Memorial

by Bruce Wagner

  Suchwise did Marjorie spend her hours, startled to saunter through a decorous, riotous jungle of gardenias and fiery peonies, unhurried perambulation and inventory of her life, and as even-tide came, she remembered Raymond and their courtship, a kind of whirlwind (or whirlpool!) too. He was the 1st man she had been with. She wouldn’t let him do everything he wanted unless they married, and—another thing she’d never tell her kids—that was why she had finally relented and agreed to the union, knowing Dad was initially opposed. (There was an item in the paper about a starlet who eloped to Bakersfield and that’s where Ray got the idea.) She wanted to experience the world of sensual pleasure “full-throttle,” blushing even now as the phrase floated up and danced its burlesque like the debauched cypress silhouettes before her bedcurtains. She remembered the delirious pressure between them as they had their public dance, 1st time she felt a man press up against her like that. At the end of the night she pried herself from the backseat, every window wet as a sauna. The physical side—she and Ray never had a spiritual side; that was something more with Hamilton, though still a spiritualism shared “half-throttle”—was glorious, even though it didn’t last but a year or so. When the children were born, it died on the vine. Maybe that was her fault. There were always things a woman could do. There were things a woman should do to keep her man—the passing of the flowers, to sickbeds, wards, and private apartments. Perhaps to lovenests long since picked apart and scattered to the 4 winds: Love is just around the corner. The passing of the peonies and the angry thoughtless handing off of batons. She didn’t feel she was at all done with flowers and footraces but she had to have those kids and then suddenly it was over then suddenly he was gone

  …she had night-thoughts and day-thoughts, night terrors and daydreams—bright and dark and shiny, she could reach out and grab them like at carnival, manipulating the machine that picked out prizes with a small steel claw. Get whatever she wanted: sights and sighs and sounds and smells overwhelming: secret joys and languid stillness.

  Restoril in peace.

  She looked forward to the narcotic of bed and pillows, because then came a different kind of grab bag, where geegaws surfaced, without needing to pick and choose.

  This night, before floating to her sumptuously fractured cornucopia, her grifter’s gallery and frangible frangipani, her ganged-up flowery recrudescence, she lifted the book from her nightstand while the helpmeet watched cable in the living room, and read about the Australian missionaries, a family called the Staines, Christians who’d been burned alive by a mob in a place in India called Orissa, Orissa, where even Jesus had been, and she

  LXXIII.

  Joan

  wanted to go back to visit the old man but there was just too much to take care of. She and Barbet already agreed that after what her partner was calling “the Freiberg fiasco,” Joan would take an immediate “sabbatical.” (That’s what she was calling that.) Mercantile Road tugged at her but there simply wasn’t time. She was incubating a baby. (She did have time to order online, Tummy Rub from Mama Mio—which supposedly erased stretch marks—plus Resilient Belly Oil, Cellex-C, and Basq’s lavender/pear-scented Sweet Dreams.) She still hadn’t told anyone except Barbet and Pradeep, hadn’t even been to her gynecologist, though she’d come close to telling Marj because she thought it would make her happy.

  She needed to get a few things straight with Lew. Joan didn’t want to bring in a lawyer—yet—but had sought advice from a honcho, a friend of the former consul’s, in the Bay Area. Knowledge was power.

  She decided not to inform her brother about Raymond Rausch. Chess was too volatile right now; she didn’t want him racing over and scaring the old guy. Besides, he was acting weird. She wasn’t sure what was wrong but aside from that he was way stoned, all the time. He reeked. The nurses were pointing fingers at each other for taking money from the kitty without leaving receipts, and Joan soon put it together—Chess was the culprit. She didn’t have the energy to confront. He would never do anything to hurt their mom but she didn’t exactly trust him either. He was fairly grandiose and continued to speak of a pending “7 figure” settlement related to his back injury. She thought of asking her brother if he needed a loan but didn’t have the energy for that. No, bad idea to throw Father into the mix. Let Chester keep seeing Mom (who really did enjoy his visits), smoke his ganja in the backyard, fuck his hippie girlfriend, and swipe his petty cash—more than that, Joan didn’t want to know from. At least this way, she could keep half an eye out.

  AN attorney from Guerdon LLC called to say he wanted to discuss a “personal matter” between Joan and Mr Freiberg. She haughtily said that if it was related to the maquette fee, “you can contact my partner, Barbet Touissant, at ARK, in Venice.” The lawyer told her it was a “separate, personal issue,” and she hated the sound of the words in his mouth. “You listen,” said Joan. “If it’s so separate and personal, have Mr Freiberg call me himself, understand?”

  She almost added motherfucker but hung up instead.

  (Probably a good thing, she thought.)

  (But, man, that pisses me off.)

  She was so rattled, she called Lew’s private line.

  (Every therapist Joan ever worked with told her not to act on impulse—her Achilles’ heel. Even Pradeep compared her to Sonny, from The Godfather. It was her ferocious and unyielding nature to go off on people, her weakness and her strength. Barbet once taped a Chinese proverb to her G5: “If you are patient in one moment of anger, you will escape 100 days of sorrow.”)

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Joan.”

  “Hello sweetheart.”

  “One of your attorneys just called.”

  He was in a jovial mood.

  “Did he slap you with a maternity suit?

  “Look, Lew, I don’t want to deal with lawyers, OK?”

  “Fine by me.”

  He sounded like he meant it.

  “I don’t know exactly how we’re going to do that, Joan, but I like the concept.”

  “I want to have this baby—you know that.”

  “It’s yours to lose,” he said, both wry and cruel.

  “I’ve had 3 abortions and 3 miscarriages in my life and I really don’t think I’m going to get another shot. So I’m going to do everything I can to keep it.”

  “They were just trying to arrange a blood test, or whatever they do. For the paternity thing. You don’t object?”

  “Of course not. I was already on that, I just got busy with my mom.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Much better.”

  Both of them sighed, and could hear each other breathe.

  “It’s yours, Lew. I know that it’s yours.”

  His tone grew serious but not unfriendly.

  “We just need to be sure, Joan. I need to be sure. That’s the only reason he was calling.”

  “I’d appreciate it, Lew, if the next time, you’d pick up the phone. Is that too much to ask? Would that be so painful?”

  He laughed. “Everything’s painful.”

  She didn’t feel like sharing his whimsy.

  “Just call and tell me who I should see: who, where, and when. I don’t want to hear it from an attorney. OK?”

  “That’s fine, Joanie.” He laughed again. “Now may I please, please leave the principal’s office? Please?”

  “I’d prefer it to be someone down here—because of my mom. I don’t want to have to get on a plane.”

  “Got it.” Short pause. “Look, darling: I just don’t want to be a new daddy. I have 3 already and it’s gonna be awhile before I do my Tony Randall/Larry King thing.” Short pause. “How does that grab you?”

  “I don’t need you for this one.” Short pause. “I’ve decided to go in another direction,” she said, throwing his own words back at him. “I’m going with Santiago.”

  When he heard that he roared, and she laughed, and that broke the ice.

  “Do you want to have this conversation now?”


  “Love to.”

  “If it’s mine, I’ll give you 5,000,000, straight up. Which should more than amply cover his or her education, lifestyle, whatever comes down the pike. That offer will come in the form of a contract, so eventually you’re going to have to deal with one of my guys. I’ll make it as painless as possible. But I do not wish to be named, Joan, in any private or public context. A breach of that would negate any and all agreements. I have my reasons, and I expect you to honor them, as I’ll honor yours. So: if it turns out to be mine, I will write you a check for $5,000,000 straight up but in turn, you will have to sign a confidentiality agreement stating you will not disclose the child’s patrimony until he or she is twice the voting age. I will also make you sign—”

  “Ask me to sign,” she interjected, with astringence.

  “Ask you to sign,” he assented, “an ironclad rider stating in explicit terms that this child has no claims, nor do you, in any way, shape, or form, upon my present or future estate, or assets related to Guerdon LLC and myriad holding companies. Another thing. If you’ve already spoken about this (I don’t begrudge you that), if you have brought up my potential paternity to, say, a close friend, or Barbet, I would politely yet firmly request that you inform them, at the right moment, that the blood test came back revealing otherwise. They will believe what they will believe but you will stick to your story, on and off the record. I don’t care who you say the father is, we can even provide you with an entity—I just don’t want it to be me. Does all that sound reasonable?”

  “ ‘Reasonable’? That’s a funny word.”

  “All right, Joan: does that sound fair.”

  Pause.

  “I’m glad you’ve given this some thought, Lew.” She wanted to steady her nerves by sounding neutral before she pounced. “Do you want to know what I think sounds ‘fair’? Do you really want to know? I mean, are you interested.”

  “Yes. I really am.” Short pause. Breathing. “I’m all ears.”

  “If we’re going to have this conversation, let’s have it. I mean, for real. It’s 2006. Do you know what $5,000,000 is? I’ll tell you what it was a few years ago. The judgment against a British tabloid for leaking Catherine Zeta-Jones’s wedding photos.”

  “That was 2,000,000. And it was overturned.”

  “$5,000,000 is what certain friends of yours spend on bar mitzvahs. $5,000,000 is a bone you throw your alma mater.”

  “I didn’t do college, hon. Remember? I’m a dropout.”

  “OK, your brother’s alma mater. $5,000,000 is the call you get from your curator because she’s got a deal on a French commode.$5,000,000 isn’t even enough for the fund you draw on to pay off the chef who slices a tendon while cooking for you and Al Gore, or Billy Joel, or Tiger Woods, or Grand Duke Henri, or whomever. Lew, I’m a big girl. I’m gonna go away and I mean it. I want to go away. I don’t have any fatal attractions—I just have natal attractions.”

  He laughed again. All good.

  The warmth returned to their negotiations.

  “I finally figured out who you remind me of.” Short pause. “Maureen Dowd.”

  “I’m already out of your hair, right? I mean, what could possibly have been easier? You’ve got $11,000,000,000, or whatever it is you have, which will probably triple by the time our daughter reaches voting age.”

  “It’s a girl?”

  “I don’t know. I have a feeling.”

  “Have you thought of a name?”

  “Guerdon.”

  “Ha! I guess that’s better than ‘LLC.’ So: how much, Joanie. What are we talking?”

  “20. Isn’t that what Barkin got? Sans enfant.”

  Long pause, then:

  “That was a marriage, Joan. Long-term.”

  Long pause, then:

  “I don’t know what she got.”

  Long pause, then:

  “Done. Sold. Signed, sealed, undelivered.”

  She began to shake.

  “I don’t want to sound cold, but if you don’t carry to term—”

  “Don’t even go there.”

  “They’ll call—I’ll call—when everything’s ready to go. With the doctor, then the agreement.” (She could tell that his pulse had remained steady throughout; that was the thing about him that turned her on.) “Did Barbet tell you I want to keep the model?”

  “I told him. You told me.”

  “He wants a hundred-and-50,000 for it. Can you believe the gall? That’s a dealbreaker, Joan.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” That’s it, then. That was the caveat. Home free. “What are you going to do with it? You’re not seriously going to put it in the Gluckman gallery?”

  “I don’t know yet. The Lost Coast. I love that title.”

  “It’s only a model, Lew. It’s inchoate.”

  “I like looking at it. It reminds me of you.”

  LXXIV.

  Ray

  THE men carried her upstairs on a gurney. Big Gulp was happy to be home; the cousins followed like an entourage. Thank God for those girls.

  He put roses by the bed along with a dozen DVDs. A man from the computer store fixed her laptop so Ghulpa could use the Internet without a wire. When Ray surprised her with that, she said, “Oh Gawd!” and got happy as hell. She was even nice to the Friar, who, thankfully, was on best behavior. The old man hadn’t the energy to take him for walks, relying on the Center instead. Still, Cesar was right—exercise was doing the trick. The little fellow was a champ, and acting the total gentleman. His animal sense probably picked up that BG was carrying.

  A gaggle of Artesians prepared food in the kitchen while Ray showed off a copy of the settlement papers. She smiled broadly, resting a swollen hand on her gut. He reiterated that it came to half a million, free and clear. She asked When? and he answered, Any day now. Ghulpa rubbed her stomach like one of those sleepy, big-bellied buddhas—it was about the best homecoming she could have had. She kissed the old man on the mouth to show her pleasure (at being home again too), nothing fancy, but a cousin who came into the room with soup sniggered and quickly disappeared.

  HE got his suit out of mothballs and slapped on the Old Spice. Big Gulp looked him over from the Sealy and bobbled her head, clucking and smiling. He said never mind about me, just make sure you stay put. He admonished a pair of cousins to make sure she did.

  The plan was for Staniel to pick him up but at the last minute the detective phoned with an emergency. If it was all right, he’d meet Ray at the Dining Car. Might be a tad late.

  Now the old man thought he’d be late, which, as host, would be in poor form. Not that it was anyone’s fault. He was too nervous to drive and wound up hailing a cab. He’d been to the bank and drawn out 15 C-notes—he knew the steakhouse wasn’t cheap (part of the reason why Ray chose the detectives’ atmospheric haunt) and his credit cards were maxed. These boys meant a lot to him. He wanted to do it up right and show them a good time; he’d even extended the invite to wives and girlfriends. Not all of the cops who broke down the door were available, and knowing Ray’s fondness for Cold Case Files, Detective Lake had petitioned a few “closers.” Staniel said he would probably recognize some faces from the TV show.

  As it happened, he got there 1st. He told the maître d’ he was “with Detective Staniel Lake” and felt a surge of pride on being escorted to a large table in the back room—just like he was LAPD. Slowly, the younger officers began to arrive, and introductions were made. They were a handsome, bashful bunch with big gold rings and a lot of hair. (All wore suits; Ray was glad to be “in uniform” himself.) The seasoned investigators came in a 2nd wave, paunchy and ruddy and not afraid to show their wild side. A few rounds of drinks were consumed before Staniel finally made an entrance, all apologies. That’s when things really started loosening up.

  Ray didn’t remember any of the men, even though some said they were present on the night of “the mishap” on Mercantile Road. True to Staniel’s word, there was a fellow from the cold case squad, and a detectiv
e from the West Side who Lake went to the Academy with.

  No one brought a date—it was stag. They toasted the old man’s pending fatherhood (instead of congratulating him on the settlement, which might have been awkward) and pretty much treated him like one of their own. The officers never condescended or made him feel small; they seemed genuinely moved when he raised a glass to them and choked up. There was a nice mix, a good cross-section—a motorcycle cop, 3 of the SWAT guys who broke down the door (one said he was sorry about putting the cuffs on too tight, which triggered a whole, off-color discussion about hookers and handcuffs. Ray could see why they didn’t bring any lady friends along), the cold case chap, and a detective or 2, one of whom was retired. They were raunchy and “regular,” and didn’t censor themselves. They talked about the Aryan Brotherhood, “hot prowls,” baby-rapers, panty sniffers, and necrophiliacs—nothing was off-limits. Some of it Ray didn’t even catch. He swore to himself he’d never repeat any details to Big Gulp.

  LA’s finest shot the shit about a breed they called the lowest of the low: those who prey on the elderly. For a moment, the topic’s irony was tacitly noted—afterall, this was a group of men Ray had met under circumstances that might, in a stretch, be so classified—with the faintest nod of the collective’s bent for black humor. The motorcycle cop spoke of a 90 year old who died in the act of fellating her attacker—which he forced her to do after slitting her throat—while he sat on the washing machine eating a sandwich. Before he left the house the guy impaled Granny on some gardening shears and stole the money she’d saved for her own funeral. Another fellow—a WW2 vet—was nearly beaten to death by his dopefiend neighbor. The hospital released him a week later when Medicare ran out; the orderlies literally shoved him in a taxi with a catheter strapped to his leg. The driver half carried him into the house, where an hour later the dopefiend beat him again. This time he died from his injuries.