Memorial

by Bruce Wagner

  A burden lifted.

  She felt even lighter as she swung onto the freeway, and—this time, aural navigation deactivated—wound her way home unguided by voices.

  LXX.

  Ray

  MAIL had accumulated since Big Gulp was in hospital.

  He anxiously awaited the settlement agreement. Even though the attorneys said it was to be hand-delivered, the old man found himself retrieving mail with a lilt in his gait while the Friar followed, wagging his tail. Monsignor Tuck was in goodly fair shape. Fare thee well. Life was grand.

  He opened the letter from an insurance company.

  Frankly, Raymond, I’m puzzled…

  Our marketing team is often confused over why more people don’t request the facts about long-term care insurance. Knowledge is power!

  If you’ve been putting off getting information, Raymond, it’s time to take another look…

  In 1999, with the enactment of The Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, our government provided tax incentives for long-term care insurance plans that meet certain standards. Raymond, you should know about these tax incentives.

  The way I look at it, Raymond, you have so much to gain and absolutely nothing to lose. Thank you.

  There was another:

  Dear Raymond Rausch,

  My name is Max Kibblerohden. I write the “Equity Builders” column for MoneyInvest magazine and serve as Chief Executive of Kibblerohden Portfolio Investments™. My firm manages over $15 billion for institutions and high-net-worth individuals.

  I recognize you may not be considering doing anything differently with your investments right now. Regardless, I’d like to send you a “care package” of useful insights, free and without obligation.

  A separate letter contained the “Confidential Request Form for the Kibblerohden Portfolio Care Package™.” It asked for applicants to their “level of interest.”

  Total Investment Size:

  O $0—500,000

  O $500,000—750,000

  O $750,000—1,000,000

  O $1,000,000—3,000,000

  O $3,000,000—5,000,000

  O$5,000,000—10,000,000

  O $10,000,000+

  Mine’ll be “$0–500,000.”

  (Ray wondered what would happen if someone ’d “$0.”)

  Without the settlement, he’d be in a terrible bind. What would happen to his Big Gulp? He didn’t care about himself, he was a salty old dog just like the Friar, but he sure as heck didn’t have the kind of money you needed to support a newborn. The ACLU even worked a deal with the hospital so BG could stay all this time without financial worries. That was a lot of scratch.

  Ray didn’t think of himself as political but it seemed like every day there was something on the TV or radio about how people were hurting. The article in AARP said that 700,000 families were driven to the poorhouse each year because of medical emergencies, middleclass folks with houses, college educations, and good health coverage. Going bust over things like copays and cremation fees. Couples were still paying $800 a month for medication. 800 a month! How could that be? The article said these people were insured. It made no kinda sense. Folks were alone and isolated, the highlight of their day being when Meals on Wheels dropped off supper. It was just like the Depression. Jesus God, he didn’t want to end up that way! He wanted to be a provider, to provide for his woman and child. He’d screwed up the whole thing before and wasn’t going to let it happen again. (He realized that he hadn’t properly apologized to Joanie when she was there—it still seemed like a dream—hadn’t apologized at all. He’d been so shocked by her visit, it made him cross-eyed. She left her phone number and he would make sure to remedy that in the weeks to come.) He was done with screw-ups. He just read a pitiful story in the paper about a man who was sick the day his fellow employees pooled their money for Mega Millions. The “Lucky 7” worked at Kaiser Permanente and won $315,000,000 for the $3 each they’d put in. The poor bastard was suing. Claimed he should have been included but the “Lucky 7” said there wasn’t even a casual agreement, that it was spontaneous, and anyhow the last time he’d gone in was over a year ago. Still, Ray could sympathize. “His day off cost him 39,000,000”—that’s how the article began. That would be damn hard to take. No, Ray wasn’t going to be left behind. Not like the captain in that Twilight Zone whose ship crashed on an asteroid and he became a kind of Mormonstyle patriarch, keeping crew and passengers—and the generation to come—together in sound mind and body with tough love brimstone discipline, until one day, 25 years later, they were finally found by an American search-and-rescue team. Everyone couldn’t wait to leave but the old man refused to board (his stubborn pride) and just as they were taking off he realized he was stranded. Alone. Changed his mind and chased after the ascending rocket. Too late. That hit Ray like a ton of bricks. Stuck with him from the day he 1st saw it.

  He read a lot of magazines when he visited Ghulpa—Time and Newsweek and Forbes—they said big companies were dropping healthcare plans altogether and that seemed to Ray a crime. The corporations were gutting pension funds too (especially when they got bought and had their books cooked) and telling people to go invest hardwon earnings their damn selves. The workers could just go to hell. In his book, no one was supposed to be able to touch a pension fund, that was a God-given. Had someone changed the law? Social Security was going the same way with the blessings of the White House. Social Security was dryin up and they were putting an end to Amtrak too. The damn country wasn’t going to have any more trains! But all those CEOs were rich men and didn’t have to worry, they didn’t need trains unless it was a hobby, in which case they could just go out and hire a private railcar and take a tour on any timetable they pleased. The article in Time said these CEO gents—homely looking nabobs in eyeglasses—could make 60 or 70,000,000 just by quitting their jobs! The CEO of Morgan Stanley got a hundred-and-13-point-7,000,000 dollars for leaving. The contract said that after he was gone, he was still entitled to full medical plus $250,000 a year plus an office and a secretary for the rest of his life. (Why would a man need an office and a secretary if he wasn’t working?) That was no golden parachute—hell, there weren’t enough elements in the Periodic Table to say what kind of parachute that was. He shook his head in disgust and laughed. Then off they’d go and get another job, sign another contract. Being a Chief Executive Quitter got you into a special country club. Somebody figured out that when that Exxon fella retired, he’d been making $144,573 a day for 13 years.

  He wasn’t on their level, but still thought himself a king. Ray had the notion that with the settlement from the City of Industry (he bet that BG would triple it in no time), he could buy private health insurance. If anything ever happened to Ghulpa or the baby, they’d have the finest treatment in the world. The old man wasn’t thinking of himself—his shelf life, as he liked to put it, had long since expired. Even so, he made the cousins do a little research, and they used their computers to find a special kind of coverage that would pay for a decent convalescent home; he didn’t want to drain money from the main account. The settlement would buy peace of mind and other things too, like the down payment on a house with a nice yard for the Friar.

  A yard for their Lionel to crawl around in, and the cousins to throw parties. Maybe they’d even get married there.

  GHULPA got ornery and wanted to leave Sisters of Mercy against medical advice. Even the Artesians couldn’t influence her; they were having a hell of a time. The doctors finally said she could go home, but made BG sign a release. The family was worried she wouldn’t stay in bed. Ray was afraid she’d miscarry. He was scared as hell but there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. She was a hardhead.

  He wasn’t going to mention that his daughter had come to see him. The timing wasn’t right. Anyhow, he hadn’t wrapped his head around it himself—his Joanie!—not at all. Such a strange, strange deal. So beautiful, so educated. She dressed carefully, fastidiously, fashionably, like her mother. Since the v
isit, he’d been flooded with memories. He and Marj officially met in 1960 on a dance date. They went to the same church and he’d had an eye on her. Ray was on the rebound, still getting over a stormy shackjob with a redheaded waitress. A trumpeter friend, Bill Peterson—Jesus, the names from 50 years ago were really coming back, isn’t that how it was with old age?—said he knew just the gal to cheer him up. Marjorie Donovan was an assistant to a mid-Wilshire bookkeeper. She was younger than him, on the brink of 23, a religious gal, not too stuffy. Ray wasn’t even sure she’d say yes, he probably had Bill to thank. They wound up downtown. She was shy but quickly dazzled; he could tell she thought dancing at the Biltmore was the height of sophistication. (It came pretty close. Ray Rausch was a 30 year old man and knew a few tricks. He earned money as a part-time bartender but was a free spender and had to tap the trumpeter for the big night.) They swang and sashayed to the golden oldies, and the silver and brass ones too—“Save the Last Dance for Me.” He could hear that in his head, note for note, clear as day. Marj was living with her father, a widower, and had the queer idea she wanted to go to India for missionary work. Ray remembered picking her up in his 52 Ford. Her dad would greet him, pipe in hand, very debonair. He’d been in the clothing business, fabric and knickknacks, a friendly man now retired.

  The couple went horseback riding in Griffith Park. Ray couldn’t believe he’d actually climbed on a horse—laughing at the memory—he got thrown and there was something about the way she dusted him off, a sly grin reminiscent of Claudette Colbert and Myrna Loy wrapped in one, and that’s when he knew they were going to have some kind of life together. That night he proposed and was befuddled to watch a diamond teardrop make a plumb line to her smile. (Soaked it right up.) Her father wasn’t too thrilled, which surprised Ray at 1st before it didn’t, and they eloped to Bakersfield of all places, couldn’t remember why, he borrowed money from his friend again (Bill was making good in the studios) and they moved to Culver City and had 2 beautiful babies. Had wonderful times and a picket fence and then the times weren’t so wonderful and on a sunny nameless day he just walked, like in a country song. Might even have said he was going for cigarettes; it was like that. The old man quaked at the thought. He told himself all these years that’s what being married did, some kind of allergy, never would have guessed it—but that just didn’t wash. Leaving the kids behind nearly killed him. Like the Twilight Zone and the reluctant rocketeer: by the time he ran toward the ship, everything was finished. The children were aloft. By then he was almost 40 and hated himself. He hated himself a long, long while.

  Now this old dog was gonna be a new daddy and God in His merciful omnipotence had orchestrated that his daughter appear at the door like a ghost in a play. He knew Marjorie had done the job for which he wasn’t man enough; she’d raised those kids alone. He could never give her enough credit. She had mothered and fathered them—how could he thank her, or express his profound remorse, his regret? Suddenly, he focused on the boy. I should have asked Joanie about him. Why didn’t I? I should have asked about Chester. Joan probably thought: The heartless old coot, he didn’t even ask about his son! But that wasn’t it, and he hoped she understood. He didn’t have it in him. It was enough just to look at her. Almost too much having her there, it sucked the air from his lungs, from the room. He was glad she had cried so much, not glad, that wasn’t the word, but it had been a good distraction for Ray to comfort her, easier than falling apart. No, he would have time, now he would, they would, all of them, it seemed God wanted them all to have time, that was His plan, time to learn everything they needed to know about one another and just about anything else. Like one of those reunion stories he devoured in People or Reader’s Digest. He would take his grown children to the Dining Car and knit everyone back together.

  How amazing! All the while he’d been having funny dreams about Chester, but look who shows up at his door.

  STANIEL Lake phoned to congratulate him on the settlement and Ray said, “Well, esteemed sir, you beat me to the punch. I was just going to call you.” He could tell from the detective’s tone that he was all right with it. Ray said to “keep it under your hat” because nothing had been “signed and sealed.” Mr Lake laughed and said that might be difficult. Meaning, somehow everyone already knew.

  The old man explained about Ghulpa and the pregnancy—Staniel was genuinely surprised and thrilled for them—and how he didn’t hold anything against “the boys.” He let the lawyers be lawyers because he wanted protection for his new family. The detective said he had absolutely no hard feelings, that no one did. Hell, he said he’d have done the same thing and that meant a lot to Ray. That was big of him.

  He extended the Pacific Dining Car invitation and the detective said his colleagues would be honored to break bread. Ray wanted to make sure Staniel invited everyone who’d busted into the house, including the rookies. Staniel laughed and said he would but that Ray might have “quite a bill.” The old man said not to worry, and began feeling upbeat for the 1st time in a while. Clean. He wasn’t a user, and prided himself on doing the right thing. It particularly gave him pleasure to express gratitude when least expected—something which seemed to have gone out of style. Ray liked to think of it as one of his better traits, his faith in the essential goodness of people, he was an optimist about the human condition, he respected good intentions and longed to do kindnesses in return, except that he’d failed when it came to Marj and the kids, utterly and abysmally, and he knew it, but had to believe it was God’s plan to teach him the hard lessons that made him what he was today. Truly, man learns through adversity.

  His thoughts drifted back to the Biltmore, and how Marjorie felt in his arms, fevered and new, her glittery eyes reflecting the festively lit runway of life as they taxied toward its mysteries. He recalled his fears that night as well, compulsively checking his wallet to make sure the trumpeter’s borrowed bills were still in place.

  He’d really had a crush on that girl.

  But Ghulpa, save the last dance for me.

  LXXI.

  Chester

  HIS mom had been home a few weeks, her jaw sealed shut. What an intense bummer. It freaked him out to see her like that but he grew accustomed. Wirecutters were kept in the bedroom and kitchen in case she spit up and they needed to clear an airway. That was standard. Otherwise, people in her situation could choke on their own vomit.

  Chess saw more of his sister than he had in years. When Joan 1st told him about the scammers he exploded with rage. He wanted to get his hands on them, for real. He didn’t think anyone was pissed enough, including the cops.

  Laxmi volunteered to help take care of Marj but his sister politely declined, having arranged for RNs during the day. Someone came to stay at night if Joan couldn’t herself. The feeling he got was that she didn’t trust him to sleep over, not alone anyway. That was cool. He’d rather not but the vibe was galling. Whatever. Let her do her princess controlly thing. He just wanted Mom to be comfortable—the woman had been through hell. If Joanie needed a lot of warm, hired bodies around, so be it. As long as they didn’t steal anything, no problemo. If he caught anyone stealing, heads were definitely gonna roll. There would be blood on the tracks. Still, he didn’t dig the posturing. She’d actually told Chess not to smoke weed “in front of the caregivers” and that was weird. Like that was his big plan. He started thinking Joan didn’t want him to spend the night for fear he was going to nod out while Mom aspirated or whatever. The thing that did bother him was Joan’s attitude toward Laxmi, who was nothing but a fucking Good Samaritan. Joan was a bit condescending, not that Laxmi even noticed, but Chester did, and he was ready to mix it up with little sis before realizing the whole thing was probably about age difference. What a drag it is getting old.

  Laxmi was hot and Joan was not (so much anymore, anyway)—so he let it slide.

  MARJ made sure someone continued going to Riki’s for lottery tickets chosen from the fortune cookie numbers. It was the highlight of her day. The doctor
s said that Marjorie was depressed (she was now on Adderall, which Chess cadged when he was bored: he thought he could make a killing with Speed Thrills T-shirts) and that whatever gave her pleasure was a good thing. If Joan or Chester couldn’t make it to the liquor store, Cora or one of the helpers went.

  Mr P had taken a turn for the worse and was hospitalized again—if you listened to the neighbor, he was the Lance Armstrong of Doggie World. She was down in the dumps herself; running little errands and reading the tabloids aloud to Marj were pleasing distractions. She was a nice lady and all, and Chess could see how it cheered her up just to hang with someone who was so much more fucked. But that was cool. Just human nature. Even though he didn’t feel that way when he hung with Maurie.

  The situation with his mom was a distraction for Chester as well, and he visited Maurie less. He slowly understood that seeing his friend wasn’t such a healthy thing because it emanated not from compassion but rather to assuage his own conscience and even monitor the invalid’s progress—to see with his own eyes if by some fluke Maurie was getting closer to being able to articulate what Chess may or may not have tearfully confessed. (If he were getting better, the consequences could be both wonderful and terrible.) He still dallied with the idea of telling the police what happened but that fantasy was getting tired. Chess had even gone online a few times, nearly presenting his case (anonymously) à la “this is what went down with ‘2 friends I know,’ and I was wonderin what y’all out there think, blah,” though he always chickened out and just sat staring at the screen. It wasn’t safe, even if everybody lied about everything, on- and offline, and no one really cared; nowadays keystrokes could be traced with spyware, and that would be Chess’s karma—to get busted for testing the waters. There were people monitoring email just to see what your likes or dislikes were, and they didn’t even need a subpoena. For all he knew, his buddy Captain PT-109 Servano might already have had his suspicions and be a member of some medical watchdog association, logged on to his keyboard and connecting the dots whenever Chess went surfing. Like that guy Pellicano: the phones he tapped supposedly rang in his own house so he’d be able to eavesdrop from the comfort of his own bed or shitter. Chess remembered the story of the guy who copped to a murder during an AA meeting and everybody thought about the moral dilemma (anonymity, right?) for like 3 seconds before snitching. There was another AA guy who wrote a letter to some chick he sorta raped way back when as part of his amends. She snitched on him too and even though he changed his story, it was too late and his overly contrite ass was headed upriver. Still, the confessional scenario did bounce around in his head and he thought that as long as Maurie hadn’t died (it bothered him to even go there), the authorities wouldn’t come down too hard. And as long as he didn’t die, Chess probably wouldn’t cop, but he knew that if Maurie passed, he wouldn’t be able to hold his mud. What could they charge him with? “Death by Viagra”? Like fuckin bad Agatha Christie. That would be tough. He could already hear the jokes on Leno and Letterman. Maybe they’d give him probation or, say, a year in the tank, at worst. But what did he know—he’d planned the thing, right? Motive could definitely be proven, revenge and jealousy demonstrated: 2 classics. Lady Justice didn’t look too kindly on premeditated crimes, no sir. And if Maurie did die—because face it, healthcare workers fucked up aplenty, it was almost a rule of thumb, a given, people croaked from routine errors every day, patients were fucking offed, and Chess was pretty sure that most of the time no one ever found out (aside from the nurses who were serial killers, and most of them probably hadn’t even been caught), there was so much incompetence at so many levels, he’d just read an article in the paper about a drunk surgeon who went ballistic because he had to wait too long for sterilized instruments and was wrestled to the ground outside the operating room by 5 cops, and for someone like Maurie—look at Chris Reeve—well, quads always got pneumonia or complications or whatever, they wound up circling the drain no matter how much money they had or how famous they were, except maybe Terry Schiavo, she’d have lived to a hundred if they hadn’t executed her, so why was he beating himself up?—he couldn’t even remember his train of thought. If Maurie did crap out, say, as even an indirect result of the original incapacitation, Chess was thinking he would definitely be charged with homicide. Then he had an epiphany. How stupid am I? It wouldn’t be homicide, it’d be manslaughter. He’d watched enough TV to be pretty sure. Maybe he’d suck it up and visit a free online legal clinic to ask a hypothetical, couching it in whatever. He’d have to think of a way that wouldn’t sound too suspicious because even online lawyers could smell shit; might be worse than a chatroom. But they could never prove intent to kill. Since when was Viagra a weapon? Anyhow, maybe it hadn’t even been Viagra, plus he didn’t exactly overdose him; he’d only given him one. I mean until the Supreme Court rules stiff dicks to be weapons he was in the clear, there never was a weapon, Chess would consent to a thousand lie-detector tests, and happily take the stand. Swear on a stack of Schiavos. Half the jury would probably laugh before letting him off. If Robert Blake was innocent, Chester Herlihy was a fucking saint. A capital charge would be insane. That would be equivalent to saying the Friday Night Frighters had premeditated murdering Chess himself. No way would homicide stick. Maybe he could attract a celeb attorney, fuck Remar, Remar was a bush-league bush baby, he’d be able to get one of the big boys, because the case would be such a media magnet. Might even make a good little movie on Showtime—or something classier, with Ed Norton as Chess and the pudgy guy from Capote as Maurie and someone like Lindsay Lohan as Laxmi. He started to breathe easier; he’d gotten all worked up. For nothin. Maybe the charge would be something even less than manslaughter, like “reckless mischief” or “marauding” or “annoying” or whatever, there were all kinds of funny little obscure statutes (like the one about “bothering” children). They could probably get him on slipping someone a controlled substance without their knowledge. Yeah, that one was a bitch. That one he couldn’t dodge. But if the controlled substance led to the person’s death…