Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

At the same time they thickened body and senses, swallowed prescriptions made for small miracles too: soon, the face of a wife appeared before him that was neither of the Janes — it was Katrina’s, come not as hallucination but as odd curio, to evoke sorrow and tender sympathies. While waking or rising or even strolling with Ms. Scull, the exagent formed memories of himself in restaurants and exquisite cars with boisterous, passionate men. He was able to recall premieres and brises and corporate retreats, and saw the landscape of Oxford — less the colleges of his communion with Swinburne and Ruskin, though he did see the stones of Avebury and his own bare, bleeding feet; more, Katrina with him at hospital … but perhaps at a later time than during those English peregrinations. Adirondacks? He turned the queer word over in his mouth like a taste he was trying to identify. He’d spent lots of time in hospitals, it seemed. After a while, William even visualized the cul-de-sac at Redlands, but could not remember the name of that place or the faces of the couple who nurtured him there.

Meanwhile, Jane Scull walks the Promenade when SeaShelter chores are done. She is alone, and that’s how she wants it, for she is unwell in body, mind and spirit. There are things she cannot discuss with anyone — not William or the shelter folk or even the street pastor, who still visits to wish them well, the tail of each utterance lilting skyward like a smoky question mark.

What would the Catholic have told her that she didn’t already know? He might have reiterated the sublime workings of the Lord … but she knew His lessons and workings, though in all humility could not understand why He would wish her to be so miserable after bestowing her dear William — for the Lord had brought him to her, and William was her life. It was for him that she diligently stood before the looking glass with a self-tutored apostrophe of plosives, affricates, surds and sonances; it was for him she now bathed; it was for him she now breathed; it was for him she spoke glottal poems that, because of her shyness, he would never hear, a phonemic rhapsody of diphthongs, yaps and rhotacisms, blubbers and brays, thunders of ictus and rictus and hail of caesuras — electric elocutions, all for him and for hymn and for Him. For William …

Weeks ago, he spoke of a spastic child — was it Jenny? — a daughter he implied to be his own. Surely she could not have known that because of the receding tide of his delusion, Jenny — William Morris ’s Jenny — had already drifted to farther shores. Yet it struck her deeply; this Jane did not wish to burden him with another, a boy or girl not even his!

For it was Jilbo’s: she gagged on his name.

Nearly seven months gone, but no one could tell.

Hand to belly she walked, forlorn and agitated. Distraught and devoted …

The dirty man approached.

“Hey, good-lookin’. Now, why you trippin’?”

She frowned at the gimp.

“Had my eye on you — big girl! Like that. Like a big hug. Lot to hug there.”

She moved away, and Someone-Help-Me trailed after, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, for he had undergone a transformation himself, purely cosmetic, and was now called the same as the plea of his spanking-new signage: Please-Help.-Bless.

“What, too good for me? ” he barked, taking care not to get too close. The girl could do him damage. “Watt? You sellin’ it? Fuckin’ cow with dirty titties want fuckin’ heehaw ?”

He was in her hair a block or so when Jane wheeled and almost spoke. But she didn’t want to give the pest ammunition.

“Hey shit,” he said, a smile metastasizing on his face. “I like big girls, that’s all. Got a man? Man friend? Everybody need a friend. Everybody need milk ! Yer fine . Cain’t talk? Dat — wull, fuck me !” He slapped at his britches and howled through a rotten mouth. “Whoa! Got motors in your ears! Cain’t talk ! I knew that. Nuthin’ to say —leas’ tha’s honest ! Shit, people talk all shit any how .” He guffawed again. “ Like a big girl who can’t talk. But kin ya hear ? Can ya hear with them motors, big-tittie girl?”

Jane lunged and grunted contemptuously, a forceful combination that took him by surprise. Adding to her unhappiness, she noticed passersby throwing sideshow stares. She strode off, and Please-Help.-Bless could not catch her.

Hobbling in her dust, he shouted, “I seen you on Pico, by Clare — hey! — you smoke?” He pulled a ratty pack of Pall Malls from a shirt pocket and, propelled by his cane, precariously offered it up. “Kin you hear me? Come on, big girl, where you stay at? Where you stay! Aw,” he said, coming to a winded stop. “You cain’t fuckin’ hear shit .” He lit a cigarette. “Gonna fuck ya, big girl. Gonna fuck out yer big cow brains.”

He laughed before darting into traffic, whereupon the shameless minstrel-show mugger courted drivers with his cardboard namesake’s entreaty.

“Is he worse?” Tull asked.

“I don’t know if he’s worse ,” said Lucy, mulling it over, “but he isn’t happy .”

“Can’t they give him antibiotics? I mean, tetracycline or whatever?”

“They are —they’re swabbing stuff on him. But he’s still got the intense zits. And he picks . It’s, like, totally volcanic at this point.”

Tull shook his head. “That is so fucked.”

“Evidently, it’s from the Apert’s — I mean, the acne. I went on-line—”

“I wish I could get my hands on Mr. Fucking Apert … how could Edward’s genes be so — shitty? It’s like nothing works .”

“Except his brain.”

“Right. And that works better than anyone’s.”

The Four Winds term had just begun. The cousins, on a long walk from school, were strolling down Montana. Pullman loped behind, drawing the usual stares. They got a Jamba Juice and crossed the street to pick up goodies for Bluey at her favorite new confectionary haunt. Their grandmother had been furious with Gilles Mott when he dared to foist on her a pale substitute for that mouthwatering almond-and-pomegranate delight before informing her (under duress) the originals were no longer available; then one day Tull brought home some high-end morsels from Le Marmiton and, voilà, her faith in sweets and mankind was restored.

Pink pastry box in hand, the trio migrated north toward the Brentwood Country Mart.

Lucy spoke up: “My mom said Trinnie’s seeing that detective. Romantically.”

“Yeah.”

“Is that an old thing?”

“You mean, from before?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“I mean, do you think they porked when they were younger?”

“I hate it when you use that word.”

“Well, did they?”

“I told you, I don’t know .” Then: “My mother has to be with someone or she flips out.”

“That’s harsh,” said Lucy, while agreeing to herself it was probably true. “Have you talked to him?”

“Who.”

“The detective .”

“About what.”

“Your father .”

He shook his head.

“Did she dump that guy Rafe?”

“I don’t know. I guess so.”

“How’d he take it?”

“I have no idea. And it’s Ralph. He calls himself Ralph now.”

“Don’t you think it’s kind of … weird that your mother and that detective — I mean, the guy who was searching for your—”

“Yeah I think it’s weird. I fucking hate it. All these people reuniting after … hiding everything all these years. It makes me sick.”