they were probably careful about that. This sort of thing, if you had it on paper, was too easy to “leak.” Still, she imagined those federal people had printers they worked with who were bonded. It was probably her own damn fault for being a late enrollee in the Expedited Award Program. There wouldn’t have been time to send something out.
When she finally left, she made deliberate, old-world pains to thank the attractive hostess, one of those marvelous professionals trained never to make assumptions or judgments nor to condescend. She told Marj she was sorry, but nothing, not a scintilla, of her demeanor made the guest feel foolish, and for that Mrs Herlihy was grateful.
Perhaps she’d made a terrible mistake and the plan had been to meet at the Four Seasons all along. She needed to drive over, right away—where was that hotel? On Doheny? The thought crossed her mind that something awful might have happened to Lucas; or, more reasonably, the dinner was canceled due to a sudden emergency, and both he and Bonita had been trying to call. (Not that it mattered, because the damn “mobile” was at home. Anyhow, the old woman wasn’t sure she’d ever given them her number—and how could she? She didn’t even know it herself. Joanie kept saying she was going to tape it on the back but never did.) Wait. No! Now she remembered…Bonita saying she would give her a check for the dresses she’d charged “tonight at Spago.” So even if there had been a last-minute change, Bonita—Billingsley!—would still have met her at Spago—someone would have—then proceeded, arm in arm High Hopes, to the Four Seasons or wherever it was they had settled on. She kicked herself for remembering to pack everything in the world—everything except that stupid phone.
She went to Rite Aid for coins to call the special State of New York Blind Sister Beneficiary Hotline. Everything was so brightly lit that she felt herself coming out of her skin. The cashier was a surly Mexican who said, “I don’t have no change.” (Marj expected Rite Aid to have a higher caliber of worker, at least in Beverly Hills.) The girl wouldn’t even look at her and Marj knew that she was lying. Maybe they’d be kinder in the Rx section but it was so busy she would probably have to wait 20 minutes just to talk to the cashier. (She needed to use the toilet again.) The only place to sit was at the machine that took your blood pressure but right when she got close a little boy clambered onto the seat. Marj smiled and turned to leave. She was at a loss.
Up front, a raucous pack of youngsters jockeyed for ice cream, and she remembered how she used to buy Chess and Joanie cones and sundaes at 31 Flavors, kitty-corner to the drugstore (which back then was called Thrifty’s). Ray didn’t like it but she enjoyed taking the children on excursions to Beverly Hills, she thought it was good for their character to be exposed to wealth. She wanted them to see the large and orderly houses tended to by gardeners, homes she knew one day they could live in. More than anything, she had the desire for her children to attend Beverly Hills schools, the finest in the nation. (Ray never knew it but on Sundays, when Marj said she was with a galfriend, she went apartment hunting, just south of Olympic. But the prices were beyond their ken.) There was a huge pond on Santa Monica Boulevard and Beverly Drive and she sat with the kids on its stone borders, watching the big colorful fishes. Occasionally Marj even spotted someone that she recognized from television or the movies—she swore she once saw Fess Parker and Joan Fontaine but couldn’t get Raymond to believe it. To this day, she retained the habit of walking around the city, and a few weeks ago actually passed by “31” on her way to get bunion medicine—it amazed, but the parlor was still there, one of the few surviving landmarks from that time. There used to be 3 theaters in the neighborhood, and 3 bookstores too—all gone now. She remembered vividly that the Beverly movie palace was literally in the shape of the Taj Mahal, it had become more important to her through the years, after the children had grown she parked nearby just to look. (Best to see its dollop of a roof from a block or so away.) It hadn’t been a working theater for decades, enduring a series of drab transformations from clothing stores to banks, yet rose like a creampuff cloud above storefront commerce, visible only to the delighted cognoscenti, until finally, only a few months ago, they tore the icon down. It was almost proof there was a God that it had managed to stay for so long. Bless 31 Flavors, and bless the memory of the Taj Mahal too. She took the kids there for Saturday matinees. Ray didn’t like that either.
“Ain’t Culver City good enough?” he used to say. His English was perfectly fine but he liked to goad her by talking like a yokel. “No,” she would answer. “It isn’t.”
She was surprised when the Mexican shouted at her. She thought the cashier was being rude but instead she gave Marj 4 quarters. The girl must have felt bad about how she had treated her, and the old woman thought, See that? Everyone has a conscience. Maybe the man who shot poor Riki dead was in a motel room somewhere, a tormented soul thinking about turning himself in. She thanked her then made the mistake of asking where the phones were and the cashier got surly again, pointing outside with disdain. Marj cursed herself—of course they were outside. She already knew that. She hated being the helpless old lady. The girl probably thought she was a refugee from the expensive new Assisting Living condos that had recently gone up around the corner. She probably resented her because here she was working for minimum wage and this wizened crone, this witch who lived in luxury and came and went as she pleased, was pestering her for coins. Still, the cashier showed she had a heart.
The pack of ice cream kids had migrated outside (they all looked Persian) and were being so noisy that Marj had trouble concentrating on dialing. Their cars were just sitting in the lot with the doors open and music blaring. She called the toll free hotline and left her name.
Then she found Bonita’s number and listened to the strange message: Thank you for calling. Unfortunately, the person who gave you this number does not want to talk to you or speak to you—ever again. We would like to take this opportunity to officially reject you. If you would like to order personalized rejection cards with this number printed on them, please visit our website at www.rejectworld.com. Our certified rejection specialists are standing by to serve you in this time of need.
She winced in confusion. Some sort of joke? Bonita did have a quirky sense of humor. She tried the number again, and got the same recording. (Now her coins were all used up.)
She took a few steps and threw up. Like everyone her age, she had been trained to ask, “Am I having a heart attack?” but decided it was only the wine and her nerves. (“High Hopes” and “The Days of Wine and Roses” were catfighting in her head.
She missed Jack Lemmon.) Joanie said, If you think you’re having a heart attack, breathe deep and force a deep cough. Keep doing that, then call 911. The music from the cars drowned out “High Hopes” and one of the rowdy kids yelped, alerting his friends to the old woman who puked. “That’s disgusting!” said a girl. Another girl said, “It’s sad. Maybe we should help.” Another wandered closer and said, “Lady?” Marj didn’t have the strength to respond. Another said, “Just call 911,” then boisterously broke into peals of laughter. Marj kept seeing the face of Jack Lemmon in his little hat; he would see her through. A boy said, “Call the pound!” A girl said, “That is so mean.” A boy said, “She just threw up. She ain’t dyin.” “Maybe she’s been partying.” “She looks really rich.” “It’s a Senior Moment.” “Is she a junior or a Senior?” “Hope she’s wearing her Pampers!”
The pack moved toward the alley, laughing and smoking and remonstrating, then disappeared.
SUDDENLY Marj was driving south on Robertson, without any memory of having gotten in the car. She was lightheaded but seemed to have her wits about her. She resolved to call Joanie in the morning; her daughter would help sort things out. She felt something was “off” but wouldn’t allow herself to believe she’d been done wrong. No, that could not be. She would get to the bottom of it in the morning but for now it was important to just get home and get to the bathroom (she was cramping badly from holding it in), take a tub, and climb into bed. She’d just leave her luggage in the trunk, where the valets had transferred it, and snatch back the note from Cora’s mailbox. Maybe there were messages from Lucas on her answering machine or cell. She didn’t know how to retrieve messages from the cell.
When she turned the corner onto her block, a car with dimly flashing white lights was parked in front of the house.
She pulled into the drive and got out.
A man approached.
“Mrs Herlihy?”
“Yes. What is it? What’s happened?”
“I’m Federal Agent Marone, from the antifraud division. I’d like to speak with you about a person who goes by the name of Lucas Weyerhauser. I know it’s a late hour, Mrs Herlihy, but—may I come in?”
LVII.
Joan
THEY made love and he cooked for them, but Joan didn’t think she’d stay over. She was worried about Mom. Maybe she would “camp” with her a few days, at the house in Beverlywood.
She told Pradeep she wasn’t sure if it was age or loneliness, but there was something she couldn’t put her finger on, a difference in the way her mother had been acting. She mentioned Marj wanting to take her to see the Taj Mahal (Pradeep enthused, “You should go! You should do it!” just like she thought he would), adding with a smile that Mom was more interested, “to put it mildly,” in the Taj Mahal hotel than the monument in Agra. Pradeep laughed, informing that the Tata family—who owned the Taj Mahal Palace and Towers in Mumbai—were in talks to take over the management and renovation of the Pierre in New York. He was a fount of that sort of trivia. It was kind of his job.
Then a strange thing happened.
“You’re a Rausch, right? Isn’t that your birth name?”
“Why?”
“Before you were adopted.” She nodded, perplexed. “And isn’t your biological father’s name Raymond?”
Pradeep knew all about Joan’s family tree; perhaps it was his diplomatic nature, or a lover’s genuine interest, that made him inquisitive of personal histories, which he was, to a fault. He retained names and dates as well, also part of his well-honed professional acumen, no doubt. From her end, she never asked about Manonamani and the kids—it didn’t feel appropriate, and the truth of it was she hadn’t much interest. But Pradeep was solicitous when it came to her own family members, listening with charmed, rapt attention, as if she were reading tales aloud from a storybook. Something about his earnest, guileless curiosity actually moved her to share things she wouldn’t have with anyone else.
He fished out an article from the LA Times. An old guy had gotten a settlement for having his door mistakenly broke down by the police. She read the article.
A Mr Raymond Rausch (sans photo) lived on Mercantile Road in the City of Industry with a dog named Friar Tuck, who took a bullet during the break-in. He was 76 years old—same her dad would have been—and had suffered a heart attack. Joan wouldn’t have given it much heed, if not for the coincidence of Chester recently bringing up his fantasy of progenitorship; seemed a bit eerie. And the fact that Pradeep was the one to call it to Joan’s attention lent a certain gravitas.
She put it aside for now. Whatever “it” was.
Pradeep had actually done a sneaky thing. He suddenly announced that his consular term was ending earlier than he thought, and he’d soon be returning to Delhi. She vaguely knew this was coming, that commissions were recycled every 4 years, but the timing of his disclosure was canny—ever the diplomat, Pradeep softened the blow by deflecting, or deferring, to the mystery of her own family matters. He wanted Joan to have something else to focus on, beyond the trauma of his imminent departure. It was the part of him she resented and the part she found irresistibly compelling too, this nomadic yet grounded man, at once calmly present and peripatetic in the absolute, responsive, and responsible to so many. Sex with Pradeep was always intense because she knew he was “on his way,” a moving target that appealed to her own emotionally itinerant nature; she felt like a consort at a consular feast, the pretend Devi of a pretend Siva. Nothing could touch them because they were divine gypsies, abrim with the jittery ambrosia of adolescence which they’d managed to catch in a bottle, hormonally undistilled—they were built for speed and tender abandonments. She could never stay mad at Pradeep for long because she knew he’d be long gone, yet there for her, forever. What other man could she say that of? He insisted she call him, in any time zone, for any reason, no matter what he was doing, or who he was with—wife, child, head of state—he’d escape to terrace or anteroom and give her all the time in the world. Pradeep was like a brother that way, a colonial with the cologne of incest.
She stuffed the article in her purse and left the suite without showering. He would return to San Francisco on Monday morning to begin packing up. Manonamani and the kids had already left; in 10 days, he’d be gone. They pretended they would somehow see each other before his departure—that they’d make the effort. (Moving targets.) He told Joan that if she came to India with her mother, they must spend part of the time in Delhi. He would feed them diamond-shaped almond burfi and deep-fried pretzels, kathi rolls with pomegranate syrup, carry Marj on a palanquin for a sirodhara treatment in Kerala, visit goldsmiths at Calcutta’s tea stalls on Ganguly Road—why, they’d even make a pilgrimage to the Taj Mahal! Wasn’t that your mother’s dream? (He laughed as he said it, knowing the backstory.) It is quite warm in Agra, he said, but Marjorie will adore the peacocks and trishaws, the dancing monkeys and bears. Joan knew he was dead serious, albeit in that urbane, diplomatically manic fashion.
THE model of the Freiberg Mem was done. She had given her creation—for it was Joan who was captain, and to Joan that her partner ceded the last word theoretically, in all ways—the unofficial title of the Pollock painting, Full Fathom Five. Barbet (who still preferred The Lost Coast) debated whether they should attach a name, finally intuiting the touch to be nicely dramatic, at least for the presentation. The superstitious compromise being that he would inform Lew that Full Fathom Five and The Lost Coast were “conceptual titles,” without Joan having to broach them. The billionaire would either like them or not. Wouldn’t be a dealbreaker.
He could tell she was a little down. They went to an early dinner at Locanda Portofino then took in a Chinese movie at the Aero. She nudged him halfway through and said, “Let’s go to bed.” He was surprised.
Barbet lived in a leafy, asymmetrical house in Rustic Canyon, bought with an inheritance from his father. She waited until they settled into the living room with their drinks before telling him that Lew Freiberg had knocked
her up. He laughed. She said she was serious. She looked downcast and ethereal. He said, “OK.” He asked if she was sure it was Lew’s. She said yes. She hadn’t yet gotten the paternity test, that was coming, but yeah, she was sure. “Then you’re going to keep it.” Half question, half declarative. Yes. “He knows about it.” Half question, half declarative. Yes. He asked if Freiberg (that’s what he was calling him for this conversation) knew she was planning to have it. Yes. He asked if they’d spoken since she’d told him and Joan said no. Oh boy, he said, without any real vibe. Just, Oh boy. A suitable response. Then he sipped his drink and took some breaths and readjusted himself on the couch before saying he thought it was “actually pretty great.” He said he’d been reading a lot of Indian philosophy—research related to the tsunami, of course—and there was something called Advaita, a school of thought promoting the idea that things just happened, without rhyme or reason, it was all beyond one’s control, there wasn’t even cause and effect, and though most of the time we had the idea of free will, free will was really just a fallacy, an illusion, the details of our lives had been predetermined, right down to our moods and illnesses and the color shirt we buy, everything was a happening and everything had already “happened,” following a cosmic plan that included our genes and social conditioning—and that it was useless to feel guilty or egotistical about anything that transpired. My interpretation anyway, he said. That didn’t mean you couldn’t feel bad or glad or fucked up about something but the minute you accepted that the event had to have happened, “and that you were not you,” a weight lifted off, removing it from the realm of whatever egotism Westerners (Easterners too for that matter) had grown so accustomed. She told him he was full of shit and he roared with laughter. That was one of the things she found irresistible about Barbet—both these men, Pradeep and Barbet, were defiantly, uniquely irresistible—he knew he was full of shit, yet it was a quality in which he managed to take resigned delight. Naturally, he tortured himself like everyone else, but he was a hedonist at heart, and Joan wished she had the same “predetermined” backhanded joie de vivre.
