Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

AFTERWARD, THE CORRIDOR was choked with lawyers, marshals, pregnant women, and tattooed men.

Team Lightfoot stiffened slightly as Burke approached. “I thought you were petitioning to unfreeze the assets.”

“Court won’t do it, Burke. We’ve been through that.”

“They don’t seem to have a problem disbursing legal funds, Lou,” said Burke, sardonically. “For y’all. And what’s this shit about mediation?”

“We’re gonna give it a shot, Burke. Frankly, I think we’re better off settling than taking this to trial.”

“Jerry’s right,” said a cohort. “We’ll have a much better shot.”

“I don’t know how much longer I can hold out, boys!”

“We can’t advance you more monies, Burke.”

“What are we talkin’ about, guys?” said Burke, livid. “We’re sittin on sixty million dollars, kids, ten of that more or less liquid. And you’re tellin me the court won’t toss me a SAG royalties bone? Lou, I got expenses. I got a full-time freakin bodyguard. ”

“He’s paid out of the estate, Burke.”

“Not the food he eats, gentlemen! Fill that loophole, will ya? I should have stock in fuckin Koo Koo Roo.”

“Nothing compels you to buy him dinner, Burke.”

“ Right. Nothin but doin the right thing. Remember that? What a concept. Listen, Tula is the thin blue line between my boy and a very hostile fuckin world. I should have five Tulas but I cain’t afford it.” He took his foot off the pedal. “I should say fat blue line, cause he sure knows how to eat! Eats more than Dick Cheney.”

“Keep your receipts,” said the counsel. “And submit.”

“Keep a log of every expense.”

“Have you arranged for the tutor?” asked a cocounsel.

“I’m settin it up.”

“Don’t drag your feet on that,” said the other. “If we do wind up going to trial, it has to look good in terms of provision of care.”

“If anyone thinks they can do a better job then I have, they’re welcome to try. I can’t believe this is even up for grabs! I’m his daddy. It’s a slam fucking dunk! Listen, kids: it’s a hardship. ” He could see how his personality grated on them, but what could he do? He would rim their greedy assholes if that’d help loosen up some funds. “And I know that you know that. And you guys are doin a helluva job. So don’t think I’m not grateful. I know it’s all going to work out in the end. At least I sure fucking hope so. Cause I am sure as hell not going to stand by and watch my son’s money handed over to the state. Or Mr. William Morris or whomever. But you gotta know that once we’re past the established five-block radius, we are fair fucking media game. The police do a pretty good job and the neighbors have been great — though who knows how long that’s gonna last — but I’m tellin ya, it’s like living in a serious cocksucking fishbowl over there! Hell, I can’t even conduct a romantic life! Fellas! C’mon! What good does Viagra do if you don’t have the opportunity for usage? The paparazzi, by the way — in case you didn’t know — are now flying choppers over my motherloving airspace! And that’s illegal. So put yourself in my Nikes and see how long you’d last. Kit’s barely been out of house —as his guardian, I can’t risk having a telephoto of him not looking his GQ best ending up in some tabloid.” He paused, inhaling martyrdom. “I’m tellin you, kids, I am really in the trenches here. Is the court aware of that?”

“Gotta tough it out, Burke,” said the attorney, beginning a slow retreat down the hall. “There’s light at the end of the tunnel.”

“At the end of my asshole maybe.”

Counsel fled, en masse.

“But not at the end of yours, ” said Burke to himself. “Fuck it. We’ll make do until the ship comes in.” He called after them: “My son’s in great shape — he’s fit and he’s feisty and he’s got a daddy who loves him. Tell that to the fucking mediator!”

Transference

THERE WEREN’T ANY guards at the Benedict Canyon estate. The gate was flung open to a cadre of indifferent gardeners, who came and went, wrestling with hoses and foliage. Lisanne strode in, businesslike. No one paid attention.

She shivered again with the same feeling she’d had at the Riverside house — that somehow she belonged — except this time, she felt the chill of his absence. The place seemed frozen in time, like an obscure, well-funded theosophical foundation or museum of atrocities committed in past or even future centuries — or the temple where a mythic hero, wounded in battle, had returned to die. Even now, within sight of the flat obsidian column of infinity pool and dark wood cope of the famous zendo in its grove of eucalyptuses, there was blood, there was blood, bone, and death, it hung in the air like gas, oppressively colorless and odorless, and if one could properly read the signs, one might have translated all the terrible things that had manifested: miscarriages and mayhem, and the messy, fragrant anarchy of impermanence.

She stared through the windows, hoping to see the Sotheby’s Buddha, imagining Kit home again, in a beautiful robe of Thai silk, having bargained her life away for such an impossibility, brokering a deal with Tara (born of tears shed over the sufferings of sentient beings) for his health and sanctity to be returned — the provisions of the contract being that he would never know of Lisanne’s sacrifice, would never even have a thought of her again (which she anyway assumed he hadn’t, not a proper thought anyway, since the day they met in the trailer), because she had argued nobly, selflessly for the monstrous event to be forever expunged from history and memory, and her wish had been granted, the assault had never occurred, this was the agreement that Tara, daughter of Avalokiteshvara, had consented to and so decreed. All that Lisanne had asked was that she be allowed to see him one last time in his habitat, vital and free from worry, restored to grace before Tara — whose face gathers one hundred autumn full moons, who blazes with the sparkling light of a thousand stars, who dwells amid garlands and completely delights her entourage — carried Lisanne off to the Realm of Hungry Ghosts.

Of a sudden, it came: she knew what she would do. The omen was that she hadn’t glimpsed the Sotheby’s Buddha — if it was Lisanne’s to give, the fates would have arranged for it to have been prominently displayed for her eyes to see. No. She would pass on to Burke Lightfoot what was already hers — the Supreme Bliss-Wheel Integration Buddha that Philip gave her. She felt her impulse instantly sanctified by the Source. The giving of the Supreme Bliss-Wheel Integration Buddha would create a space of True Love, and in that space, Kit’s healing could finally begin. Just as the death of Viv’s unborn child had created a space for Siddhama, so would the offering of the Bliss-Wheel Buddha create a space for metta, the loving-kindness that would heal all things. And after the healing, everyone — Kit, Lisanne, Siddhama — would return to Source. She was determined not to make the same error as the student monk. She would not mistake Mu for “no.”

As she walked out the gate, a gardener caught her eye and smiled with beautiful knowingness. She took that as another sign that her instincts were sanctified. Still, she would need to prepare the father; simply bringing the Buddha unannounced on her next day of Riverside service would be presumptuous. Best to be humble. Her pulse and step quickened. She would ring Mr. Lightfoot up and tell him she had a gift that was certain to bring the house — and his son — great peace and prosperity.