Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

But not here: not at Saint-Cloud. This one, shaped like a Fabergé egg, was without artifice, a final, transcendent maze for the ages (you’ll excuse the author when he says it didn’t hedge). Mr. Trotter had been after her to grow one forever, but understood his daughter’s reticence — it was too close to home or, rather, too close to where home might have been: the virid mother of all maze and meadow, La Colonne Détruite. How could she ever top what had pulled the world from under her?

At the unveiling of the Saint-Cloud labyrinth (for the forty-odd months it took to sufficiently mature, Trinnie kept the magical grid sequestered by a Christo-like muslin curtain), the old man couldn’t help but think the end was near — that father and daughter had completed their tomb — and began to regret the commission.

For years, she had barely managed to stay on deck; her body clock stormily ticked maritime. She knew the marriage to drugs and hospitals (she cheated on one with the other) was bottom-line tawdry: just another circle-of-hell party girl. What was she really in the grip of? a man? a phantom? a middle-class fantasia? — was that what murdered her? But how? Yes, she adored her husband. She was certain — convinced — that her love— their love — matched, gale force, the greatest loves in the history of the love-long world. Then came that silly, horrifying, Dickensian thing— that deformed moment — absurd old literary saw come to life replete with falling-down Havishamian villa — except in Trinnie’s case, there was a marriage … so which was worse? Perhaps all of it, all the heartbreak and weirdness, was merely her excuse for a fabulous thirteen-year debauch. Before him — even before Marcus — hadn’t her body longed to be fucked and held, honey’d, moneyed and opiated? Wasn’t she always this way? From nowhere came this dream of domestic life — such as it was — the old Carcassone dream … a cockeyed, hillside family life. He was crazier than her, and smarter too, and that was new and it calmed her. Trinnie could see herself settling down — and then, when he vanished … — yet how could she have done that to her precious son? She with her Year of the Pig heart, vast as the sea? It was one thing to torment her dad; Louis was a digger, a scarab, a burrower who could book his own passage. And Bluey — well, Bluey never suffered, at least not conventionally. Trinnie envied her for that. But Tull! — small, living thing, with scrunchy bones and soft smelly feet, who loved her, a wizardly child she made, then abandoned. That kind of cruelty was a dissolution sidebar; she felt like a pervert. When he needed her, when he cried and hated and wet his bed for her, she lay in the arms of jackals with pleasure palaces, jet-flown to inconceivable houses in every place on earth — Moroccan hunting lodges and Vietnamese retreats, lava-island belvederes and ranches in Tulum, festive cottages in Mustique, Compass Point flats and Christchurch aeries, sprawling pavilions in Biarritz and Jaipur, Chamonix and Amazonia, Negril, Margaret River, Lake Como, Faux-Cap, Madagascar — until, stoned and panicky, she moved on — to spa and hotel, monasteries and rainy sacred ground — and on — posh sanatoria (at one three-week stint, she found herself at the castellated Priory arranging flowers beside General Pinochet) — and when her son was dying for her, or when he was laughing with friends and not even thinking of her, she sat in the wide dayrooms of Hazelden or The Meadows listening to tales of woe from athletes and drunks, cabbageheads and kings. And for what? A sailor now fallen from grace, she walked slowly to dock and stood over, looking down on gelatinous waters. The perorations of those rooms would soon be — must be — drowned by the waiting sea.

She heard heavy breathing and the staccato crush of pebble under paw and looked up. Pullman charged, then, as if bowing for a minuet, adroitly backed off. He licked her hand and lay down like a griffin. Now, more crush of stone, with approach of a slower gait. Her son appeared, face flushed, a ragamuffin who looked like his ears had been boxed by the yew.

“Tull?” She stood. “What is it, darling?”

He inhaled, gathering ragged lungfuls, then stormed her, clutching and kneading her fashionable waist. That tiny, desperate, expensive waist … his small-mouthed frame shook, keened and bellowed, and for a moment she was afraid — for both of them — and even Pullman was roused, coming over to sniff the boy.

Abashed, she stroked her son’s head while he wept; the dog looked Trinnie square in the eye as if to shame her.

That night, in the exotic fortress of the Withdrawing Room, she told him everything.

Tull refused to sit. He stood throughout, as if enduring a reprimand in the study of the Four Winds headmaster. He didn’t feel at all well. Only hours ago, he had been at the school library searching on-line for the St. George Motel in blissful denial, mooning over Amaryllis; he fantasized trolling downtown streets in Mauck or Escalade until the girl was found. Yet his daydream had been overtaken by a combustible sense of urgency, and at the final bell, he fled campus, feeling Lucy’s ambivalent eyes on his back. He walked to the beach, then took a cab home from Shutters before finding his mother in the maze.

He stood before them — Trinnie and Grandpa Lou — chin quivering, jutting ticcishly forward so that it looked like Edward’s. (The impersonation comforted him.) He was oddly remorseful for having pursued any of this now — as if caught in one of those dreams where one feels like a patient trapped in some sort of nefarious clinic.

His grandfather paced languorously before the Piranesi backdrop, hands clasped behind him, suppressing a chuff, pretending to study the detail of his maquettes (he paused an inordinately long time before the Sir Norman Foster) while actually listening with great intensity to his beloved Katrina. Earlier in the afternoon, he’d been at the cemetery when Epitacio walked over to hand him the phone; an opportune time, to be sure, for at that very moment Dot was upon him, eager to impart a bit of recently gleaned pop paranoia. He waved her off with a cadaverous smile, which Sling Blade, raking leaves behind them, thought amusing. Without ceremony, Mr. Trotter climbed into the car and sped off.

As they made their way to Bel-Air, he listened to his daughter’s voice through the receiver, a voice he hardly recognized — deliberate and sorrowful, a slow elegy for brass. He had always known one day that his grandson Toulouse would come into “a piece of intelligence” and that it would be Trinnie’s duty to make full disclosure, the one responsibility from which he would not abide her run. Trinnie knew as much and long dreaded it. She would do what she had to, and if accounts were not settled, then at least the books would be opened — here, now.

Her mother, tipped off by Mr. Trotter, was initially averse to such overheated summitry — then indifferent. She elected to sit in bed with Winter, organizing the album of obits.

Trinnie looked dazed but sat erect. Her gown was abraded and still bore dust from when she chased her son as he fled the maze. Her long, pale arms were scratched; even her face had been smacked by tough little leaves. At first, still worrying her waist with small, slender hands, Tull stopped crying long enough to ask if his father was alive. When Trinnie said no, he pushed her over and sprinted. Pullman ran interference as she chased after — well, this was too much! She took off her shoes and swatted the Dane, shoving the animal aside with an oath more than once. Ralph loomed from the terrace in a rage over actors-turned-directors, and it wasn’t long before he saw something was amiss. Trinnie pushed him away, too, and he stood to one side with the chastened Pullman, partnered. She pinned her son to the ground, shouting at him to be still. By now, the entire staff — a disapproving Winter included — gathered to watch from afar. The boy wriggled but was quiet enough to hear her say that she would tell him what he wanted to know after supper. First they must eat, she said. And Grandpa would have to be there; she would need to call him. She took Tull to the house and gave him water. She felt ruffled and terrified and strangely empty, because she was about to be unburdened. (She did not feel like swallowing a drink or a pill.) She told him to take a warm bath. She would see him again in Grandpa’s study, she said, at eight o’clock. It was now a quarter past that hour.