Bruce Wagner - Memorial

LUCAS phoned.

He was glad Bonita came to visit. Surprised, but glad. He hoped it was all right that he gave out Marj’s address. Of course it was. He said Bonita was a good lady, didn’t have many friends, and wanted to “share the joy.” Implicit in his words, to Marj anyway, was that Bonita was lonesome. Lucas had performed a small, cogent act of kindness. The Blind Sisters — and Lucas — were family.

Soon he’d be on his way to Texas to inform a new batch of shadow winners (“Oh yes, the Lone Star State is a major participant in the drawings”) and asked if she wanted to have a bite before he left. “That’s what one vampire said to another,” he joked. “Let’s go have a bite.” He told her not to primp, that he liked the natural look. They had a laugh and he added, “I’ve never been an aficionado of too much makeup.” “Well, I won’t primp if you won’t primp,” said Marj, coyly. They laughed again and set a time. He wanted to eat somewhere at the Grove. He said he liked the Grove.

SHE went next door to check on Cora and Pahrump.

The dog looked weak. Cora said he was sick from the chemo. Marj tried to distract her.

“How ’bout I pick up a lottery ticket for you and Mr P?”

“You’re still buying tickets? From that place?”

“Oh! My yes. It’s very important. The son had to leave school to help out — they’re not going to sell. They’re marvelous people. I spoke with the widow. She will not let this destroy them. God knows it would have destroyed me. Something like that happening to my Ham? She said she still believes in the goodness of people. Isn’t that marvelous? Perhaps it’s cultural. We Americans tend to be so cynical. We used to have more of the rugged spirit.”

“Well, I think they should string them up. Have they caught them yet, the blacks?”

“I don’t think so. There weren’t any witnesses, so no one knows if—”

“The schvartzuhs, always a schvartzuh. Why don’t they just kill their own? That’s what they do, you know. Steinie told me. Whites don’t kill them: the blacks do a very good job of it themselves.”

Marj stroked Pahrump. The animal growled unconvincingly.

“Now you just stop, Rump. Don’t you dare —that’s Marj Herlihy, my dear friend and your guardian angel. She’s going to take away your trust fund if you don’t stop misbehaving! We’re going to take it away, aren’t we, Marj? You really should have seen that hospital. It’s on Sepulveda, just behind where Steinie goes to the gym. And the people who came in! They should make one of those TV shows about it. Someone brought a lovebird they’d left in the sun — it got dehydrated. Oh Marj, the care that is lavished! You could probably bring in a cockroach and they’d know what to do. But it costs a fortune. I met a couple who had a dog the police shot by mistake.”

“Oh Lord,” said the old woman, flinching.

“The police are out shooting dogs when they should be shooting”—she paused, voice lowering to a susurrus of contempt— “blacks.”

LUCAS’S driver dropped them off at a Chinese restaurant in the Grove, across from the dancing fountains.

They spoke of this and that, how glad and lucky he was to have found a vocation which had allowed him to make so many people happy. He said most of the time he felt like the star of “an amazing reality show.” She wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but he was such a sweet young man, just the kind of boy she wished Chester had turned out to be. Though it pained her to even be thinking that way.

“So: are we going to see you at Spago?”

She looked at him inquisitively, then remembered the lady from Ojai’s words. Marj needed her memory jogged.

“We’re having a gala for the Blind Sisters — well, half the winners are men, but they don’t seem to mind the appellation. In fact, they get a kick out of it! Shall I RSVP for you?”

“Your friend said—”

“Bonita has called me 10 times about what she’s going to wear. What am I, Isaac Mizrahi? Hello! I know someone who needs a Xanax! One day it’s Chanel, the next it’s Oscar— de la Renta. Bonita is a hoot and a half. Did she tell you the State is putting everyone up? At the Four Seasons?”

“Yes! But I wasn’t sure—”

“Pardon the 3rd degree,” he said, in whimsical self-reprimand. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be minister of information! All right, Marjorie Morningstar (her father used to call her that), here’s the skinny: dinner at Spago, on Saturday night in Beverly Hills. Lots of luminaries and friends of the mayor are going to join us: Phyllis George, Merv Griffin, Joan Collins. RJ Wagner and his wife…you will love Jill and RJ. Chief Bratton might even stop by — his wife’s a pistol. We have the top 2 floors of the hotel reserved, all penthouse suites. Nothing but the best for my Sisters! If we’re a little tipsy, into the elevator we go. I don’t think the cops are making arrests for riding elevators under the influence — not yet! The next morning, it’s breakfast in bed before everyone boards Mr Bloomberg’s GV. Then, straight to JFK, smooth as silk! Fasten your seatbelt, Marj, it’s going to be an unbumpy night.” She was having a little trouble following. “Oh! And then” —he made the sound of a trumpet fanfare— “off to Gracie Mansion for the triannual Blind Sisters luncheon, with all the trims! Want your picture taken with Hillary Clinton? Your wish is my command. And you will love Mr Bloomberg. And Mr Trump. Personally, when I meet a billionaire I think: What’s not to love?” He laughed, and it was absolutely infectious. “You know,” said Lucas, growing serious, “the whole ‘Sisters’ program is actually Michael’s baby. So: are you with us, Marjorie Morningstar?”

“Why yes, I would love to be able to come.”

“Your presence is required. I will need that check from you.”

She searched her mind.

“I gave you the money order…”

“You certainly did, as a marker that lawfully secured your spot as a Shadow Drawing fundwinner. But the New York trip is only for those in the EAP — the Expedited Award Program. Marjorie Morningstar, I am remiss, and for that I apologize. I’m not sure what got into me. The New York trip certainly isn’t compulsory, by law. This award comes with no strings. And I didn’t bother explaining it because you seemed so comfortable here in Beverlywood, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure you’d be interested. Didn’t think you’d want to hop on a plane and go all the way to New York, which is a bit cold right now. I should never have assumed—”

“But I am, Lucas! I really would like to go.”

“Well, that is great. Because I for one would miss having you. Bonita’s coming, as you know, and it’s a pretty big and wonderful bunch — we’re gonna have ourselves a world class blast. Top o’ the world, Ma! Now, here’s precisely what it all means: those who’ve elected to participate in the EAP are entitled, again, by federal law, to receive their monies early, i.e., technically, at the exact moment wheels touch down on the runway in the great state of New York. By charter, those monies— ceremonially — must be given to you once we hit the tarmac. Because then, as our lawyers love to say, you’ve reached ‘sovereign soil,’ triggering what is called an ‘enrichment’—oh, they love having names for everything! — and all kinds of penalties accrue to the state if they do not make you ‘whole.’ I like to call it the Carpetbagger Clause! It’s actually a good thing, not just for the taxpayers of the State of New York but for the Blind Sisters as well. The tax implications are complex but I assure you favorable. The bottom line is that it’s contingent upon everyone who elects to enter the EAP to give the Superfund a check, pro forma, for a % of their windfall. It’s literally called a Windfall Pretax. Didn’t Bonita say — I’ll bet she did! she was about to burst! — didn’t she say that she was suddenly a million bucks or so richer?”