Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

Louis Trotter, for all his end-point obsessions, was for life . He was always on the loamy side of life; he had dug the earth for its living riches and would keep on digging to provide for his grandchildren and their children, too — yet in this instance the boy’s wizardry had transformed the old man into a ghoulish handmaiden. This was a sudden, unwelcome fillip given his heretofore charming role as “afterlife hobbyist,” and he felt some guilt because of it. Had he really imagined that his years-long pursuit of a resting place (the mention of which family members assiduously avoided) would go unnoticed by this most brilliant and fragile boy? They were closer than kin that way; Edward, in his superior fashion, had simply made his grandfather do the legwork.

On the day already discussed, the boy left his collection of “memorabilia” with Grandpa Lou, and while he hadn’t looked at them since, he often revisited the events of that afternoon. They had been distracted by the infernally meddlesome Dot Campbell, who’d prattled on about talk shows and orphan diseases; Mr. Trotter pretended to be irritated but was secretly relieved, for the gracious child had been unbearably poignant and he needed to step away. He let out a string of chuffs and walked over to Sling Blade to arrange for the caretaker to accompany the kids on their one and only group field trip to La Colonne.

He had never followed up on their discussion, and it nagged him that his grandson might be planning a “dramatic” exit. But he didn’t know how to follow up on such complicity; he loved that boy and respected him and knew he was doomed, just as he himself was doomed. (As were we all.) Edward had sung his graveside song with such profound elegance and economy that — well, it wasn’t the old man’s style to hand him a pep talk or send him to therapy, as his mother would have done. Who could ever really know how that child suffered? So he let it go. Whenever he saw Edward, at school events or family dinners, there was a wantonness between them, the shorthand charisma of a very married couple who had made their vows on the Day of the Dead.

He ruminated on it as Epitacio drove him from Cedars to the Westwood Village Memorial Park. On the car phone, the doctor said the MRI results were inconclusive. They would need to shoot dye through an artery and see what they could see. Mr. Trotter was surprised that with all the fancy equipment, there was still no clear resolution — so to speak.

Sling Blade, who was raking leaves near the Candlelighters’ parcel, ran over when he saw him stepping from the Rolls.

“What happened?” asked Mr. Trotter as he approached with more than a little speed.

Sling Blade went blank.

“You never told me what happened!”

“You mean—”

“I mean with Mr. Weiner!” he said with great annoyance. “What do you think I mean?”

“Oh! Yessir!” he said bashfully. Then he leaned on his rake and remembered. “Well, we went there, sir.”

“To Boyle Heights,” he prompted.

“Yessir.”

“And there’s a large cemetery there …”

“Yessir.”

“Was it the old Jewish one?” †

“I don’t know, sir. We didn’t go there , anyway. We went to the other one, next door.”

“I see.” He stroked his chin, already intrigued.

“We went inside — there was a book there. And her name was written in it.”

“A book?”

“Yessir. More like a ledger.”

“A ledger ,” he said, fascinated. “With ‘Jane Scull’ written down …”

“ Scall . It was a misprint. Your friend — Mr. Weiner mentioned it, but I don’t think they’ll do anything about it.”

“And then?”

“He went and paid his respects.”

“Went over to the grave ?” The old man chuffed and strained at the caretaker’s appalling dearth of detail.

“Yessir. Kneeled down. Had his book with him.”

“What book?”

“You know — that book he got when I took him to the shelter. The Nowhere book.”

“And the grave?”

“The grave, sir?”

“Man, tell me! What was the grave like? Describe the headstone!”

“Headstone? Oh no, sir — there was nothing like that.”

“No headstone?”

“No sir. They don’t do it like that there.”

“Then how do they do it?” he asked imperiously.

“With little markers on the ground. Little markers with the year written on them.”

“The year? Just the year?”

“Yessir.”

“Just the year? And no names?”

“It’s all grass, just like this.” He pointed to the cemetery flats. “No names or headstones — just little markers with the year.”

Mr. Trotter seemed shocked at the simplicity of the concept, and again set to stroking his chin. He then reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a gold money clip whose teeth clamped onto a sheaf of hundreds like a feral dog’s. He loosened a few bills and palmed them toward Sling Blade.

“No, sir, not today,” said the caretaker, retreating.

“And why?”

“It’s all right, sir.”

“Don’t be a fool!”

“I can’t, sir, not today.”

“Is it your pride?”

“No, sir—”

“But I didn’t pay you for the day you drove him there! I don’t like people doing things for free. Now take it!”

“Sir, something happened,” he said, still stepping back, head hung low. “It was my fault, and I didn’t tell you about it. And I don’t want to take your money.”

“Happened? What happened?”

“The boy, sir — Toulouse. He went along.”

“He went what?—”

Epitacio started in their direction; the old man’s posture had turned apoplectic enough to hint at a return trip to the diagnostic center whence they had come.

“It was a mistake, sir — a game, he said. He was hiding in the Mauck.”

“Hiding?”

“Climbed in, evidently, when I picked up the truck at Stradella. Hid in the cabinet the whole way, sir! Didn’t even know he was there till we got where we were going. Then he asked me to send him home in a taxi, but I wouldn’t let him, sir, no sir, so he stayed on. Sat in the front seat.”

“My God. Did they speak?”

“Who, sir?” (The old man had forgotten the caretaker was in the dark.) “You mean, Mr. Weiner and the boy? Why no, sir, they didn’t. But he was terribly upset.”

“The boy?”

“Why no, sir — Mr. Weiner was. Over his loss. Cried all the way to Santa Barbara. Never stopped! I don’t think he even noticed the boy.”

“Now, isn’t that something!—”

The old man scratched his chin, which was, to Sling Blade’s observation, auspicious.

“But the boy was very respectful, sir, I’ll say that. You would have been proud.” He nodded his head, saying more than he knew. “ Honored the man, very much so. Honored him.”

“That little son of a bitch.” Mr. Trotter grew contemplative before shrugging his shoulders. “Well — I suppose there’s no stopping him … a stowaway !”

“My fault, sir. Should’ve checked. But, you see, I’d left the kids only two minutes before. I was sure they were all still in that room when I—”

Both caretaker and chauffeur were surprised to see his scowl replaced by a leprechaun’s grin, ear to ear. A laugh issued forth that neither had heard before; like a bee to nectar drawn, Dot Campbell dive-bombed from a hundred yards. Epitacio hustled to shut the door after the old man, who had jauntily climbed in front. As Dot came in for a landing, he uncharacteristically ordered his driver to brake.

“Hello, Mrs. Campbell!” he said, convulsed.

“Hello, Mr. Trotter! Happy mood today?”