Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

“He was an extraordinary boy.”

Her voice was beginning to lilt and dip like a bird on wing; it was contagious.

“And how is our — how is Toulouse bearing up?”

“All right, I think. Thank God he and Lucy have each other.”

“A marvelous girl, that. So perspicacious.”

“Neither has experienced a death before. With you … it was different. I told Toulouse from an early age—” She stopped herself, not wishing to repeat what she’d already written in a letter. Besides, it was gauche.

“I’m so sorry about all of it, Trinnie.” He amended himself by saying, “Katrina.” Then: “I’m sorry about it all the time.”

“No, please. I didn’t mean to sound callous.”

“Not at all, not at all.”

“With what happened to their grandmother … well, it’s been a difficult year. And it’s not half over.”

A pause.

“You look well! You look fit.”

“They work me out all right up here. Still a ways to go though, still a ways to go. There’s a marvelous gymnasium on the other side of the property, overlooking the pool. I’ve had my share of time in that body of water. Do you swim?”

“Oh yes.”

“It’s marvelous. I’m dropping stones on a daily basis.” Pause. “I meant to say pounds. How is your father bearing up? I’ve been worried — haven’t seen or spoken to him. He was quite close to the boy, no?”

“It’s a bit of a mess.”

“In what way?”

“He didn’t come.”

“Come?”

“To the funeral.”

“I can’t imagine!—”

“I suppose you haven’t heard.”

“He’s ill?”

“No. There was a bit of controversy — over the placement of the grave , of all things.”

“How strange!”

“It’s one of those awful, ridiculous family things. I’m sure it will make its way to the A&E biography.”

The reference was lost on him, but he let it rest.

There was a long pause.

“Are you certain you wouldn’t like me to cook you something?”

“I really shouldn’t stay.”

“It’d be no trouble.”

“That’s all right.”

“Not even a salad? You’re sure, now?”

“No thanks.”

“Yesterday I made a pot of turkey chowder; don’t know exactly why , but I was very much in the mood. The réchauffé ’s always better, no? Wouldn’t take but a minute—”

“I should probably get back.”

“Well — it was good of you to come.”

“Goodness had nothing to do with it. As they say.”

“I’m glad you did anyway.”

“I’m not sure what we do now — where we go from here.”

“As my half-dozen psychiatrists would urge me to say: ‘I think that’s OK.’ ”

They had a laugh. They stood and he awkwardly shook her hand. Not much voltage there — none of the anarchic, voluptuous ardor that a death sometimes confers in its wake. Still, Trinnie felt herself cleave toward family, the sacramental, primal pull of blood.

They walked in silence along the side of the house until reaching her car.

“Did you ever hear that saying about answered prayers?”

“No,” he said, curious.

“I think it was Saint Theresa — according to Truman Capote, anyway.” She groped for the quote. “ ‘More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones.’ Or something like that.”

“Is that what I am, Katrina?” he asked, callow and open-faced. “An answered prayer?”

She smiled, with kindness and sorrow. “More a forgotten one, Marcus. I wonder if anyone ever said anything about tears shed over prayers that were forgotten.”

There may be those who feel the transformation of Marcus Weiner improbably contrived (though it is hoped the cynical reader would have long since abandoned our tale). For the skeptic who has held on, stubborn as he is dubious, the author merely suggests — for nothing is being sold here — that there is ample precedent to Mr. Weiner’s awakening and that the precedent has a name: Mystery. †We will leave it at that.

The day of the funeral, Marcus kept an appointment he thought would not be fitting to cancel. Besides, he could be of no solace to his son moping around the Santa Barbara estate. The men in suits knew how to reach him and had an explicit directive to do so should Toulouse need his counsel or company.

When Trinnie saw him stepping from the Town Car, he had just returned from an emotional reunion with none other than Amaryllis Kornfeld.

It has been noted that on Samson’s Montecito visits, Marcus used to inquire after the girl — and was delighted when the detective eventually called to say she was living in the home of his old friend the baker. He felt guilty about not having replied to Gilles Mott’s kind note while in jail — and over his shabby treatment of Mrs. Mott, too. After all, the man had been faultlessly generous in providing sustenance in food and moneys, which in turn allowed Marcus to feed that poor soul and her brood. Now fate had decreed that Amaryllis be properly with them — just as “Topsy” had wished all along. He owed the couple a debt and was, naturally, anxious to visit his onetime ward. He owed her , too, for she had been as an angelic tutor, rousing and nurturing in him all the feelings he now had for his discovered son.

Much as the children had been, Marcus was of course astounded to learn the connection between Amaryllis and the Trotter kids; yet because so much of his life had seemed, and still seemed, a dream, it struck him as being perfectly right. He thanked the detective for enlightening him, and was glad he’d been told before Edward had brought it up.

At the risk of further complication (from which the author has never shied), it is important to note that Amaryllis had herself not yet been apprised of “Topsy’s” tortuous connection to the Trotter familia; as a stipulation of his being allowed e-mail privileges, Trinnie had forbidden her son to share the revelation. She said things were already messy enough. When a date for a rendezvous had been set, Lani called Marcus to reiterate that he was not to bring any of it up, just yet — they would tell their foster daughter in time.

Marcus had other concerns; he wondered if the child even remembered him. Lani assured that since being told of the impending visit, “Topsy” had been very much in the girl’s thoughts. Yet with youngsters, she added, one never really knew.

That afternoon Marcus sported the same staid, bespoke ensemble worn for court appearances. When he stepped from the car, he was concerned that his formality might be misinterpreted as high-handed. Gilles rushed out to greet him, dispelling all worries with a deep-dish hug. He explained that Lani and Amaryllis had taken Felix to the vet after the cat had “got into” some flea-control gel. He was in the middle of cooking, or at least midwifing, a meal Lani had begun — and quickly enlisted a neighbor to watch the stove while they dashed to the bakery. Gilles said he’d forgotten something.

“Fancy!” he said, getting a load of the Lincoln and its driver.

“Don’t have a license yet — Mr. Trotter’s been kind enough to allow me use of the car. Shall we avail ourselves?”

“Hell, yes! Let’s avail away! Always knew you’d make it to the top, William!” He hesitated. “Shouldn’t call you that, huh?”

“William’s fine.”

“No — you’re Marcus . But Amaryllis still calls you Topsy.”

“Does she?” He smiled, pleased that she called him anything at all.

“Well, let’s hurry — they should be home before too long. Don’t want to keep ’em waiting!”

They climbed in the Town Car and wound toward Beverly Boulevard, Gilles hamming it up like they were a float in the Rose Bowl parade. The chauffeur pulled into the alley behind Frenchie’s, right around where he’d left off the orphan girl nearly a year ago. Marcus loitered halfway between car and dumpster while the baker went in. For a moment, he had that hunted feeling and needed to remind himself he was no longer a wanted man. He almost went inside for old times’ sake but thought better of it; Gilles emerged holding a soiled pink box tied with thin white string.