Bruce Wagner - I Met Someone

When he was growing up, the pastor led his parents’ church in Sioux City and the family got very close. It was Pastor Wayne whom he turned to when Larissa told him that his “son” was a sham, a whore’s con. The news made Derek suicidal; for a few weeks he was in the serious planning stage of a triple murder-suicide — he was going to take himself out and bring the bitch and her bastard runt with him. And it totally blew him out when the pastor dropped everything and showed up in L.A. to spend a long weekend, that was how righteous he was, how much the man cared, a man of God for real. He ministered to Derek about love knowing no birthright, that all God’s creatures resided not beneath earthly roofs but in the humble tents of our Lord, and that to betray His will would be blasphemous. As a result of his compassionate hymns and panegyrics, his generosity of spirit and relentless sermonizing (it went on for months, by phone and letter), Derek slowly healed and became half human again. He found his way back to the marriage and his new daughter. Living in the same house with Larissa and the boy was a challenge, and Derek freely admitted to his confessor that his attempts at reunifying the family weren’t perfect by a long shot, that he continued to be rough on the boy, but the pastor said he’d done the right thing and that his love for “this special son” would come in time, and both he and Tristen would reap not the whirlwind but the reward of kings. Pastor Wayne said he was so proud of him, which meant a great deal. But Derek never made peace with himself about taking up again with his wife and her demon seed. Looking back, he saw that his heart really did break, so it made sense that all these years later he needed a new one. It was like the pastor had given him an artificial one yet it too had failed.

He was never sure why he returned. It wasn’t from the guilt he carried from breaking her arms, nor could it have been solely from a Christian sense of duty instilled by the pastor. Some of the reason would of course have been Rafaela — he loved her more than life — and some, a kind of crawling back to his mom. Larissa had always reminded him of Mom.

—

Queen Jeremy’s annus horribilis :

The Miscarriage.

The Death of the Boy…

— and now sweet Allegra, broken and brain-ravaged.

Yet in seven months — on July Fourth no less! — he would be a father.

How had any of it happened?

It astonished…

He was one of the chosen few allowed to visit her in the hospital, not just because he already had membership in their private club of sorrows, but because Dusty had always welcomed the comic danciness of his wounded heart and in these darkest of days needed the solace of it more than anything. She’d even thought of telling him — about Aurora —but something stopped her. Those doors would soon be closed to everyone, forever.

Tristen’s death struck Jeremy with unexpected severity; a second blow, landed by Allegra’s botched suicide, caused much suffering, but had the paradoxical effect of freeing him (like an antivenin creates immunity) — though from what he wasn’t sure. Perhaps it had to do with their last conversation and the stickiness of Jeremy striking out on his own to have a child; now, all fell neatly under the Darwinian euphemism “It just wasn’t meant to be,” affording some relief. Them that’s got shall have, them that’s not shall lose … but the joy of locomotion was there too — the kinetic pleasure of moving on , a skill set he’d long been in possession of yet never fully implemented until the death of his mother and sister. (It was royal habit now.) The familiar elation evoked by the morning prayer of “Onward!”—and the attendant day’s march through fields where friends, acquaintances, loved ones, and strangers lay dead and wounded — often presented as schadenfreude, and it was important for Jeremy to take note of that distinction; for it pained him to even briefly confuse the relentless rush of forward movement that was the nature of life itself with a reveling in others’ misfortunes, an emotion which he wasn’t remotely capable of.

He had truly absorbed the Wildings’ horrific travails as his own.

Only days before Tristen and Allegra met their defeat on that foregoing field (now months ago), he received an unexpected call.

“It’s Frank. I’d like to buy you lunch — just us boys.”

Jeremy’s brain glitched at the demotic, seductive proposal — his mind frantically searched for Franks in his ample database of old hookups — before confirming the mumbleboomy voice as none other than Franklin T. MacKlatchie’s (Esq.). He wondered why he would use that name. To Jeremy’s ear it sounded like, “When I con that one, I call misself ‘Sir.’ When I con you, I use ‘Frank’!”

They met at a coffee shop in the shopping center by the Colony. The Minnesotan magus was in fine spirits. He kibitzed with a waiter about a football game and did a hail-fellow-well-met with all who crossed his path. After a while he sobered up, so to speak, and sunk deep within himself as he drew the invitee into his confidence game.

“I’m going to tell you some things that I’ve kept from the girl — which I have decided to share because I’m leaving soon. Devi doesn’t know that yet, nor do I wish her to. So we agree this shall be strictly entre nous ?” He clasped his hands together like a devout and humble man about to embark on a great voyage. “From everything the girl has told me, and all I’ve observed misself , I believe you to be a most sensitive, trustworthy soul. Am I correct?”

“Well, I have been called sensitive. ‘Trustworthy’? That’s something I aspire to. But I think it may be prudent to leave my soul out of the discussion.”

MacKlatchie roared — the reply had the effect of a magical password, and he tucked into his monologue with the same gusto as those drumsticks on that Sub-Zero beach house night.

“Devi and I did meet in the manner — the exact manner she described. It is true that for many weeks I made my home on the walkway outside Mandry’s, dependent on the goodwill of its employees and the civility of passersby — when at last we crossed paths, she was in the midst of one of those constitutionals wherein she strove so valiantly to distract herself from the cruel eventualities of that dear, tragic little angel’s fate — her wilting flower, her Bella. You see, we were two dislocated creatures, destined to meet! And we’ve had an extraordinary time, oh just marvelous. We’ve had adventures . I could never repay her for the kindness she’s shown, the companionship and trust. Well, I could , I have , in my own humble way. And I hope I’ve done no harm.

“Jeremy, at this juncture, there are two things imperative for you to know — though she likes to call you Jerome, doesn’t she? — very well then, Jerome , here is the first (he leaned in to deliver what followed): Everything she told you about my gastropub ‘sojourn’—the bouncer’s harassment, the lawsuit, the buying of the place, the role-playing — was a lie. Nothing but legend and folk myth! All lies… well, not everything . I did have a wife and son. And was — still am —a man of vast, inherited wealth. (I was born into it but under my supervision it went forth and multiplied.) But the rest is pure fiction! And lest you rush to judgment, allow me to inform that Devi believes all of it to be true. All of it, and then some! In other words, she knows nothing of my subterfuge. She is faultless and pure, an angel just like her Bella.”