Bruce Wagner - Memorial

When they got to St Mary’s, the PI was waiting and why not, muttered Joan to her friend, He should be fucking offering hors d’oeuvres for what I’m paying. She was moody and distraught and unraveled until Barbet gave a gentle dis/course correction: “He’s on our side, Joanie. He helped find her.” At this, she wept, and Barbet said darling why don’t you go to the bathroom and wash your face? Get it together before seeing Mom.

A really good idea.

She thanked him, then thanked the PI as well.

Joan did as she was told, and stared in the mirror. The thought of that bathroom where her mother was attacked made her shudder. How could someone do that? What kind of monsterworld was this? Who decided that Marj Herlihy, a kind, gracious, intelligent lady in the autumn of her life, would be courted, cheated, robbed, beaten, and burned from her home? And this —it was too much! She threw more water on her face, drying herself with rough paper toweling. She started to leave but got dizzy and went to sit in a stall.

All was water. She rubbed the belly where her baby floated. Remembered the story of the 6 year old boy in New Orleans who led younger children to safety through the parish floods. To sanctuary: Darynael, Degahney, Tyreek, Zoria…why did the names stick in her head and what the fuck was up with black people and their baptisms? It was like something out of a Dave Chappelle sketch. Deamonte was separated from his mother but shepherded them to high ground. (The bastardization of diamond. Wasn’t there a Diamond Sutra? She thought she’d seen a copy of it among Esther’s books, in Napa. Buddhists always spoke of “diamond-pointed” this and “diamond-pointed” that.) His last name was Love. They finally reunited Diamond-Pointed Love with his mother, and her name turned out to be…Katrina. The world was an ecstatic poisoned mystery. All was Katrina and Kali, all was Durga, the Great Mother and Great Destroyer, all was Love and Money and Diamonds and Rust.

She breathed, like Barbet suggested, for the baby’s sake. Inspired. She didn’t want its tiny spirit toxified by this night’s madness but how on Earth would that not be possible? How could Joan stop her body from strafing the womb, mutating her baby’s blood cells, altering rhythm of soul and heart?

She rejoined Barbet and the PI in the waiting room. An officer who’d responded to the call was chatting with them — he knew the PI, at least by name, duly impressed by the reputation, as is said, that preceded him.

Joan was introduced.

Then, just like a TV show, the handsome doctor walked in, asking if she was Mrs Herlihy’s daughter.

HE took them to a room just beyond the examination areas.

“Your mom’s going to be all right. But I want to tell you, straight out: she was raped.”

Joan crumpled.

Barbet grabbed her under the armpits.

He told her to breathe.

The doctor asked if she was OK.

She said yes.

The doctor paused until Joan gave the go-ahead.

“There was some damage. Some anal and vaginal tearing — I really think minimal, in that we’re dealing with a woman of her age and the violence of the assault.”

“Don’t. Don’t say that,” said Joan.

There was quiet, and then she told him to go on.

“She’ll have to be tested down the line for HIV whether they find the assailant or not. She’s in shock but she’s comfortable. There’s no question she needs to be admitted — of course, that can be to a hospital of your choice. Whether someplace closer to home — Cedars or UCLA or St John’s”—implicit in the remark was a winking knowledge of Joan’s rarefied economic strata, which she assumed the canny MD had grokked by her dress, Barbet’s pedigree (she was certain he thought her partner was queer), the well-heeled presence of the PI, etc—“for observation, fluid intake, all the goodies. Again, because of her age. How are Mom’s cognitive functions? Is she generally lucid? Does she hold up her end of a conversation?” Joan stared at him blankly. “Because she’s a little out there — not making a whole lot of sense right now, part of that’s the morphine and part of that’s — it may be trauma, it may be a host of things. That would be another reason to do a more extensive work-up. You’d be surprised, but people can be remarkably resilient. They bounce back. Before you see her — and she doesn’t look too bad, considering what she went through — I want to tell you that she was helped enormously by a group of homeless folks she encountered sometime not too long after the incident. In particular, she was ministered to by a lady who’s with her now, kind of a legend around here. Dottie Ford. She’s a vet.”

“From the war?” said Joan, smiling surreally.

“A veterinarian. Dottie has an animal hospital not far from where your mother was attacked. We have a fairly large street population in Long Beach (we’re not proud of that), most of whom don’t have ready access to medical care for a multitude of reasons, not excluding budget cuts stemming directly from the wisdom of our current administration. To our chagrin”—he actually used the word—“many rely on Dottie for ‘outpatient’ care. She has a big heart and of course refers anything to us she doesn’t think she can handle.”

“My mother…my mother saw a vet?” said Joan, in disbelief.

Barbet let a smile creep to his lips as he and Joan locked eyes. Another ring of Hell, but what could you do?

“She wasn’t treated, but Dottie made sure she was warm and comfortable until the paramedics came. She gave her a compress to stop some of the bleeding, which again, was minimal. Probably prevented her from going further into shock. So the world does have good people in it.”

“The world is good,” said Joan. She meant to sound sarcastic but hadn’t the energy to give it that spin. “Well, cool. I mean, so long as Mom doesn’t say ‘Woof’ when I see her.”

The men grinned, glad to see that Joan was all right.

“Shall we go in?” asked the doctor.

SHE phoned to tell him what happened.

Chess sounded flat. He asked When and she said, A few days ago. (Joan didn’t think he’d get huffy about the time delay, and she was right on. He was probably relieved not to have been involved, and sounded too loaded to put on a show.) Her brother kept saying, I can’t fucking believe it, which, after the 1st few times, really got on her nerves. What was there not to fucking believe, dickwad? She found herself thinking less and less of him as a human being; each time Joan thought she might be motivated to share something real —her baby, their father, whatever — Chess revealed himself to be a narcissistic stoner she wanted nothing to do with.

He asked where Mom was now (Chesapeake Herlihy: Location Scout! Man of Action! The Decider!), and Joan said she’d been transferred to St John’s but was on her way to a “premier” care center called Golden Grove. Marj’s insurance had “really stepped up to the plate” and he needn’t worry— not that he would —Joan and Barbet (she threw her partner in just to make her brother feel his own useless appendagehood) had already checked out the “assisted living village,” which was far beyond anyone’s expectations, more like the Four Seasons than a rest home. She knew he would respond to that kind of shit; assisted living at the Four Seasons was Chester’s ultimate retirement fantasy.

He said he might not get a chance to see Mom before leaving. He was about to go “on a Vancouver scout.” He wasn’t actually finding the locations himself, but “overseeing the process, as producer.” God, you creep me out. She resisted the impulse to make a crack about his bogus lawsuit and trumped-up pain. His bogus life. Her good deed for the day.