Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

Marcus wasn’t overly concerned by his wife’s prolonged absence. Always careful not to make demands, he had resolved to calmly subjugate himself to her moods. He thought it best to maintain an attitude that at least on its surface was High Victorian laissez-faire.

He took to visiting the Westwood cemetery on a daily basis. It was a decent walk from his Cañon Drive home, and he enjoyed the sloping stretch of Wilshire Boulevard that bisected the country club. Sometimes you could see deer behind the fence butting heads.

He befriended Dot Campbell, who found him winning, and a great comfort. †His sartorial style reminded her of Mr. Trotter’s in that it was a tad antiquated — a “bespoke” lapel, golden fob or the unusual cut of a pocket amicably connoting another era (she wasn’t always sure which). Sometimes he came with Toulouse, but more often he was alone, and strolled the grounds scrutinizing stones and taking the air. He occasionally knelt to read an inscription but was not one of those tedious hobbyists who with paper and charcoal make imprints of headstone faces.

Marcus often walked alongside the caretaker while the latter performed his duties, and sometimes (though Dot frowned on it) the burly companion assisted with a rake. He was happy to talk with Sling Blade about the old man, and it seemed to relieve them both of pent-up sorrows. Marcus was especially intrigued by the Candlelighters’ parcel, with its whirling grave markers — he counted more than twenty now. He never failed to brush Edward’s plaque with the tips of his fingers and say, “Sleep well, son. Sleep well.”

Invariably, he ended his visit with a walk to where the digger lay. There was no memorial as yet, but that wasn’t what disturbed him (for even the portraits of the founders of William Morris bore no names). The man had spent so many years imagining a monument, and Trinnie would soon make her decision — but how? By what lights? And who had the right? Perhaps they should just leave things as they were, he thought. Perhaps in the end it was best that Mr. Trotter take a note from the Candlelighters and join his grandson in oblivion.

Whenever he left that place, always in dusky hour, when a chill stole through the gate, Marcus felt no peace — and was certain that it did not bode well for the migrant, entrepreneurial spirit of his dear, departed benefactor.

“Doddie?”

“Mother! Hello—”

“Doddie, I’m so glad I reached you!”

“Are you OK? Is everything OK?”

“Yes, yes, wonderful! Where — where are you?”

“I’m on my way to India, Mother.”

“India!”

“Can you believe it?”

“How wonderful!”

“I’ll only be gone a few days.”

“A few days! But why on earth India ?”

“We have factories there. Quincunx has factories there.”

“Well now, that’s really something.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m clear today!”

“That’s so great. You sound wonderful.”

“I’m not afraid today! And Winter’s here — she’s been so marvelous.”

“Winter’s a terrific lady.”

“I haven’t been the hostess with the mostess. In fact, I’ve been a royal pain in the you-know-what!”

“She understands, Mother. She understands … God, it’s so great to talk to you like this. To hear you sounding so—”

“I can talk, you know. People seem to have written me off.”

“No one’s written you off. That would be an impossibility.”

“Doddie …”

“What is it, Mother?”

“Doddie, I know that Louis isn’t here. That my dear Louis is gone.”

“Did one of the nurses tell you that?”

“No, no. There are certain things a person doesn’t have to be told. And I say: what’s so great about this little blue planet anyway, that’s what I say! Doddie, did I tell you that marvelous little aphorism of Winter’s? God is wringing his hands. He’s sitting on a bench in the clouds, wringing his hands. ‘I’m in love with an atheist,’ he says, tears streaming down his cheeks onto that long white beard. ‘I’m in love with an atheist who lives in New York — but she doesn’t even know I exist!’ Isn’t that marvelous, Doddie?”

“It’s a wonderful joke.”

“It’s not a joke, it’s an aphorism.”

“I laugh every time you tell it.”

“Oh, don’t be so stupid.”

“I’ll come see you, soon as I get back. Thursday, all right? I’ll bring you something, would you like that? I’ll bring you a sari.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Mother? I didn’t hear you. What did you—”

“I’m so sorry, said she, but we’re not accepting saris today.”

He laughed. “It’s great to hear you like this. To hear your sense of humor again.”

“Doddie, how are we fixed for cash?”

“We’re fine, Mother.”

“I don’t want you spending all your money on that plane.”

“Can’t happen.”

“Why don’t you get rid of that plane and fly American Airlines?”

“I actually save money with the jet, Mother.”

“Oh.”

“So I don’t want you to worry.”

“Doddie — there’s something I read in the paper — while I have you on the phone … did you hear about Lillian Hammersmith? A glorious dancer. Friend of Alice’s — Astor. Had a house in Rhinebeck, one of those fancy places high on a hill. I always wanted your father to buy in Rhinebeck, but he was obsessed with the Adirondack ‘style,’ had to have his Great Camp. But, my God , Hudson Valley was grand. So green, so stately! Alice had fireplaces in the bathrooms, and that , I think, is the greatest luxury known to man. If you stood in the backyard, you could see the Roosevelts on one side and the Stuyvesants on the other.”

“Mother? I’m sorry, I didn’t … what was the last thing you said?”

“Ninety -two she was, poor Lillian. That’s marvelous genes, isn’t it? A great , great friend of Bill’s — and Tennessee’s — and Cecil and Evelyn too. They were all at Rhinebeck. Well as you can imagine I was deeply impressed. I was barely twenty-five!”

“Little hard to hear you, Mother. Connection isn’t good.”

“The Times didn’t say how she passed away — at that age, they never do! It’s considered poor form. But it seems she held on to her money, and I’m glad for that. Doddie …”

“Yes, Mother? I can hear you now.”

“There’s someone else who passed on.”

He was certain now that she knew about Edward too, and girded himself to respond.

“Do you remember Bluey Trotter? Née Twisselmann, of the Pittsburgh Twisselmanns? She married Louis Trotter, the Bel-Air waste-removal king.”

“Mother?”

“Doddie, can you hear me?”

“Yes—”

“Because I know how busy you are …”

“I’m not busy at all. I just couldn’t understand what you—”

“ Bluey Trotter née Twisselmann . Have you already heard?”

“Heard what, Mother?”

“She passed, Doddie! And so young. Well, relatively — do you remember her? We all seem to have lost touch. I wanted you to know before you read about it or heard it from a stranger.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Don’t be stupid, Doddie! You’re always so stupid!”

“Is Winter there?”

“I’m telling you that she passed . But I know how busy you are.”

“Mom, can you please put Winter on?”

“I’ll let you go, dear. You take care now, Puddin’-head.”

“Can you just let me talk to Winter a second?”