Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

Marcus seized the opportunity to stroll into the light, where he took some restorative breaths and crouched beneath the theater’s overhanging marquee.

Toulouse came out moments later. “It’s OK — I don’t have to go home.”

“But your mother asked for you.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to go.”

“You mightn’t be so cavalier, Toulouse — if I may say it respectfully. She’s your mother and has done the best she could. Always has done that very thing: her best. Loves you deeply, boy. Has done much more than I.” The last said without a trace of self-pity.

He was not unaffected by his father’s words, and appeared resigned. Just then Eulogio materialized, jangling his keys at Toulouse and grinning like an ass. Meanwhile, Sling Blade revved up the Mauck for the drive back to Montecito.

“Son — would you say adieu to your cousins for me? They’re fine, fine children. That Edward is a heartbreaker! And Lucille — she’ll make an exceptional authoress, she will: big brain on her. You value them, don’t you, boy? They love you! They love you with everything they have, and that’s rare. But you give it back to them, don’t you? I know you do. You’ve a great gift that way. You’ve your mother’s gift.” He gathered his son to him, and Toulouse tucked his head into the brocaded vest. “I hope to see you again, son. I’m here now — I shan’t leave you.”

“Have you talked to Mother?”

“We’ve corresponded. But we have not seen each other.”

“Is she — was she mad — was she angry with you …”

“She was civil. She was — kind.” He bent on his knee to face the boy. “Thank you, Toulouse. Thank you for your courage, for coming to see me today. I am a very lucky man.”

He kissed him on the cheek, and the child wiped a tear as Marcus climbed into the Mauck. Lucy saw this last bit of business but with uncharacteristic restraint did not rush to her cousin, who watched his father pull away, preferring to step discreetly backward into the fastness of the movie palace instead.

Rather than return to Santa Barbara straightaway, Marcus had a request. He knew (because the old man had told him) of the famed Louis Trotter funerary commission; just as he knew of the parcel in Westwood where his benefactor would eventually make his “digs.” He was also aware that his driver was its general caretaker, and was curious about the place. But there was something more. Since the burial of Jane Scull, he had had a powerful, pointedly unmorbid desire to visit a graveyard, to loiter in a place twice removed from her tragedy, abstract enough to absorb his grief over all those lost to him.

At the moment Sling Blade was revealed by the ascending gull wing, Dot Campbell, in an outfit that worked much too hard to be called a leisure suit, charged at the errant employee, who had not even bothered this time to leave a scrap of paper behind explaining his absence. He took his scolding, then muttered the provenance of their guest; she was miraculously assuaged. The caretaker was then free to give Mr. Weiner a tour of the sanctuary, while his overlord graciously hung back.

Marcus spent a while pacing the grassy roof, so to speak, of the patriarch’s “last house.” When both roof and pacer had enough, Sling Blade vainly suggested that they examine the stones of various celebs; yet even Dorothy Stratten held insufficient allure. As a kind of consolation, his guide walked them to the furthermost real estate Joyce had purchased under Candlelighters’ aegis; then swore his guest to secrecy before divulging Mrs. Trotter’s mission. He held Mr. Weiner in thrall while weaving the peculiar tale of dumpster babies, identities unknown.

Marcus winced at the irony — if he would not come to potter’s field, potter’s field would come to him.

“Did you see your father?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he well?”

“He’s all right.”

“Did he say anything … weird?”

“No,” he said, displeased by her comment.

“Don’t get defensive,” she said, a little ruffled. “I guess it is pretty romantic — having a father return from the urban wild. The mental outback. I can’t compete with that.”

“I didn’t realize there was a competition,” he said frigidly. Silence, then: “Have you talked to him?”

He’d heard his father’s side and now wanted to hear hers.

“He wrote some letters — strange but sweet. I thought it best not to continue. It didn’t seem healthy.”

“He’s trying really hard. The pills seem to be working.”

“Good. Good for him.” She lit a cigarette and took the deepest inhalation he’d ever seen.

“You’re smoking again.”

“Toulouse, I just want you to be careful. You’re a big boy and he is your father … But we’re not talking about someone who has something that’s necessarily curable . I don’t want to see you hurt. Any more than you’ve been already.”

“I’m OK.”

“You’re OK now . The disease that your father has — is not something you can predict . There are relapses. And whatevers. And I just don’t want you to have false hopes. But you do what you like … And I’m not saying seeing him is wrong — I don’t want to give you a double message, which I guess is what I’m doing. It’s just that … we don’t know if he’ll be here when we wake up.”

“Will you ?” Her jaw tightened. “You’ve been traveling a lot lately. And you’re smoking again.”

“You’re not my jailer. Look,” she said contritely. “I didn’t even want to talk to you about any of this.” She took another long, fidgety drag. “And that girl is staying with a social worker.”

“Girl?—”

“The girl ,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Amaryllis. The woman gave me her e-mail, if you want to write.”

Tull added lanimottCASA@hotmail.com to his computer’s address book but went no further. He didn’t even tell the cousins. His birthday was at the end of the month, and he toyed with the idea of inviting her, as a surprise. The appearance of his father in his life had only heightened his desire to “do right” by Amaryllis; it seemed capricious and immoral to leave her behind like so much memory roadkill. He was glad he had set her rediscovery into motion. But words and courage would not come, and he let a week pass before sending the following:

From: “Toulouse Trotter”

To: “Amaryllis”

Subject: No Subject

to whom it may concern,

is this the home of amaryllis kornfeld? i was given this e-address by my mother, katrina trotter. i believe she spoke personally to whoever is on the other end. my name is toulouse trotter and amaryllis is a friend.

is she currently living there? thank you

Lani was charmed but a little nervous about passing the message on.

Not long ago, Detective Dowling, in his steadfast role of liaison, had called to give the most amazing account of her foster daughter’s high-end layover in the Westside world. Lani, needless to say, was thunderstruck by Amaryllis’s society connections. But the new mother, still very much finding her way with her fragile, complicated ward, was initially hesitant to help the children connect the dots. †

But how, one may wonder, did the orphan effect her transition to the Motts’ comfy Franklin Hills home? Here, for once, the author will make a long story short.

It has already been noted that the idea of adoption formed early in the head of the baker’s wife, as a consequence of her dressing-down by the man who once went by the name of William; she had begun the three-month foster-care-licensing process forthwith. As a CASA, Lani already had an inside track, and her supervisor helped her through the rough patches. Soon after accreditation, a “walk-on hearing” was arranged whereby notice was given to the Department regarding the request for immediate placement of the child, Amaryllis Kornfeld, with foster parents, namely Gilles and Lani Karoubian-Mott, who were, as interested parties both formally and informally attested, loving and caring professionals, not to mention college grads. The court agreed to release the child to the Mott household pending the longer process of adoption, which would likely remain uncontested and be expedited by public counsel.