Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

The old man took Sling Blade aside while Dot and his grandson continued their colloquy. As he imparted whatever it was that he imparted, he held the caretaker’s elbow and pressed money into his hand, a lavish, almost involuntary gesture repeated that very week with a Supercuts barber, a Montana Avenue haberdasher, even the humble, sweetly flummoxed receptionist for Dr. Bloore, his Bedford Drive dentist.

Early after the purchase of his plot, the digger had had a dream about Sling Blade, and some small omens since had shown promise for his eventual entwinement with the Trotter familia. For example, Mr. Trotter recently noticed an abrasion on Sling Blade’s forehead. When questioned, he explained that it was an injury incurred while moonlighting as a guard at a building downtown — the Higgins, to be precise — the very landmark Dodd told his father he had in escrow.

The main detail of the story, that during rounds he’d been assaulted by a burly trespasser, held no interest for the old man.

When the Mauck reached La Colonne, the gates were already open. The vulgar Mr. Greenjeans stood waiting, mustered and tamed. He’d added a nitwitty canvas pith helmet to his regalia, and if Tull hadn’t been so agitated, he might have been sarcastic about it. After all, this was the man who once chased him down.

Lucy was so excited she forgot to bring her Smythson. The young detective sat beside her brother in the locked-down buggy ready to be launched once the MSV reached the tip of the driveway, a small bulb intruding on the vast parkland space. Edward was dressed, well, Edwardian for the event — a three-piece “reworked” pin-striped suit by Matsushima, a retro Etro paisley vest, studded gloves and a translucent Trinnie-donated tattooed Kobayashi blouse, which he wore as a veil. Pullman, noble, copacetic specimen that he was, placidly drooled on the carpet, where lay his handsome, ham-size head.

A gentleman of protruding jaw sat comfortably in one of the calfskin swivel chairs near the front of the Mauck, his back to Epitacio, who drove. Edward introduced him as Sling Blade, and the latter showed no signs of feeling teased by the appellation. Tull felt as if he were in a dream, a feeling certainly not foreign during the last few months. He didn’t think to ask about the stranger, or even who exactly had given them official ingress to the rarefied site. (Nor had he inquired of his cousin the provenance of the monogrammed letter let alone any details of the presumed cache from which it been extracted.) Initially, Lucy wasn’t thrilled with Sling Blade’s presence, but she grew tolerant, then positively ebullient, on realizing he would make a perfectly colorful cameo in The Mystery of the Blue Maze .

They entered the meadow and drove slowly through, Mr. Greenjeans trotting along beside.

The party of five — six, really, including Pullman — disembarked and Tull oriented himself. It was a different vista than that afforded from his usual illicit entry; it seemed impossible he and Pullman had never explored this side — the perspective his parents would have had when shown the place for the first time. The view of the wedding guests.

Someone had taken great pains to lay floorboard over the grass (the same had been done on location during Boulder’s film, so the camera could wheel over uneven ground). The buggy lowered pneumatically; Epitacio and Sling Blade guided it to the first plank of Yellow Brick Road. Mr. Greenjeans caught up, grabbed hold and helped them jump the curb. The two caretakers then eyeballed each other, neither coming up to measure. The gardener was not at all happy to see Pullman, and paled when the Great deigned sniff his leg.

Edward nodded for Tull to come, but the boy shook his head and hung back. Sling Blade got in and the buggy ascended the low hill. Epitacio leaned under the shade of a gull wing and smoked a cigarette; it was obvious to Tull that for him La Colonne was old hat. Mr. Greenjeans shadowed the buggy as it passed through the first set of myrtle balls, and kept apace from twenty yards.

The air chilled, covering him with goose bumps. What were they doing here? Tull watched the surrey climb at the creepy pace of a roller-coaster car once the safety bar dropped over passengers’ laps; then set off to join them.

The formal entry, as the cousin had already described from the Le Désert de Retz book, was a faithfully replicated grove of sycamores, chestnuts, lindens, blue cedars, maples and ash. Beneath the chirping of birds and rustle of leaves was a dead quiet. Pullman remained loyally at Tull’s side even when a large, still pond hove into view; then, oddly, the familiar allée of yews appeared, and the two were somehow back to their usual approach to the tower. They passed through — it was darker and colder than Tull remembered. He had a fleeting, terrible thought: one didn’t have to be in a maze to be swallowed up by darkness, never to escape.

Seeing the buggy stop ahead, he sped up.

Edward stood beneath the canopy staring at the prospect that for all its brooding melodrama might well have been a painting of nearly fetishistic romanticism. The sky blackened and trees shook nude limbs like upended broomsticks tickling the clouds, egging them on, daring them to rain down for the sheer joy and mischief of it — and there, squatting at the end of the field like a ravaged rotunda, was the still-distant, broken Babel.

The cousin took it in with flooded concentration. For Lucy and Tull, the spectacle was not so much the Castle of Sleeping Beauty, as Edward told them a writer named Colette had called it, but the sight of the cousin himself transfixed, briefly lifting his veil to see what he could see. The ground was level now and the buggy zoomed toward Oz.

Slouching ahead, Tull nervously populated the grounds with wedding-day people: lanterns appeared, strung in the dusk, landaus with glass-encased torches burning, high-booted footmen amid pastoral gaiety, grass-stained children with flowers and bugs in their silken hair. The wind sizzled a friction of branches, and he heard the wedding music of an absurdly imagined clavichord. Edward had loaned Tull enough sci fi for him to be able to readily muse on the transitoriness of Time, the wormhole nature of it all — the smallness of himself in the scheme of things. So, the scene became more real: he saw his mother there, younger, handmaids and tailors tweaking her Balenciaga, and his father, lanky and rakish, tender and kind, drinking with male friends, who laughed in gutsy, premarital chorus. In his mind, Marcus looked like a Jewish man with tousled hair, a cross between Steven Spielberg and Ralph Mirdling, wild-eyed and gaunt. He shook off his reverie, close to the castle now. The buggy was at the front door. Sling Blade carried Edward in like a bride.

The light inside was the same as in the Poussin of Grandpa’s Withdrawing Room. They allowed fairy-dust motes stirred by their arrival to settle before awakening any spirits. The white tents Tull spied before were now up close — a bedouin camp of covered furniture and figurines. Mr. Greenjeans said “the lady” had wished nothing moved. (Mr. Greenjeans being suddenly loquacious.)

“ ‘An armed prowler would not dare stay here at night,’ ” said Edward out loud, again quoting this person Colette. “ ‘How to convince yourself that in this dungeon-like darkness, a rosewood headrest and the remains of a commode are not positively evil?’ ”

“I don’t think it’s evil at all,” offered Lucy, shakily.

As in the original Colonne, there were four aboveground levels, including the lobby — in the basement, which no one was in a hurry to explore, Edward said that the castle’s onetime Freemason residents were intent upon alchemizing the bones of Pascal into gold (both Lucy and Tull assumed Pascal to be a dear, lamented friend of Colette’s). The braided authoress pushed aside her fears and began to warm to the place; she flitted like a moth, powdering the edges of the protective drapes.