Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

“Careful!” hissed Mr. Greenjeans. “Nothing must be moved or broken!”

Lucy started a moment, then laughed, gleeful. What fun it was being a writer! And what a wonderful character would this mad gardener make!

Edward told Sling Blade he wished to go up — the column was bifurcated by a spiral staircase — and the strong-armed cemetery worker obeyed. His sister followed.

Pullman lay at the foot of the stairwell. While the others went exploring, his master stepped over him, craning his neck. A skylight nestled high above in the jagged edges of the snapped-off “pillar,” plant life sprouting from the latter like a weedy tiara. Tull took the stairs, numb. He wondered if his parents had roped off the bedroom that wedding-day night, barring access to revelers.

So these were the stairs his parents had climbed — the same his father had crept down that morning without her. She would have come later, barefoot, lover’s face lit by a puzzled smile as she stared out at the rolling hills. Katrina Berenice Trotter Weiner thought for certain she would see her husband there, playfully naked, turning to make a rutting run at his brand-new bride in this blue-green heaven, outraged at their love and good fortune. The smile, Tull thought, would have stuck to her face as she wandered, searching, calling his name … tiring, she may have said aloud: It’s a game! He’s been watching me, and now’s gone back in …

He heard Lucy’s and Edward’s treasure-hunt voices some floors above — and shot past, for Edward’s progress was slow, and, besides, the cousins were distracted by the eerie stillness of each new floor. The structure was vast, even larger, if that were possible, than it seemed from outside. With unexpected verve, Tull bolted to the remaining level.

Ralph once told him about fire beetles — insects drawn to forest fires that flew through flames to lay eggs in charred tree bark — and though its door was shut and told nothing of what it hid, that is how Tull flew to the boudoir. He could smell his mother there, her shock and her sorrow, addictions and adorations. When he entered, he saw them for a moment entwined — then all he could see was her alone, blissful, awakening, yawning her newlywed breath, stretching, womb-starred, squatting on the toilet, then standing on tiptoes to spy from one of the mosaic porticoes, scanning for her beloved somewhere in the landscape below. He saw her put on slippers and say his father’s name … then descend, calling out at each floor, mixing in lyrics of a sweetly improvised song as she floated down corkscrew stairs until finding herself at the front door, already flung open, he had flung it open, staring out at the rolling hills, smile stuck to radiantly doomed face — when Lucy suddenly appeared, exalted and fairly wheezing, already sucking the thin air of bestsellerdom. Tull blocked her way as she tried to come in.

“No!” he said. “You can’t! No one can!”

She thought at first it was a joke, but Tull was shaking and crying and she backed off.

“It’s not for your stupid book, so get out! Get out —”

She put her hands up to calm him. At that moment Edward arrived, with entourage.

“What’s happening?” he asked from Sling Blade’s arms. The caretaker looked like a ventriloquist. He set the boy down.

“I said no one goes in there!” Tull slammed the door in their faces. Pullman barked from below.

“We won’t,” called Edward respectfully. “Don’t worry …”

“This was a mistake ,” shouted Tull. “We shouldn’t have come here!”

“Then,” said Edward, “we’ll just turn around and go.”

Lucy had never seen her brother so calm and collected, so gracious. Like one of those crisis negotiators.

“If anyone comes in here,” said Tull dramatically, “I’ll kill them!”

Sling Blade swept the boy up and the party retreated.

Tull of course stayed behind, heart pounding madly. It was only when their steps left the echoing cylinder at ground level and he heard circumspect voices outside La Colonne that he allowed himself to breathe again. His body, rigid since spitting its words, relaxed and his mouth began to jigger uncontrollably, tears scalding as he emerged from the wedding suite and walked down.

He thought of leaving by the old, secret way — through hedge of privet andromeda — but then thought better, to make certain the others had gone. So he raced ahead with Pullman and stood across the road until the Mauck edged from the drive.

Lucy stared at him through the window of the MSV as it swept past, her face riven by pain. Tull was ashamed and confused. He didn’t want his cousins — especially Edward, who’d been so excited about the castle — to be traumatized on his account. Lucy had been trying so hard to help … and Edward — he would not want to injure his fragile, mystic friend. He’d call them later to make things right. For now, all he wanted was the gate of La Colonne Détruite to clang shut, its padlock restored.

The Mauck turned the corner and vanished. Mr. Greenjeans unraveled the chain and sealed everything up, then he too receded. All that was left was a nip of wind to sting Tull’s eyes.

A station wagon of tourists cruised slowly down and stopped.

“Excuse me, but do you know where Nic Cage lives?” asked the driver, a sunny man in short sleeves.

“He moved,” said Tull.

The man turned to his wife and said, “Apparently, he moved.” The wife turned to the kids and said, “He moved.”

“Where?” asked an older boy. “Yeah, where!” said the girl. “I don’t know,” said the mother, glancing down at her Maps to Stars Homes . She turned back to her husband. He was about to ask again, but the boy and his steadfast friend had already begun the lonesome trudge to Saint-Cloud.

When we left Amaryllis last, it was dawn. Gilles Mott had invited her into his East Edgeware bakery, which she entered like a prisoner led to gallows.

Instead of wooden steps and rope, she was greeted by metal trays heaped with tarts, even day-olds she recognized as items Topsy had shared during underbridge idylls. She pecked at the almond-and-pomegranate treats and remembered bringing them home to the babies — thinking of them suddenly, alone in the void, pierced her heart so that she swooned; Gilles, already on the phone to his wife, said a few words, then hung up, coming to comfort as best he could.

Lani Mott, being a trained, sworn-in volunteer advocate, was required by law to call the child-abuse hotline, and thus set in motion a series of events we will roughly sketch. On this day, the dependency system worked with unusual efficiency. The police arrived at Frenchie’s within the hour (Mrs. Mott had preceded them) and Amaryllis was taken to Rampart Detectives — the very precinct she and Topsy circumvented an eternity ago. Lani followed in her Saab.

In transit, the crying girl huddled against the shoulder of the policewoman in back of the squad car. The officer tried to engage her — she had a daughter of her own — to no avail. At the station, Lani and little Jane Doe were taken to a snug room next to the homicide suites. There, a utility table sported neatly arranged rows of stuffed animals, books and crayons, and a near — life size plastic gorilla. An aged TV was fixed high on the wall. The policewoman turned on cartoons before making a last, futile effort to learn her name, where she lived and how her parents might be reached. When the lady left, Amaryllis sheepishly asked if this was the place where her babies had been brought. She clammed up when Lani dug deeper.