Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

There was no longer any sense, not that there had been in the first place, in keeping Marcus at the Bel-Air. Mr. Trotter hadn’t properly thought it through — the hotel was still a watering hole of the industry his son-in-law had once taken for his own. Though Marcus’s appearance had radically transformed since his show business days, the digger of course had recognized him at once, at his most ragged and obese; it only stood to reason that others, all the Burnham types, would follow suit as he shrank closer to his former dimensions.

A house in Montecito was secured. Marcus decamped with ear-piece’d retinue, and the Bel-Air lodgings were no more.

The old man now obediently turned his attention to a flurry of medical procedures thus far avoided. He was strapped to a chair while a needle poked about the small mass in his neck (for it had lazily returned) in an unpleasant and futile attempt to extract cells. After forty-five minutes, Mr. Trotter thought he might faint and said as much; the doctor stepped away with a flourish while of a sudden the chair went upside down with a great metallic whir so the blood could rush to his head. (He hadn’t been quite ready for that little trick.) All told, the frustrated man spent more than an hour trying to get what he needed — and what he needled — but, failing miserably, could do nothing but schedule an MRI. Mr. Trotter smiled on his way out in such a way that the medic felt he had undergone a nasty procedure himself.

Midweek and mid-December now, and all is weirdly well at the house on Saint-Cloud. For Trinnie, the swelling, so to speak, has gone down. She busies herself with the wandering garden, which has become a kind of obsession. The old woman has not yet taken to its winding path, but her daughter prepares for her arrival through daily diligence and micromanagement of fountain and flora, belying the fact that she herself has utterly lost her way. (It is the Trotters’ special gift to grow or build the family metaphors.) As for Bluey, she has calmed somewhat, Winter’s presence being no small reason. But the Icelander is adrift, shell-shocked by the change of venue. Mr. Trotter finally confirmed that the mystery condo was real; when he began to elaborate, she stopped him, as it would have been vulgar to evince curiosity. Still, his wife’s generous bequeathment made the days lighter and filled her with gratitude.

Drawing on “intelligences” gleaned from his kind patron, Marcus Weiner embarks on a sacred mission.

Around nine o’clock one chilly Wednesday morning, he leaves the 1930s Lutah Maria Riggs — designed Montecito aerie and sets out by chauffeured car for Boyle Heights, a rough, historic neighborhood not far east of the bridge that had once sheltered him. He does not look like the same man who left the Hotel Bel-Air as mysteriously as he arrived; he carries forty pounds less, and there’s a spring to both step and mind that is decidedly un-Victorian. A kind of contemporary reason has returned, along with memories of life before Gypsydom. The therapist has kept a watchful eye out for relapse. Ready to triage, she is lying in wait to cushion his fall when the classic epiphany comes: when the patient realizes the scope of all that has been robbed him and can never be recovered — time, tide and loved ones — but with Marcus, such frissons seem to come and go like trains at a station, leaving him sadder but wiser, morose but not marooned. (Mr. Trotter is unsurprised at his son-in-law’s stamina and resolve.) So today — this dreary, exalted Wednesday morning — our bighearted pilgrim is on a numinous journey, preapproved by all those concerned. His shrink would like him to corral that elusive nineties’ warhorse called closure; but he wishes simply to say good-bye.

And the boy? He has decided that if he cannot see his father, he will at least see Amaryllis. He called the detective to ask where she was; Toulouse had become seriously “proactive.” Samson stonewalled — any information about the girl or her whereabouts, he said, was confidential. Besides, he added, you kids caused enough trouble. He went on to say how cruel it was to expose a girl like that to so many luxuries; how it was his opinion the children had been selfish and condescending “from day one”; how the boy’s demands to see her—“your very tone in this conversation”—showed him to be selfish, impetuous and “entitled” still. In other words, the detective gave Toulouse a piece of his mind. Our hero did not feel at all well after their conversation and to make himself better, wrote the diatribe off as Samson’s spleen at being spurned.

The very same children the detective maligned now gather at Olde CityWalk for yet another in a series of pre-holiday feasts. As Christmas approaches, Stradella House is busy with charity lunches and dinners and the attendant tours, so it is not unusual for the cousins to look out the gingerbread window above the Boar’s Head Inn and see groups of strangers nosing about or passing by in special trams. (The Majestyk has screened It’s a Wonderful Life more than once to benefit Joyce’s Candlelighters.) Lucy is the only one who appears to relish the intrusions of the outside world, though Pullman never seems to mind the endless gaggle of awed spectators, who fuss over him as if he were a unicorn. On wintry nights, cobblestone backstreets fill with carolers and caterers’ torches and carriages pulled by draft horses; the scene is set for Lucille Rose to imagine it really is the London of H. G. Wells and his time machine, a London soon to be expanded upon by an irresistible series of mystery books to be known the world over simply as Blue Maze .

At Toulouse’s request, his braided cousin, who had tirelessly transcribed the orphan’s outpourings for future novelistic use, took to the Smythsonian archives and in no time at all located Amaryllis’s AWOL reference — the marble-hearted institution from which she had escaped. The infamous Mac (Lucy’s footnote: “short for MacLaren Children’s Center. In common usage”) was in a distant town called El Monte.

Toulouse suggested they call the place forthwith. Edward, shrouded in white linen and suffering nobly through a holiday pestilence of acne, barked that it was useless to ring the place up — they should board the MSV instead and hope for a sighting. They could lie in wait just as Amaryllis had outside Four Winds; with gull wings extended, the rescue party should be easy enough for the prisoner to spot (Edward as yet being unaware of the height of MacLaren’s walls). Better yet, they’d come bearing Yuletide gifts and offertories for the fucked-up little foundlings — a veritable Trojan Mauck.

“You know,” said Edward to his cousin, “we haven’t talked about this …” He waited until he had their full attention. “It’s actually pretty intense.”

Toulouse was thinking he was finally going to announce the date of his facial surgery.

“I haven’t told you either, Lucy.”

“Then tell us!” said the girl, with customary exasperation. “Just tell us, Edward.”

“Well … think back. To the day of our wonderful interrogation by the good detective Dowling. Now, if you recall, the detective was wondering … if the girl — Amaryllis — had ever been seen in the company of a certain bearded gentleman—” He swiveled his head toward his sister. “You’re supposed to be the author . You’re supposed to listen . Have Inspector Javert’s comments been forgotten?”

“Bearded?” said Toulouse. “I don’t remember him saying anything about a bearded—”

Lucy frantically flipped through her BIRD NOTES. “He’s right, he’s right! The detective asked if she was with someone — that first time we met … remember, Toulouse? He wanted to know if she was with someone when she came to Boulder’s movie set — here!” She reached a pertinent passage in the Smythsonian transcript: “ ‘A large-built bearded man …’ ”