Bruce Wagner - Memorial

On her mother’s nightstand, a tidy stack: The Life and Works of Jesus in India, The Da Vinci Code: The Illustrated Edition, The Automatic Millionaire, and Die Rich and Tax Free! Joan smiled when she saw a picturebook of the Taj Mahal, and decided to bring that along; maybe they’d make the trip afterall. Is that her consolation prize for the beating? You wretched cunt? You are such a cunt. Who are you who are you who are you—

It took longer to find the addressbook. The fortune cookie adage was indeed tucked within. Tiny lottery numbers — the last digit altered by Mom’s quivery cursive — were printed beneath: LOVE IS AROUND THE CORNER.

WHEN she returned to Midway, the detective was already talking with Marj — though it was hard to understand her through the clenched jaw — who was propped on pillows, and seemed animated, enjoying the company of a gentleman. Joan shook his hand then kissed her mother on the forehead and showed off the little suitcase she’d retrieved. (The same one Marj had packed for New York.) She pulled out the addressbook too, with a corny magician’s flourish, eliciting a broad, pained smile; then set everything down beside the chair. Joan noticed the IV had backed up with blood and rang for a nurse. Just then, the old woman was brought a liquid supper. (The fracture had been scheduled for repair tomorrow afternoon.) Joan said she was going to have a talk with her “gentleman caller” and would be right back. A volunteer, close to Marj’s age, helped arrange the tray on an overhanging bed table.

Detective Whitsell had a folder with a few phony documents Marj had been given by the people who had drained her savings, and assaulted her — he was convinced they were one and the same group. He shared everything he’d been able to piece together to date, which, in such a short time, seemed quite a bit: the initial, elaborate “Blind Sister” lottery scam; the “reload,” where Mrs Herlihy was asked to virtually empty her accounts; the “recovery room,” with an FBI twist, promising justice and restitution — the victim even brazenly asked to participate in capturing those who defrauded her; and finally, the blackmailing that began with the impersonation of Joan herself, the chaotic traffic accident and “miscarriage,” the superfluous on-scene personal injury attorney, and so forth, ending with the robbery of precious jewels and aberrantly sadistic beating of the helpless mark. The detective had only meager remnants of the gang’s handiwork (he’d worked a case 10 months ago that bore a striking resemblance) — receipts and other effluvia tucked in Marjorie’s pocketbook; she’d handed them over when he arrived — and doubted that a search of the house would reveal much more because the team would have wisely erased the paper trail, covering their evidentiary tracks. They were very, very good.

Joan hyperventilated as she listened, unable to suppress her rage and her soul sickness. She told Detective Whitsell that she had spoken with the lady at the “bank” and been completely fooled. He said the gang excelled at “phonework,” even using sound effects to make it seem like they worked out of large agencies or offices. He called them “stormchasers,” elaborating how they exploited any form of natural disaster or human weakness. For example, he knew that a splinter gang associated with the group that fleeced her mother was still working Katrina, siphoning money from bogus Web sites. “You can’t tell their homepages from the Red Cross’s. Some are Aryan Brotherhood, believe it or not— extremely well done. They’ve got viral embeds: click on ‘Hurricane Rebuild Update’ then Zap! your personal info is history. Your identity’s gone and you’ll never get it back. One guy set up a site before the storm hit Louisiana! (They should have made him head of FEMA.) Other scams are a little ‘dirtier,’ like the Nigerian stuff we see, the ‘419s.’ Misspellings, boldface pleas for money — is it boldface or baldface? — it’s baldfaced, right? — ‘I lost everything including my wife.’ That sort of deal. I’ve even heard of crews going down there to pick through garbage. And I don’t mean Mardi Gras ‘krewes.’ What they’re looking for are water-logged bank statements, Social Security cards, driver’s licenses, and the like. Hell, a buddy of mine caught one up at Lindy Boggs — the hospital? They go right in the nursing homes and pick through patient records. It’s pretty much beyond the pale.

“But we have individuals out here who are just as imaginative. You might have read about a fellow in the paper who gave a donation of a hundred-and-12,000,000 to a little college in Northern California. They were so thrilled, they gave him a 1st edition of The Origin of Species —and arranged for the guy to be blessed by the Pope! A convicted felon! Of course, the pledges turned out to be completely spurious. The human animal has a primal need to believe. It’s very important to believe, and there are folks out there who take advantage of that. I think it was St Mary’s — St Mary’s College. So at least your mom’s in good company.”

SHE stayed overnight at the hospital. Barbet stopped by. They had coffee in the cafeteria and commiserated.

After he left, she watched television while her mother slept. The usual reports of bombings, bird flu, and mass burials; anchors spoke of Death’s details — always sketchy and sexily half-baked, like a stairwell dry hump — with a breathy, erotic edge to their voices. She zoned out and tried to read. It was after 10. There was a segment about a former TV journalist who’d recovered from cancer and now devoted his life to helping others who were disabled or trying to recover from catastrophic illnesses. The feature ended with a visit to a quadraplegic who spoke with the aid of a synthesizer. When the retired newsman asked the quad how he would now describe his life, the electronic voicebox replied, “I — am — happy — always.”

She thought of Mom’s fortune cookie (love is around the corner) and collapsed in silent tears.

SHE punched in the destination — Detective Whitsell was kind enough to get her the exact address — and followed the yellow brick Mercantile Road to the City of Industry.

It was funny to her that a robotic female voice (I am happy always. Love is around the corner) guided her from point A to point B, point B to point C, and so on. The Woman was relentless and unwavering, automatically lowering the volume of her CD (a haunting Rachmaninoff chorale) to tell her to hold fast to this or that lane of this or that freeway; the Woman cut into phone conversations like a switchboard gossip, ordering Joan to exit, turn left, go a quarter of a mile to this street or avenue, keep right —a warmly disembodied automatrice, shepherding a 4-ton machine over subex-urban grids until Joan reached the heart of the heart of the matter, the apartment complex fixed in ever-mutable nonnegotiable space and time where her supposed biological father allegedly resided, reverse paternity, aging mitochondrial DNA/GPS entity, who, like Mom, had recently been assaulted (unwarranted warrants) under true/false colors of authority, all interchangeable now, good cop/bad cop neverending.

The Woman said, “Your destination is ahead on the right. Your route guidance is now complete,” and Joan laughed.

Oh, is it really?

She scoped her father’s building then turned tail. Found a liquor store and bought Marlboro Lights, a Diet Coke, and a jumbo bag of Lay’s chips (she hadn’t smoked in 5 years). Sat in the car listening to Rachi then shut it down for a reality check. The symphonic backdrop for her own personal opera was overkill.