Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

“But wouldn’t it be fun,” said Joyce, “having your old grade school named after you? I think it’d be a hoot.”

Hoot was a word Trinnie loathed. Though she did think her sister-in-law looked particularly becoming, sort of the way she remembered Claire Bloom — sexy in that rock-hard cold-mountain-stream sort of way. All the primping and preening had paid off; tonight, the skin and hair stars were definitely in alignment.

“Oh,” said Dodd. “I think that was bogus — you know, something that popped into Marcie’s head. She doesn’t have any say about that. The district would never consent.”

Trinnie fidgeted with her South Sea pearls. She wore a marabou-trimmed cardigan and a crocheted halter dress as green as her eyes; piercing her brother with the latter, she said, “You hated that school.”

“But why would he?” interjected Bluey. “It was wonderful . And that wonderful Dr. Janklow!”

“Yes,” chuffed Louis. “Extraordinary. Wonderful educator. Sensitive man. We had him to the house for dinner.”

“He came to dinner because he was a fag .”

“Oh come on, Trinnie.”

“Dr. Janklow,” said his sister witchily, “was interested in Dodd because Dr. Janklow was a fag .”

Her brother smiled, amused.

“And who was Dr. Janklow?” asked Ralph.

“The school psychologist,” replied Trinnie. “My brother spent lots of time with the school psychologist.” She turned on him again and sneered. “ Dodd Trotter Elementary —why would you even dream it?”

“It was just a funny concept. I mean, come on, Trinnie, don’t you think it’s funny? Isn’t that your style of black comedy? Having the school you attended as a child named after you? Marcie said—” He swiveled to include Bluey. “Mother, do you remember Marcie Millard?”

“A little red thing? Like our Lucille? Oh yes. A go-getter! Father an ophthalmologist , no?”

“Mother! I’m shocked you remember,” said Trinnie.

Louis nodded enthusiastically while chewing the veal. Such demonstrations of his wife’s mental alacrity comforted — he hoarded them as evidence to present at some future sanity trial.

“Wasn’t he a councilman?” asked Dodd.

“The mayor ,” said Trinnie. Then, in an aside to Ralph: “Beverly Hills used to be very Andy of Mayberry. The family eye doctor was actually the mayor.”

“He died,” said Bluey, her brow crinkling in concern. “Didn’t he? Didn’t the Millard man pass away?”

Louis chuffed, thinking it a tad early in the evening for obits.

“Yes,” said Dodd. “While jogging. One of the very first to be claimed by the craze.”

Ralph spoke up. “Aren’t the Beverly Hills schools completely Iranian now?”

“Well,” said Dodd, “Marcie showed me a PTA flyer that was printed in Farsi, Korean, Russian, Hebrew and Spanish. She said the children of the district came from fifty-seven countries and speak forty-six languages.”

“You don’t see that on Dawson’s Creek , do you?” said Ralph. “Or is that show not even on anymore?” The flâneur was emboldened by his first dinner en famille— and loaded for bearish faux pas. “You don’t see it in the teen masturbation flicks: no Muslims or Bahai’s shagging apple pie, no sir . They’re all rich and they’re all white!”

“Perhaps it’s not in their interest,” chuffed the patriarch, cryptically.

“When Dodd and I went to BV— and Beverly — there were pretty much only Jews,” Trinnie said.

“There was one black,” her brother solemnly corrected. “His name was Elijah — do you remember Elijah, Mother?”

“ I do,” Trinnie exclaimed, her memory jogged. “Ralph, it was so weird . He was this skinny little kid, like, made-to-order: sweet and small and talented … completely inoffensive — I know this sounds terrible , but he was very … minstrel show —like a little Sammy Davis.”

“That’s horrible!”

“I am not being racist. It was the high school that was racist. It was like they — like the District literally cast a part.”

“I would have thought you’d have gone to private school,” said Ralph.

“Papa thought public schools were good enough.”

“Indeed they were!” piped Lou.

“Papa bought us a house in the flats.”

“I’ve always thought it amazing Mr. Trotter did that,” said Joyce. She had called him Mister ever since the halcyon days at Trotter Waste.

“Well, the kids at school didn’t think so,” said Trinnie.

“No, they didn’t! Oh God, Doddy! Mercy,” said Bluey.

“Everyone thought it was freaky. Like: why would someone with so much money not send their kids to school in Switzerland? Or wherever. And at the same time, they were — I don’t know, jealous.”

For a moment, the group ate in silence.

“Did you know,” said Dodd, again turning to Ralph, “that the Velvet Underground played at lunch, for a special assembly? The principal pulled the plug when Lou Reed sang ‘Heroin.’ ”

“Incredible,” said Ralph. “And now they get Curtis Hanson or Michael Bay to drop in — Tull told me Four Winds even had Robert Towne giving a lecture! What do kids want to be hearing from Mr. Chinatowne for? What are they going to learn from that high-brow Ron Shelton ? At least Ron Shelton isn’t pretentious —well, not as pretentious as Chinatowne , anyway … and let’s not forget Callie Khouri! — oh, all you aspiring riot-grrrl-screenwriters have so much to learn from Callie Khouri!” Trinnie smiled at this arcana; the rest of the Trotters remained impassive. “By the way, what exactly does Callie Khouri do —aside from having her picture taken every month for the WGA Newsletter, and jacking off with her Oscar? I’ll tell you what Callie Khouri does! She’s on the guru circuit with Thelma and Louise ! Asshole-buddies with the Council of Elders! Callie Khouri — Bride of Chinatowne!”

“You’re gonna hate this,” said Trinnie, eyes twinkling. “But next week they’re having Ron Bass.”

“Who is?”

“Four Winds.”

“No!”

“Because he’s an attorney. He can talk about writing and entertainment law.”

“Well … Ron’s OK. At least the man knows what he is.”

“You mean he’s OK now that the two of you are having cozy little Buffalo Club lunches.” She put the needle in a little further. “Hey, Ralph, did you know that Four Winds also has a mentor program going? Something called Young Storytellers—”

“Oh God, that makes me ill,” he said, ashening.

Having achieved the desired effect, she turned to her brother. “That school’s getting so crazy. And don’t you dare put those kids up at the Hassler — he’s flying Tull’s entire class to Rome,” she explained to those not in the know, “to which I am highly opposed.”

“It’s not the whole class,” said Dodd impishly. “It’s Third-Tier Honors. And it isn’t Rome anymore. It’s … the world . All the places with roads that lead to Rome.”

“Whatever it is, it’s much too much.”

“I think it’s wonderful,” offered Joyce.

“It’s bullshit already. Those kids are so twisted — there’s no sense of reality whatsoever . Last week, I was waiting at the curb to pick up my son.”

“You picked up Tull?” said Dodd incorrigibly. “Epitacio must have been on his deathbed!”

“I sat there, forced to endure listening to Boulder Langon and her fucked-up friends—”