Whatever Lola Wants

by George Szanto

  How was she? Still difficult to tell. Preliminary tests indicated ischemia, a sudden deficiency in the blood supply to the brain. Definite paralysis on the left side, hard to know about the right. More tests tomorrow.

  Carney said, “I’ll wait out here.”

  “If she wants to see you—”

  “You two should be alone.”

  She lay on the bed, eyes wide, face chalky blue, motionless. Two tubes to her left arm, monitors above the bedhead. Milton sat on the mattress, stroked her right forearm, whispered. No sound from her, no quiver on her lips. He held her hand in both his and his head hung down to the three hands together. He cried, a soft rhythmic breath. She didn’t look his way but her eyeballs did seem to shift their gaze.

  Carney by the door saw her eyes move. He knew little about strokes but took this as a small positive sign. After a minute he went away, walked around, gave them time.

  He came back. The heel of Theresa’s palm lay at the bridge of Milton’s nose, his hands holding her hand in place, his brow bent toward her as if she supported his head. Carney touched Milton’s shoulder, squeezed gently, left, waited in the corridor. Twenty minutes later he looked in again. Neither Milton nor Theresa had moved. A new silent world for them.

  After a while a nurse separated their hands and led Milton from the bed. Milton dried his cheeks, smiled to Carney, asked to sit alone for a few minutes. Not in the room, in the hall.

  Carney went in. He hadn’t meant to but his legs took him to the bedside. He bent forward to catch her glance. Her eyes, open, motionless, stared at Carney; not focused on Carney’s eyes but—Carney felt it this way—to catch a glimpse of what or who Carney was. What did she see?

  Her pupils dilated, slightly. Could Theresa Bonneherbe Magnussen still see anything? But her non-focused gaze seemed to probe space, to ask the skeletal questions. Was there such a category as post-stroke stare? “Goodnight, Theresa.” He found Milton in the hall.

  Milton smiled weakly. “She’ll come out of it again.”

  Carney nodded. “She will. With your help.”

  At last Milton called Feodora and Ti-Jean. They’d stop at the Grange, pick up Carney’s car. But, keys? No problem, Ti-Jean could start any car. Yes, she’d contact Leonora and Karl.

  Milton and Carney sat in the hall. Milton said, “It’ll be good for Theresa to have Feasie here.” He continued speaking softly, as if clearing up a mess in his mind. As if hearing his own words could make him more present for Theresa. He talked about his offspring. The twins he found easiest. About Sarah he was mainly sad, her distance from Theresa, from him too. For Karl, his concern was greatest, he felt a fear for him, and more, for his choice of profession. Earlier Milton had worried about Karl’s debauchery …

  Debauchery? “A dated notion, no? Too much drink? Too much sex?”

  Milton shook his head. “So many women, a kind of flailing search. He seemed in anguish. He told me once, so few women he was with were really with him. Since his conversion he’s become almost a hermit.” Milton spoke with increasing weariness. “He’s our only son.”

  It still sounded as if Milton was trying out shared words, shared knowledge—could it bring Theresa back? At least keep her, tonight, from falling further away. And what are you doing here, Carney? In the middle of all this?

  Feodora and Ti-Jean arrived, Feodora in tears as she hugged Milton. Then Milton had taken Carney to the Burlington apartment and returned to the hospital. When Carney at last found sleep a shifting woman in her thirties haunted his dreams, sometimes in a kitchen he almost remembered, at times a garden, once nearly the woman in the photo over his desk, then a bright-lipped vamp in a tight white fifties dress. All the same woman.

  •

  “Do you know who she is?”

  Yes.

  Through the filter of Carney’s dream she looked like my Annette. Forty-four earth years since I saw her last, in any manner. When we Achieve Ascension we get to choose our locations. From the down below of 1959 I chose to be over the place Annette and I had enjoyed most.

  Annette. To breathe the clarity of life into images of other people had been her great talent. The artist in her painted what lay beneath surfaces. Her gaze penetrated walls, moments, the ground, skin. She saw in others what they had done with and to themselves. Her paintings taught many of them to see this too, from a kindness in her stroke and line.

  Annette and I were merry lovers and best of friends for twelve years. She read my stories, confirmed what I’d done right, helped me transform what was weak. Her pleasure when I succeeded was greater than my own. Without her The Lives of Elena would have been a narrow tale of aborted lust, Mustache of the Walrus a cracked melodrama instead of high comedy, Twelve Lucky Pelicans a mildly veiled courtroom drama. I assumed we’d be together always.

  Annette had a patron, an elderly—and powerful because wealthy and generous—uncle. He convinced the board of the Art Institute of Chicago to offer her a retrospective show. She’d only been painting sixteen years! I went there with her, Pelicans had just appeared, for me there’d be interviews and readings. Her uncle sent his private plane. Over central Ohio we ran into a storm, lightning on all sides, massive turbulence. Suddenly we were falling. The pilot shouted out his instruments were jammed, freak electric circuits— The plane plummeted, he tried to pull us out. We had no parachutes. The plane crashed, and we died.

  I don’t know what happened between hitting the ground and my arrival up here but with enormous surprise I discovered I’d become an Immortal. Of course I never knew such categories existed. Even if I had, I hardly possessed the hubris to think I’d end up here. But I always did suspect that little brings superstar popularity to a writer so much as dying. Here I am, not a God but still a mighty privilege, my books securing for me in death the fame I’d never attained while down below. Pelicans received three major prizes, and my estate the revenue from huge posthumous sales, including film rights. I think my son was proud of me. If I’d been able to feel parental emotion I would’ve missed him terribly. But here I could bask in my glory with Annette.

  Except I couldn’t find her. I searched everywhere. No, they told me, she hadn’t Achieved Ascendence. Impossible! She was way more famous and much more important than me! If such emotions were possible here, I’d have burned with fury. No, she definitely was not around. It turned out that in the down below, apart from the community she worked in, few had even heard of her. I will never quit, I cried, till she too AAs!

  But no. We’re granted heavenly benefit by virtue of our work on earth. Once dead we’re either well remembered or soon forgotten. That’s it. In the down below, Annette had already faded from most memories.

  I left those clouds behind, the ones we’d loved each other under. I found the space above Mount Washington aloof enough, and soothing. Years later I started telling stories again, for the fun of it. Annette lay faded deep inside my earthly memory. Till times like now, Carney’s dream.

  “Ted? You there?”

  I shook my head. I feared Lola’s jealousy—was she capable of jealousy?—jealousy of someone I once loved, just might edge her away from me.

  But Lola said, “It’s Carney’s mother, isn’t it?”

  “I think— Well, maybe.”

  She smiled, gentle. She took my hand.

  •

  2.

  “Hank. To rebury the dead, who do I talk with?” John Cochan spoke softly, a midmorning call to Sheriff Nottingham. He heard the silence at the other end. He stared out through the plexiglass. The dim buzz of smart people down there stimulated him. As it should.

  The Sheriff said, “In this county, that’s under the auspices of the Coroner’s Office.”

  “How does it work?”

  “You make a written request. It’s got to be approved. And the reason, it has to be solid.”

  John wished it were not. “It is.” He paused. “Does it take long?”

  “If the reasons are valid it goes pretty quickly.”

 
“Like?”

  “Oh, the same day.”

  “Great. Do the legal work. When can you meet me at the cemetery?”

  “Whose grave?”

  “My son’s.”

  Silence.

  “Sheriff?”

  “May I ask you why, Mr. Cochan?”

  “I need to bring him somewhere safe.”

  “Sir—”

  “Hank, he’s my son.”

  “He was, sir.” The Sheriff spoke softly.

  “Will be forever, Hank. I think you understand. Maybe I can put it like this. Maybe you can just come with me. A favor. Bring a shovel.” John paused. “Okay?”

  After a moment the Sheriff said, “I assume you want this done as privately as possible.”

  “Damn right.”

  A breath. “If I remember right the last patrol drives through around ten-thirty. We can meet, say around eleven.”

  “Can’t be tonight, got a late meeting. Tomorrow night?”

  “Weekend’s no good, Mr. Cochan. People there till late, and now in the summer they lock up for Saturday and Sunday night, keep the kids from parking there, drinking, getting in trouble.”

  Kids get in trouble wherever, what difference does it make. Hell! “Well I’ve got to be away Monday and Tuesday, back Wednesday. Wednesday night. Can you be there at eleven?”

  After a moment the Sheriff repeated, “Eleven.”

  “Thanks, Hank.” Cochan set the phone down. Damn having to be down in Lexington, damn credit shifts, damn bankers can’t tell bile from blood. He gazed out. The ceiling twenty-five feet up loomed white and heavy-beamed, lofty, cool, as surely it had to worshippers for near its two hundred years. Yes he did understand how the Sheriff maneuvered things. Give the man space, a job gets done. His way, and slow, but done and thorough.

  3.

  Carney went out for breakfast, returned to the borrowed apartment, looked about. No roaches. Bobbie had told him about roach sex. She knew her insects. He admired her curiosity about parts of life that others never noted. Including Terramac? He phoned her. “Want to see Terramac?”

  “I’m working,” she said.

  Her tone was answer enough but he asked anyway. “Just listen a minute.” He told her about wanting to meet Cochan, couldn’t Bobbie make herself free for a while?

  “I’m busy today.”

  Irked at being interrupted, was she? Fair enough. What about tomorrow? He knew she liked to keep her Saturdays open till the last minute, in case something intriguing turned up. Okay, she agreed, tomorrow. Carney would make the appointment.

  He called Intraterra North. No, Mr. Cochan wasn’t here just now, would he speak with Mr. Boce? Sure. Yes, three, tomorrow afternoon, Ms. Feyerlicht and Mr. Carney to meet with John Cochan who, Mr. Boce knew, was certainly eager to meet with them.

  Carney put the phone down. It rang. He let it go. The ringing went on, on. He took it.

  A male voice said, “Mr. Carney?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Karl Magnussen.” Silence. “Theresa and Milton’s son. Glad I caught you.”

  “Is Theresa worse?”

  “Nothing’s changed, Milton says.” A long sigh from Karl. “He told me how you helped Mother. Thank you. Can you come to lunch? He said you might still be here. He’s coming too. He needs to eat too.” A shorter sigh. “My twin sisters are coming. Twelve-thirty.”

  Nothing awaiting Carney home at the farmhouse except peace. It would still be there in the evening. “Thanks. That’d be nice.” He liked Milton and Theresa. Feasie, her ease in this company, intrigued him. Sarah, he couldn’t figure out. Might as well meet the other two.

  Families. Unfathomed groups where individuals played settled roles? For him Bobbie was friend, mother and father, long-time unquestioning love-giver, many potential siblings, and an entire cousinage; all in one. Each of the two women he’d loved and lived with for a time were, maybe not by coincidence, also only children.

  He found his Jaguar parked downstairs: Ti-Jean Seymour, benevolent auto thief. Carney drove to the hospital. Milton, leaning forward from the chair beside the bed, glanced up, haggard. “How is she?”

  “Well, maybe a little better. I think she recognizes me.”

  Carney saw a small frail woman lying still, staring up.

  “Her doctor said—” His voice caught. He forced himself. “This time the paralysis is permanent.” He forced a grin. “He’s wrong.” His thin lips showed no bravery. Only conviction.

  Carney left. Milton would stay there till lunch. Why Karl’s invitation? Likely Milton wanted to express thanks. Unnecessary, Carney had told him so twice, simple accident that he, not someone close to the family, had been around yesterday. But Milton must’ve pushed Karl: Invite the man. Carney grinned a sour little smile. Carney, running from disasters, now dithering in Burlington because an old woman with a stroke feared potential disaster brought on by a nearby techno-urban development?

  •

  Lola was barely listening. I said, “You want to tell me what you’re worrying about?”

  She slowly turned to face me. “Earlier, I remembered something.”

  “What?”

  “Over a—a period of time, it all got increasingly silent.”

  “Where?”

  “I think, in the down below.”

  I squinted at her. Did I really hear what she’d just said? That she remembered? “Increasingly silent? What got silent?”

  “Where I was,” she said in a small voice. “There.”

  I sat next to her and lay my hand on hers. “And this was when?”

  “I think—” Her voice was now a tiny whisper, hoarse, as if holding tears at precarious bay. “I think, as I was dying.”

  My fingers covered hers. “Lola. Listen to me. How can you remember this?”

  She shook her head, once. “I don’t know. It’s just there.”

  I said, I had to, “And—was there anything else?”

  She waited a few seconds before saying, “It hurt.”

  “What did? How?”

  Her eyelids closed. “I don’t know.” She sat still, she breathed deep. “I remember pain.”

  I put my arm about her, and held her to me.

  “And then the pain was gone,” she whispered against my chest. She pulled away a little. “Ted? If I ask you something, will you tell me?” Her soft sweet eyes stared past my head.

  I can refuse her nothing. “If I know.”

  “Ted, how did I die?”

  I’d been told the story up here but couldn’t verify it. “I heard—” The sound of my words left me suddenly unsure. “You overdosed. Heroin. You killed yourself. An accident, I heard.”

  “How strange,” she said.

  “What?”

  She shook her head again and relaxed against me. “I have no memory of that.” After some time she said, “I’m okay.” She drew back, her eyes open now.

  •

  4.

  Yak said to Johnnie, “A bad idea, Johnnie.”

  Johnnie looked honestly surprised. “Hey, I figured you’d think it was right.”

  Yak shook his head.

  “What?”

  “First of all, Benjie should just stay in place.”

  “But Terramac is his.”

  “But he doesn’t have to be there.”

  “Where else? That cemetery’s irrelevant.”

  “It’s where most people go, in the end.”

  Johnnie could feel anger creeping in. He stared beyond Yak, through the plexiglass, down the nave. “Benjie isn’t most people.”

  Okay, no arguing, not along this line. No flexibility when it came to Benjie. Another direction: “Does Priscilla know what you’re thinking about doing?”

  “She’ll be happy I did it.”

  “Handyman. You have to tell her. Before. Okay?”

  Johnnie nodded slowly. “Sure.” His face said, Discussion over. He sat back. “When we consecrate Terramac in Benjie’s honor.” He was far away. “Benjie wa
nted to go down, watch the exploration, the building. Now, symbolically, I can give him that chance. A small shrine.”

  “But with all the activity, the machines—”

  Johnnie shook his head. “In the new cavern. Up on the left, the little slope up. He can watch it all from there.”

  5.

  At half past a humid noon, driving to Karl Magnussen’s home, Carney felt a Mot-twinge of misgiving. He parked, high on a hillside beside an immense outcrop of boulder, overlooking the lake. He walked up the drive through a desiccated garden to a two-story stone house. The door opened before he reached it. Lying in wait?

  Milton brought him in and sat him down in the living room. “No problem getting here?”

  “No problem.”

  “Hot, isn’t it? Lemonade? Beer?”

  “Lemonade, please.”

  Bookcases rose to the ceiling on either side of the fireplace: light fiction, science for the layman, popular biographies. No overflow here, not like at the Magnussen farm. Not like Sarah’s cabin either, no books there, no magazines, not even in the bathroom, the inside one where he’d peed before leaving, having forgotten he should be peeing outside.

  Milton returned with two glasses on a tray. Following him, a man and a woman. “Karl, Leonora, meet Mr. Carney, call him Carney, no known first name. Don’t ask me why.”

  In feature Karl looked a good bit like a younger Milton: black hair instead of the white, eyebrows thick, bifocals, rounded clean-shaven cheeks. The soft Magnussen chin in Karl was merely thin. Same solid breadth of shoulder and chest as Milton, and as tall. Slacks and an open dress shirt. Sandals. And beside him a woman who had to be a Noodle: skinny indeed, around six feet tall. Still, in a disciplined white blouse, wide black belt at her tiny waist and a straight fawn skirt, she suggested slender and expensive elegance. Lean face, strong brows, retiring chin; but the cosmetic crafts, shades of artifice applied by a subtle hand, had softened nature.

  She figured she should sit, so he could; make him feel easier. An appealing man, Carney.

  No change in Theresa’s condition; they’d just come from the hospital. Professor Bewdley’s apartment was satisfactory? Very good. Humidity getting to you? Not bad.