Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

Mr. Weiner asked if the kids all went to school together. Lucy chattily filled him in on Four Winds (and the upcoming summer field trip), while Tull looked anxiously toward the house. He left the table, slid open the screen door and went in. Lucy watched for a moment, then turned back to her host; she thought it a good thing that Tull and his grandmother had some time alone.

A ceiling fan turned in the cool, dark room, its Danish shelving system filled with tchotchkes. Menorahs acted as bookends to Yiddish-humor books, New York Times crossword-puzzle collections and the complete hardback works of Stephen King. A crocheted blanket lay across a La-Z-Boy with Harry’s aluminum walker beside its pleather ottoman.

The woman who had raised his father sat upon a couch turning the pages of a photo album. Tull sat down next to her. She proffered the book as one might a Torah; delicately, he took it in hand. He stared at the picture of a boy in yarmulke and tallith.

“You look so much like him,” Ruth said. She’d been crying. “Do they know you’re here?”

“You mean—”

“Your mother. And grandfather.”

“No. At least … I don’t think so.”

“We were so fond of her — your mother. Katrina. And Louis and Berenice.” He’d never heard anyone call Bluey that before; it was all so formal and remote, the way people spoke in documentaries. “Those were happy, happy times. They met at a party, your mother and our Marcus. Did you ever hear that story? Did she ever tell you? From different walks of life but … que sera. God moves in mysterious ways. I thought there would be problems because of the money.” She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. “Who knew? And who was I to tell them? They loved each other and that’s all that mattered. I believe that to this day. It’s a rare thing — if you find it, you have to hold on. When things started getting very serious between them, there were dinners. Family dinners. We ate! Your grandfather sent a car for us — all the way to Redlands. At first it was fun, but then we thought it too grand. With the neighbors ogling. So we drove ourselves. I’m not sure if Louis was offended, but I know that Berenice was not. I had more in common with your grandmother.” She looked out toward the patio. “Harry hasn’t been able to drive for over a year. I got a call from the DMV saying he’d failed his test. ‘Come get your husband,’ they said. That was humiliating for Harry.” She sighed, then picked up the thread where she’d left it. “Your mother came from great money reserves, and your father — we owned a bakery. Two miles away. We made a nice living, but not like your grandfather! Or your uncle Dodd. That kind of money comes once in a blue moon. A lot of people who had it suddenly don’t have it anymore; for a while it seemed like everyone was a billionaire! We lived modestly, but Marcus wanted for nothing. In fact, had more than most.”

The screen slid open, and Mr. Weiner led Lucy in. Epitacio followed with the cousin in his arms. The old man pointed to the La-Z-Boy and Epitacio gently lowered Edward down, covering his legs with the blanket. Pullman entered and Lucy grabbed his collar to lead him out, but Ruth said it was fine for the dog to come in “as long as he didn’t make a mess.”

“We have wonderful photo albums,” said Harry with a nod to his wife. “Wonderful memories.”

Lucy’s authorial heart soared — they were getting to the nitty-gritty. She resisted the urge to jot “bird notes” in the silver-edged Smythson pad (specially bought for the occasion, its covers lined in hot-pink silk); that would be tacky.

“Do you remember,” said Ruth to her husband, “when we first met Edward and Lucy’s parents?”

“At Trader Vic’s.”

“The Beverly Hilton.”

“That was before Merv Griffin bought it.”

“Oh goodness yes. He had a wonderful talk show — better than any of them.”

“Mike Douglas had a good one.”

“Merv had a marvelous singing voice.”

“Mike Douglas sang, too.”

“Not like Merv. Not like Merv … Things were quite serious between your mother and our Marcus by then. They had already announced their engagement.”

“At the time we are speaking of,” said Harry, convivially pointing at Lucy, “ you , young lady, were a very young young lady!” He was starting to warm up.

“She was an infant —and Edward had not yet been born.”

“Lucky me,” came the voice from the La-Z-Boy.

“Different worlds, your father and mother,” said Harry. “The Trotters were like the Cartwrights. Do you remember Ben Cartwright?” he asked of anyone who might respond. “Lorne Greene. A marvelous television show— Bonanza .”

“Well of course they don’t remember Bonanza ,” clucked Ruth. “They don’t even show it on reruns.”

Tull slowly turned the leaves of the album without really taking anything in; it was all too much.

“The wedding was so beautiful!” gushed Ruth. “And that peculiar house … we thought: why did he build them that peculiar house? When they could have had something so beautiful — anything. They could have had a ranch, a beach shack, a chalet … they could have had a little bupka . Could have had their pick . They saw it in France, remember, Harry? That was the story. Marcus was there all the time on business. They’d fly him out at the drop of a hat if it meant keeping one of their big clients.”

“A very important agency. To this day.”

“A weird, weird place. A kind of ruin they saw while they were over there. Well I guess Katrina showed pictures to her father—”

“Of course she showed him pictures,” snapped Harry.

“—to your grandfather. Pictures she’d taken. And that’s where he got the idea. Louis built it for them as a wedding gift. It cost a fortune!”

“Didn’t he have it moved?” asked Harry. “Wasn’t it moved from wherever it was?”

“No, it was not . Of course he didn’t have it moved .”

“I thought it had been moved, stone by stone.”

“I believe it is a French national monument ,” she said, eyes beadily narrowing. “Louis Trotter has a lot of money, but not enough to buy a national monument!”

“I was sure of it.”

“William Randolph Hearst he is not. You’re thinking of San Simeon.”

“Well that’s what Hearst did, isn’t it? Moved castles and churches from over there?”

Ruth hadn’t the energy to continue sparring; she grabbed another album from a stack and passed it to her husband instead. He wobbily handed the tome to Lucy, who perched on the La-Z-Boy to share with her brother.

“The time it took to build! So painstaking. It was not the house I would have chosen, but … done with such taste, such love. Your grandfather always put your mother first, that I will say for the man. On their wedding day, he had horses and carriages and footmen — at night there was Renaissance music and torches and beautiful dancing. Was it Tony Bennett who came and sang, Harry?”

“Yes. Marvelous singer. To this day. Very active.”

“It was stunning.”

“A marvelous painter, too. Did you know? Tony Curtis also paints. The two painting Tonys. And Tony Quinn! He was a marvelous painter. Sinatra too — they all want to be painters. Isn’t that funny?”

“And the people there — Meryl Streep , Goldie Hawn , Tom Hanks —”

“And this before anyone knew who he was. Tom Hanks was still struggling. But our Marcus helped him, believed in him.”

“Well I don’t know about that; I don’t think any of those people ‘struggled.’ But everyone was there and everyone was happy —all the people your father had helped so much, all of the people who loved him. My God, I was just bowled over. To see the impression your father had made on these famous, famous people, who would have done anything for him—” She stifled a tear, putting handkerchief to mouth. “And when the … when the terrible thing happened — the ‘disappearance’—I call it the ‘disappearance’—”