by Bruce Wagner
He filled her in on what was happening with his son. When the boy set a small fire on the Mendocino property, the shrink made the bold diagnosis that Axel was out of control. Lew and his ex checked him into a hospital in Monterey. He was in lockdown, without family visits for at least 10 days—those were the rules.
Fanny, Lew’s 9 year old, bounced in, trailed by a nanny. The sweet, unguarded girl instantly seized Joan’s hand, wanting to show off the new playhouses. The Memorialist was charmed and so was Lew. The pigtailed child forcefully led them back through many rooms, past a smiling kitchen staff, out the rear entrance. For some reason, the relentlessly quotidian slicing and dicing of food preparation put a scare in Joan.
Around 50 yards off, there they were: 2 “chalets” with slide tubes and colorful rooftops connected by a bridge. “There’s electricity,” said Fanny. Her caretaker chimed in that a local lady put the whole thing up. Lew added that the same woman had built customized “kiddie-pads” for the broods of the Grateful Dead and the “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” guy. As Fanny tugged Joan into one of the munchkin-sized entrances (she had to duck), Drea emerged from the other playhouse. The miniature structures had working plumbing, and were insulated so the girls could have overnights, with chaperones pitched in an adjacent tent. Lew said, “The things cost a hundred and 8 fucking thousand dollars.”
THEY had a light lunch.
Lew spoke about acquiring art. He said he wanted to be more of a “radical curator,” and not just “play musical chairs” with other collectors at auction. He asked for Joan’s general opinion on a few things, nothing heavy or loaded. He told her he’d been thinking about building a large space for a piece by a New Yorker whose latest installation was basically composed of 50,000 lbs of Home Depot topsoil blended with compost, the latter of which came from Rikers Island Prison. He also liked the work of an artist who literally ate her way through drywall—he thought that was “ballsy.” When she didn’t respond, he said that “Andy”—as in Goldsworthy—had turned him onto the photographed work of Ana Mendieta, “the chick who jumped out the window.”
“Jesus,” said Joan wryly. “Pretty soon you’re gonna want to ‘collect’ that woman who films herself fucking her patrons.”
Lew laughed and said, “I haven’t heard about her—but now I’m going to find out.”
HE smiled and took her hand as they strolled. Her mind felt clunky; she tried to read the meaning of his gesture, but failed. Everything was failing her, even the light.
She got butterflies, thinking of Full Fathom Five ensconced in the chapel where they’d held services for Samuel and Esther, a honeyed, harmonious paradox of modernist design infused by the wabi sabi aesthetic of George Nakashima, the exterior resembling a concretized origami folly, the interior filled with shoji screens commingling with lustrous walnut, English oak burl, and even the 18th century ball-and-claw mahogany footware of John Townsend. But mostly, it was Nakashima’s show. She remembered Pradeep telling her that the legendary sculptor had been the disciple of a guru in India, and helped design an ashram there; he’d built temples and other worshiperies in Japan, and a monastery in New Mexico too. Lew admitted that his sister-in-law was actually the one who’d turned him onto the old master. Having dutifully done his homework (he was really good at homework), the well-tempered dilettante felt comfortable enough regurgitating someone else’s description of Nakashima as “part hippie-Buddhist and part Shaker, a tie-dyed Japanese Druid.”
It was golden time.
They were getting closer to the church.
“Look,” he said, “this is going to be hard, but I want you to know that I’ve gone in another direction.”
She didn’t have a clue what he meant. Was he talking about their child? Had he somehow managed to have it aborted without her knowing? He saw she was perplexed, and segued into the crudely inenarrable.
“You’re going keep it. You’re going to have the baby, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ve already won the competition.”
Joan looked at him as if she were lucid dreaming.
They kept walking as he spoke.
“I fired Mr Koolhaas—he’s a Royal Dutch pain in the ass. He likes to ‘waste space’—that’s what he said! He can waste someone else’s—and their time too. I do want to look at what you’ve come up with, hell, I know how hard you’ve worked, Joan, and maybe we can wind up incorporating some of it. A compromise. That’s why I wanted you up here…and for selfish reasons as well.”
“You haven’t even seen what we’ve done.”
“That’s not the point, Joan. It never is. And you know it.”
She was in the midst of choosing not to hate him—like being in a wind tunnel filled with thousands of delicate, whirring gears, unmoored, pelting her like moths and molecular machines. It all happened with lightning speed, and once she was finished armoring she would have to reenact the same process, so as not to hate herself.
“I’m going to do something different.” Pause. “I’m going with Santiago.”
“Santiago?”
“Calatrava. I just fell in love with his spanwork. I think that’s what this thing’s going to require. Have you seen the bridge he did up north? And the winery in Spain? The Bodegas Ysios—for Isis, the Egyptian god. Am I pronouncing it right? I saw him on Charlie Rose and something clicked. I’ve already bought 2 of those ‘Torso’ townhouses. Gonna be the 6th tallest building in the city (if it ever gets built), and I got the top 2 cubes.”
Not hating him would be harder than she thought.
She struggled to regain her footing—now she was on one of those bridges (not a Calatrava) from old movies, the threadbare sort spanning mile-deep gorges. She knew his “spanwork” but wasn’t familiar with the winery; Lew probably saw it in Dwell, or the big Phaidon book. Calatrava was all right; at least he wasn’t a grandstanding ass like the others. A plainspoken, humble engineer. Gifted. Still, if Lew was going to “do something different,” she would have put her money on Herzog & de Meuron.
She broke away, jogging to the site where her calibrated flatbed pond would have lain. Bullshit amateur hour idea anyway. He chased after as she cantered toward the meadow through a fledgling allée of young trees, reveling in the light and open space, the windchill that preceded darkness. He should just leave it like this, she thought. Open, without markings. Anything human would ruin it. That’s what Goldsworthy would do. Maybe that’s what Calatrava had in mind—a big John Cage nothing. Maybe the engineer suggested putting his signature batwings someplace you couldn’t even see, 2 white little boomerangs high in a tree, maybe Lew loved that and was going to pay millions of dollars for tiny trademark ))s wedged in a tree…
That would be the perfect memorial—more perfect than a bastard child.
She was crying like some idiot now and Lew offered apologies, but that’s not what she wanted. He caught up right around where the ashes were to be buried, and Joan brought him down onto her, in the grove of crepuscular light.
LXVI.
Ray
GHULPA started to hemorrhage and had to go to the hospital.
The doctor said she should stay because he wanted to make certain she wouldn’t get out of bed. He didn’t even want her up to use the bathroom and wasn’t sure she would follow his orders, if at home. The cousins came and went, riding bedpan herd, and giving her spongebaths. They put a cot in the room; there was a futon too. The old man was lonely and slept over a few nights but she finally kicked him out. Ghulpa said he was in the nurses’ way, and besides it wasn’t proper since they were unmarried. He said he could remedy that, though now whenever Ray mentioned “getting hitched” she grew stern, saying it was impossible, if anyone were to ever find out where she was she’d be sent back to “that terrible country,” and because of her ingratitude, she couldn’t rely on the CG—Pradeep or his wife, the saintly Manonamani (she cried as she mentioned her name)—to help, especially considering her “illegimate” condition.
&nbs
p; One night Ghulpa had a fever and spoke of the Bengals. She said (and it was eerie to Ray) “the boy killed the tiger in the water with his tooth, as the serpent watched.” She was still talking about The Jungle Book—that was how Mowgli killed Shere Kahn, with his long-knifed “tooth.” “Bapu, I don’t want to be a greedy girl!” she exclaimed, snapping her head toward the old man. He asked what she meant and she said, “They looted the cavern and dressed themselves like kings. They killed the old cobra, who no longer even had any poison left! But they could never leave the forest! They were cursed because they wanted rubies. I do not want rubies!” She lifted up from her bed just like a Bollywood actress. “I only wish to take care of the child, Bapu! Our baby! Raj, I am not a thief—we are not thieves! I do not steal from the City of Industry!” After a moment, she said softly, “The city of Calcutta is my mother. Kali is my mother. Durga is my mother.”
He tried to calm her and the delirium soon passed. At the moment, there were no cousins to help him. He put a wet cloth on her forehead and she smiled.
DURING the day, the Artesians pressed Ghulpa’s feet, which seemed to settle her nerves. One of the cousins taught the art of “Indian milking”—massaging the feet of infants—to rich, “desperate housewives” in Los Feliz, Brentwood, and the Palisades. Westerners paid a hundred-and-50-dollars an hour to be taught the “water wheel,” “rowboat,” and “butterfly.” They even bought special massage mats for their babies, insisting the “doulas” (a chic, catchall term) use organic extra-virgin olive oil for the rubs. The various techniques were supposed to relieve constipation and colic, improve bonding, and enhance weight gain for preemies. The cousins laughed at an American handbook suggesting parents ask their babies’ “permission” before a massage. They turned to one another and began a roundelay—“Would you like a massage, baby?”—and there was something musical about it, lovely for the old man to watch, like a scene from an operetta.
THE City of Industry had nervously preempted the lawyers’ plans to request the agreed upon amount (500,000) with an offer of 750. All’s well that ends well. The money would be available within the week, about half a million after legal fees.
Ray called Detective Staniel Lake. He wanted to tell him personally, and of Ghulpa’s (difficult) pregnancy, and how much that had played a part in his decision. He wanted to invite the men who broke into the house that night to dinner as well, at the Pacific Dining Car. He wanted to tell the detective he had no hard feelings, in fact, it was the opposite, he wanted to say how much he appreciated Staniel’s kindness and attention, and that he was only doing what he had to, and that he hoped he would understand. He wanted the detective to run it past the others, to let everyone know he would be deeply honored to blow them to a round of porterhouses and the finest scotch whiskey. He really felt he owed them. In a way, they’d helped him begin a new life, and allowed an old man to right some old wrongs.
HE ran into Cora at the Center.
She was seriously considering putting Pahrump on a plane to a “resort spa” in Pittsburgh called the Cozy Inn. It had a great reputation and a 2,000,000 dollar building called the Mozart wing which the owner, a lady named Carol (“just like Cora, but with an l. Well, almost!”), had named after her terrier mutt, who died from the same type of cancer that afflicted Pahrump. All she needed was her son Stein’s final word for the go-ahead. She went on to say there were 2 indoor pools, in the shape of a bone and a paw. Apart from “full medical,” the Inn offered facial massages, weight-loss programs, leash-free nature walks, and acupuncture. But what moved Cora most was when she heard about Carol spending $85,000 to fly her Irish wolfhound to Colorado for a bone marrow transplant that extended his life for 10 months.
“Carol said it was the best investment she’d ever made.”
They visited awhile longer while their pets got rehabbed, talking about the rumors of when the Dog Whisperer episode might air. Cora said there’d been so much excitement in the neighborhood since they came to film “our little show.” And oh yes—the conversation drifted this way and that—her next-door neighbor, a sweet, sweet widow, had been attacked, right in her own driveway, and it was a “tremendous thing” because not too long ago, a “very nice Indian man” who owned the liquor store around the corner had been shot and killed. Cora said neither murderer nor attacker (the police said they weren’t connected) had been found, and people were ordering security systems “en masse.” Stein already had one installed and even considered surrounding the house with a tall fence. She was fighting him on that one, though if he agreed to sponsor Pahrump’s trip to Pittsburgh, well, she just might have to cave in.
The old man shook his head at the general misfortune, but didn’t connect the widow with the gal whose errant paper he’d fetched from the bush. Then one of the staffers walked toward them with Nip on a leash. He had a gleam in his eye, a bounce in his step, and his coat had been brushed. Ray remarked he looked “pretty as hell.”
LXVII.
Chester
MAURIE Levin was transferred to rehab. His sister went home to Milwaukee. He was in a good place insurance-wise, but hadn’t improved much physically. He couldn’t talk and only his right hand showed spidery signs of life. The doctors didn’t know whether the fingers’ lightly spastic movements were involuntary or not; Chess hoped they were, because of a typically paranoid, free-floating thought that one day Maurie would be able to pick up a pen and “point the finger.” Chess had the persistent feeling he had actually spoken to Maurie about what had happened, or that his friend knew the details of the prank through some sort of osmosis.
No one was sure how much he understood what was said to him either. Maurie occasionally made rubbery movements with his mouth, as if laboring to speak, but no words came. Laxmi stopped visiting because it was “just too sad.” Chess went every day, and she respected him for that, not knowing he was driven by guilt. He continued to vacillate in regard to telling her the truth, or what most of the time he imagined the truth to be; whenever Chester courted confession, he fantasized about the consequences—Laxmi having an unexpected, antagonistic reaction, police becoming involved, etc—though lately he comforted himself with the heretical thought that Maurie’s “TIA” (trans ischemic attack, as the doctors put it) was definitively coincidental to Viagra, and he’d been putting himself through the ringer por nada. Hell, medical journals and blogs reported cases of the Woodpecker actually helping to save kids with pulmonary hypertension. So how the fuck could it have felled an indestructible, able-bodied, cynical Jew like Maurie? Sometimes Chess thought if he told the cops they’d just shrug and put it in a report where it would gather dust. Besides, how could you even prove something like that? If they’d already run toxicology, no one ever told Chester the results. Maybe they told the sister. It’d probably have been negative, except for traces of weed—and weed never stroked anybody out. So if he did tell the cops, they’d either think he was a nut, or be unable to pursue it, because any traces of Viagra would long since have been pissed through a catheter or shat into a bedpan. (And who’s to say the guy wasn’t using it on his own.) Probably the police wouldn’t even bother taking a report, that’s how negligible and surreal the whole thing had become. How viaggravating. When Chess had such epiphanies, it stopped the nonsense in his head and made him feel as if he’d achieved context and clarity; then the moment would pass and he became paranoid again, eating away at himself.
The nurse said Mr Levin was in hydrotherapy but Chess could “go ahead on.” The RNs liked it when friends or relatives showed interest (not the norm in cases as far gone as Maurie’s). Visitors provided distraction and eased staff burden—unless they were pushy or demanding family members who stopped by just long enough to assess that their loved (more accurately, “liked,” or unloved) ones were being treated with appalling indifference: troublemakers who never felt enough was being done. Chester clearly wasn’t that way. He was in the “How can I help?” category, and his arrival brought smiles.
He walked down th
e hall, past rooms of stranded patients. It was strange: while there didn’t seem to be any bonafide interaction between so-called caregivers and charges, the place was a blizzard of weirdly concentrated bustle, as if employees were preparing for a presidential visit. Chess felt as invisible as the inmates, which was actually a relief.
He found the hydrotherapy room, a large metal vat attended by a jovial fellow with pinned on his shirt.
“Hey, how ya doin?” said Servano.
Chess hovered in the doorway.
“All right.”
“You a friend of my man Maurie’s?”
“Yeah. How is he?”
“Maurie? He’s the king. Doin real good. We’re getting Maurie ready for the Olympics. Special Olympics. Ain’t that right, Maurie?”
The patient was supported by a wide canvas sling, to prevent him from going under. The water churned and Servano PT’s arms dipped beneath, working Maurie’s legs.
“See, someone so young? When they’re hit hard? My feeling is: get em in the water, ASAP. Cause he’s a young man. Some of these docs’ll tell you we can do this kind of work when they’re in bed, but there ain’t no way. I’ve seen water work miracles. Doctors want to write a lot of these patients off. Now it don’t look like the King is doin much, but this is all about retraining. Retraining muscle groups and electrostatic energy. Ever heard of chakras? What’s your name?”
“Chester—Chess.”
“Your daddy a chess player?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, Chester Chakra, I’m a big believer. In unlocking energies. I seen it happen too many times! And you don’t need a stem cell transplant neither. Sometimes the brain decides to throw a roadblock up and you got to lift the barrier. Happens all the time, man, and they call it a miracle, but I just call it perseverity. Without perseverity, you’re not gonna have no miracle. I seen it. Dozens of times. I seen it happen to my ontee. This was a few years ago. I went back to visit? In Alabama? She was just layin there. Man, the flies were on her and ain’t nobody there to wave em off. See, cause everybody too busy. Everybody in the world too busy to do what they supposed to. What they paid to do. And I said, Man, get her in the friggin water! What’s the matter with you? You got a tub there just sittin, put the lady in. You ever heard of Lourdes, Chester? And I ain’t talking Madonna’s daughter, neither! She’s cute. I seen pictures of her. Looks just like her mama. Eyebrows all bushy. Probably gonna know how to make money like her mama too. I stayed in Alabama a month, doin it all myself. Puttin Ontee in the water. And they let me do it too, cause they knew I was trained even though I didn’t have a license. Not in Alabama, no way. The only license they care about in Alabama is a driver’s license! Caballero, you better be carrying one when they stop you or they’ll lock your brown ass in jail and throw away the key! So I worked with my ontee and I worked some other patients too—I’m an equal-opportunity healer when it comes to water—we lifted a lotta roadblocks, cleaned up muchos chakras, those folks practically gave me the key to the city when I left! I can go back and practice PT anytime. Hell, I could have myself a private practice. But I like Southern California. I was a little worried about em but the Alabamians turned out to be good people—not too many places would’ve let me do half the stuff I wound up doing. See, people are cool if you give em the chance. There’s a few bad apples but mostly the world’s full o’ good people. And my ontee is fine. Now she walks with a cane, with a hand-carved owl on top. Don’t even use a walker. And this is someone who was almost as bad off as the King here. She’s 63 years young. And she’s workin now, works out of the house, doing telephone surveys. She good at it too! A productive member of society. If you’d have seen her that 1st time? See, I used to work with a vet, in a vetirary hospital. Very fancy one. This vetirary was like the Hilton! The cat’s meow! That’s what they should have called it—cute, huh? The Cat’s Meow. I told my sister that and she laughed. She said I should try to sell that name to someone on the Internet. My sister good at the Internet, sells shit on eBay all the time. So this vetirary facility was the cat’s meow, and the dog’s bark, too! And I saw all our furry friends getting better in the tubs. Most of em didn’t like it at 1st but they chill. See, it’s all about the water—ain’t it, Maurie? Yeah, he doin fine. He doin real fine. Gonna be walkin outta here real soon, aren’t you, King?”
