I'll Let You Go

by Bruce Wagner

  It was Tull’s turn at last. The braided detective watched as the two locked eyes; and Lucy’s face became a flowery field overtaken by dark clouds. She withdrew with a forced smile, joining Boulder and her brother.

  He said hello and asked if she remembered his name. When she gave it to him, he was beside himself—he would be Toulouse forevermore.

  He stood and blinked, dragging upper teeth against lower lip. Finally: “How did you get here?”

  “I—I came to your school.”

  “But how did you know—”

  “Boulder visited the place I was staying.” It secretly thrilled her to so casually invoke the famous name. “They asked where she went, and she said Four Winds—”

  “Visited?” exclaimed Boulder, having overheard. Edward hovered blissfully, like a playwright watching from the wings. “Visited where?”

  “MacLaren Children’s Center.”

  Boulder was stymied for a second. “Oh my God! You mean that prison for kids? You were there?”

  Amaryllis nodded. Mercilessly, Lucy smelled subplot. “But how did you escape?”

  “My friend and I ran away.”

  Edward hobbled forth and solemnly waved, forbidding her to finish.

  “I am compelled to say,” he began with great flair, “that by harboring this girl sub rosa—this innocent—we have each placed ourselves in jeopardy.” He pulled a card from his embroidered tunic. “I have here the name of Amaryllis’s legal counsel, which, for the record, the young fugitive offered to me unsolicited. In fact, there were two of the barrister’s cards, were there not?” He sounded like a magician setting up a trick. “I will retain one while my lodger retains the other. Upon this card are telephone, fax and e-mail contacts. Will I attempt to get in touch? Absolutely not!”

  He tore up the card as if dispensing with a ruined queen of hearts. Everyone laughed but the orphan, who smiled pathetically. Watching Amaryllis—her small joys and terrors—had for Tull quickly become a warm avocation.

  They took their seats and Boulder helped lay down plates. When Tull awkwardly attempted to engage the guest of honor in conversation, Lucy ordered him to get up and serve the damn salad. Which he did.

  With spirited promptings from her Mauck Daddy, Amaryllis mesmerized them with fabulist tales of woe. The numerous, thimble-size portions of cognac with which they celebrated their reunion (partly medicinal) did nothing to hinder the orphan’s dizzying, colorful amplifications—alcohol or no, she had found her tongue as never before. She spoke of canyons and witches, and deaf-and-dumb supergirls (though there was much she didn’t tell); of her father held prisoner in the forbidden Valley of Carceration and her mother now with the angels (Amaryllis said she died but wouldn’t say how); and lamented over her precious babies, cruelly stolen away. There were Fátima saints and advocating devils, popes and postulators and vast stone courthouses where children were chained with leg irons to bloody stone benches; a journey to another canyon (not Tunga) and how she slept under the stars with a white-fanged hot-breathed coyote watching her every move then stole a motorcycle from a biker on “the parole” and crashed it on a winding canyon road then called 411 to ask for “Santa Monica’s Famed Four Winds School”—that’s what they called it in Boulder’s Twist profile—she took a limousine to the address they gave but it was Saturday and no one was there and she hid for twelve days and twelve nights (actually, just the weekend) before seeing the Mauck—… and by the time she was done, Lucy had long abandoned her Smythson pad and with it any hope of being a teller of stories; Boulder had decided to produce and star in an Oscar-winning film of the orphan’s life; Edward was happier and handsomer and higher than he’d been in who-knows-when; Pullman was fast asleep; and Tull—who, having come of age and into his own name, should henceforth be called Toulouse, for if Rafe Mirdling can warrant a rechristening, then so should the boy—Toulouse, a name of murky origins, which only his grandfather and Amaryllis had ever called him—well … our dear, suffering Toulouse was in love.

  CHAPTER 31

  Harvest

  The gang looked after her in turns—except for Boulder, who was more or less busy with shooting a film and all the important folderol that entailed—and set about her tutoring with gusto. The orphan, who turned twelve that first week of October (and was duly feted in a secret ceremony), took in the world afresh, albeit with somewhat shorter hair: as a cloak of anonymity against those who might be in pursuit, Edward had insisted a visit be paid to Frédéric Fekkai. She tearfully emerged from the salon looking like the most beautiful boy imaginable and was immediately treated to as many of Cañon Drive’s 31 Flavors as she desired.†

  Amaryllis was an eager bride. In exchange for the teaching of insipid social graces, Lucy conscripted the pint-size Scheherazade to spin yarns of a netherworld that the authoress hoped “to make her own.” (The character of a wandering waif was now central to the Blue Maze opus.) After all, Mr. Hookstratten said the scribbler’s credo was to “write what you know”; Lucy took that to mean what others know, too.

  This was the time of Sukkoth and a great hut was constructed at school—as was a temporary dwelling on the lower Stradella campus, made from cornstalks, and hung with figs, dates, grapes, olives and pomegranates. Eager to hammily underscore the real-life exodus—Amaryllis’s—unfolding before him, Toulouse edified his favorite student about the Jewish holiday in hortatory tones that promptly sickened him.

  “ ‘You shall dwell in booths seven days,’ ” he read, “ ‘that your generations may know that I made the children [italics Toulouse’s] of Israel dwell in booths when I brought them out of the land of Egypt.’ That’s Leviticus,” he said bombastically, closing the book with a flourish. He couldn’t seem to help himself. Any metaphors were lost on the girl, who at the mention of Israel thought only of Edith Stein; unhappily, the open-air evergreen “booth” only served to remind her of Topsy’s GE box beneath the 4th Street Bridge.

  There was much recreation for Amaryllis, who, aside from swimming, skating and soccering, was not infrequently seen aboard the spotted back of Pullman, hugging his flanks while he lagged behind the fat-wheeled buggy—it wasn’t the easiest thing to catch up with Edward as he careered his way over Stradella House’s great expanse. The cousin would finally stop for lunch in the sukkah, where the girl held her own in conversation, showing a fine instinct and wider apprehension. She told him everything she knew about saints, an instructive amount indeed. Their encounters left him positively ebullient; even his complexion cleared.

  As for Toulouse, she continued to provoke and enthrall the boy whom she had forever marked. With a sophistication that belied her years, Amaryllis experimented in both elating and angering him with as little space between as could be managed. Just when he began to shudder and his lips went bloodless and he prepared to scold, Amaryllis smiled or kissed his cheek or threw a small, sweet punch to a shoulder that made him glad he hadn’t been petty—and terrified that if he ever was, she might vanish forever. It confused and upset him that he sometimes had the same anxieties about the girl that he had for Trinnie.

  The gang alternated playing hooky in order to show Amaryllis the sights and buy her things—clothes and accessories that not only enhanced mood and appearance but allowed for a general blending-in with her new surroundings. It must not be forgotten that these children of privilege (as long as their schoolwork was deemed not to suffer) were afforded such leeway in their personal schedules that even at night—with cowed, overworked Eulogio at the Mauck’s helm—they moved more or less with the freedom of adults. Of course Edward had always done as he pleased, especially as he got older; those who loved him wished his happiness unrestricted. On a school night, then, it was not unusual to see the foursome gorging on puu-puu platters at Trader Vic’s or à table oceanside at Casa del Mar. In a two-week period, Amaryllis saw her very first concert and more movies than she had in her entire life, a slew of the latter screened at Stradella’s own Majestyk, the existence of which continued to puzzle her�
��as did the surrealistic whole of Olde CityWalk. Some things one could never fathom. She walked on the beach for the first time too and looked through telescopes at the Observatory, forded Raging Waters, climbed Magic Mountain and went to a place called the Bowl for an evening picnic—which in fact did look like a bowl, but one upright and half-buried in the earth. They had their own private little outdoor room with a low fence around it, and an orchestra serenaded them under starry skies. Afterward, Toulouse suggested they drive to the motel where she had once lived, but her face darkened and he saw he had somehow trivialized her. He had not meant to make her life into another entertainment. He said he was sorry and left it at that. Why, he wondered, had he told her nothing of his own history and travails? Did he feel himself above that? He had deliberately mentioned his mother, but only to throw her off the scent of the missing dad; thankfully, she hadn’t been curious enough about fathers—any fathers at all—to follow up. So at least he never lied outright about his “situation.” But he was already ashamed, and the shame of not being candid with her shamed him further.

  A few times, Amaryllis actually glimpsed the parents of her quirky hosts. One Saturday around midnight, after a hard day of designing masks in Edward’s workshop and flying with Toulouse in the 747 simulator and giving Lucy her Thousand and One Nights fix, after a particularly arduous day of shopping and playing and eating very strange foods—for example, lunch consisted of raw fish and green mustard strapped by seaweed onto cubes of rice—a day made even more arduous by a visit to a certain bakery, whose creations so reminded her of Topsy that she burst into tears—Toulouse asked what was the matter, but she wouldn’t say—around Saturday midnight, the merry twosome (Edward remained behind) abducted the girl and led her through flash-lit forest and pathway to Stradella’s main house. Joyce and Dodd were having a party, and they espied them from the bushes. The first one Amaryllis noticed was a priest, whom Toulouse identified as Father de Kooning. She asked if the Flying Nun was there, laughing at her own lame joke. Mr. Hookstratten was in high spirits (the professor still tutored Dodd, currently mired in Beowulf), meaning he was drunk; Lucy said she could tell he was in the middle of an anecdote about their now-legendary summer vacation. There were actors and socialites and a few portly men who had managed to pull Lotus and Lamborghini from the Nasdaq heap but sported bodyguards no more. Toulouse said that some of the wives were members of the Dead Baby Brigade—but his sarcasm was mostly for Edward’s sake, by proxy.

  Amaryllis was perplexed. When he began to explain Joyce’s good works, the orphan, seeing her own babies before her, could bear no more and ran back through the night to the comforts of Olde CityWalk, flying straight to the duvet of her surreptitious, Black Lantern Shoppe couch.

  Two weeks before Halloween, Toulouse brought her to La Colonne Détruite for a day of reckoning. He gave no preamble; she was clueless about the place. He left Pullman at home—he felt a little exposed and thought things would go easier without his four-legged friend. Maybe it was Pullman’s feelings he was protecting.

  They ducked through the storm drain, and for a while, though not much was said, Amaryllis was sure they were breaking into a condemned park. She was overdressed and tried hard not to soil her ensemble.

  “My grandfather built this place for my parents.”

  “When?”

  “Before I was born. As a wedding present.”

  She thought the Trotters to be truly wondrous; there seemed no end to the magical world they inhabited. All grass and sky, yet Toulouse said it had been “built”—this family worked in God-like scale! Then she saw it: on a rise at the edge of a glen stood a bewitching castle, as if dropped down from another world, another time.

  “It’s cracked!” she said, regarding the crown.

  “It’s supposed to be like that. There’s another one just like it, in France.”

  “Another one?”

  He nodded.

  “But what is it?”

  “A house.”

  “But why don’t they live there?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Does anyone live there?”

  “No—maybe one day. Maybe one day I will.”

  “You’re crazy. Can we go inside?”

  Mr. Greenjeans watched from afar as the children ran through corridors of myrtle, the fragrant shrub used during Sukkoth. On the orphan’s birthday, Edward had shoved a fistful under her nose.

  Amaryllis shivered as they entered the tower. She went to the staircase; Toulouse led the way. When they reached the top floor she was winded, more by unsettled feelings than exertion. As she parsed the landscape below, fear fell upon her. Then she took in the room itself—a bed was there, neatly made.

  “Who stays here?”

  “My mom, sometimes.”

  “But why?”

  “I guess she misses my father.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No.”

  He wanted to tell her everything, but was blank.

  She led him to the bed and took off her blouse; she thought that’s why he had taken her there. Toulouse wasn’t sure at first what was happening. She was full of scars and discolorations, and he thought she was going to show him something like where she got stabbed or shot with a bullet. She grabbed his hand and put it on a tit. His mouth was arid and his stomach rumbled, embarrassing him. She put her fingers down his pants. He liked the way it felt, even though everything seemed numb. She stripped off her pants and underwear.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Fuck me,” said Amaryllis, summoning the old Airstream words like a depraved incantation. “Fuck my juicy pussy with your big fat cock.”

  She helped pull off his pants, and now Toulouse felt funny lying there with this girl whom he loved, starting to do sexy things he had never done, in the room of his very conception. It was too much, and he pulled away. She became more aggressive and put her mouth on him and sucked, but that felt weirdly wrong and he pushed himself back, but she wouldn’t stop until he fell off the bed and shouted, “No!”

  Amaryllis burst into tears and wailed, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” and ran down the spiral stairs without her shirt. He grabbed it, hiking his pants up as he chased after. He tackled her on the ground floor and she struggled in his arms until she couldn’t anymore, and broke down again, begging his forgiveness.

  Amaryllis was worried he’d tell the others; Toulouse was worried she might leave because he had pushed her away. To be truthful, he wasn’t sure how he felt about what had happened—or what exactly had happened at all. It wasn’t like the way he fooled around with Lucy; it excited him more, but was more … disturbing. She seemed to know a lot of things he didn’t, and he hoped she didn’t think he was some kind of fag. But he did feel kind of faggoty around her—the stuff she said about fucking, and the way she said it, put a scare in him. Maybe it was just cultural, he thought. As Edward might say.

  As they emerged onto Carcassone, he furtively reached in his pants and touched the tip of his penis. Her mouth-wetness was still there, and some wetness, it seemed, of his own. Walking aimlessly uphill, the girl looked miserable, as if this were the end of the line. She thought of saints again to quiet herself and for the first time in weeks really thought of the babies, thought hard, heart-hard, almost gagging with the heartache of it, the sorrow and the guilt. Her chin twitched uncontrollably, and she soldiered forward like someone on a death march. To cheer her up—and to make sure things would be all right with them again—Toulouse suggested they visit Saint-Cloud. She’d not yet been there, and he wanted to show Amaryllis the maze: so it was, from tower to labyrinth did they go, for in childhood there is mostly myth and no middle ground.

  By the time they reached the gate, they were holding hands again, sweaty and tentative, like a couple come from therapy. Toulouse had concocted a biography (she would be the daughter of a Moroccan consul whom they had met on the summer trip) should they run into anyone, which was unlikely, since Bluey rarely left her room
and Grandpa Lou was in Azusa, working. His mother had gone to Palos Verdes to freshen up one of her garden creations.

  As they walked through the house, Amaryllis felt herself shrinking in size. So many riches upon riches … and all she had to give were her shame and her nothingness. There were family pictures all around—happy, beautiful people—what did she have? Not even snapshots of the babies!… Nor a photo of her mother, dead in bed with bulging eyes, the corners of her crazy mouth stained chocolate by stomach fluids … Amaryllis struggled not to break and run. Watching her, feeling all her feelings, Toulouse knew right then that they should leave, but he continued on. The honeymoon was over, and he cringed; for he, Tull Trotter, né Toulouse, had been the one to end it.

  Once they got outside, things improved slightly. Pullman crept from his teahouse and nuzzled her, lightening the mood. They went straight to the maze. After a month with the Trotters, the presence of a leafy backyard labyrinth was not bizarre in itself; just another ride in an amusement park that the orphan felt was soon closing, at least for her. Pullman plunged in, and the couple lazily followed.

  “My mother built this—or grew it. It took about four years … but she wasn’t here the whole time. There used to be a curtain between the maze and the house, two stories high. She didn’t want anyone to see it till it was all grown. I don’t know why, but none of us ever snuck in.”

  They walked in silence, going deeper. The tinkle from Pullman’s collar could be heard through faraway intersecting hedges.

  “Amaryllis, wait.” She stopped without turning around. Toulouse caught up and took a long, slow breath. “Can we sit down?” He pointed to one of the stone benches lining the hedge. She sat contritely, believing the moment of excommunication had arrived. “My parents got married in that house—the place we were at. That room—that bed—is where they slept on their wedding night. And the next morning, when she woke up, he—my father—was gone. He disappeared. They hired a detective, but no one ever found him. They never told me about it. They always said he was dead, that he had a snowmobile accident in New Mexico. But it wasn’t true.”