Bruce Wagner - The Chrysanthemum Palace

“Miriam.”

The guy didn’t miss a thing. He was beginning to remind me of Norman Bates.

“They left around 4:00 P.M. on Sunday. I guess they found the car Monday morning, early. I think it hit a rock — it was only a rental sedan. Helps to have a four-wheeler if you’re going up to the Racetrack. Didn’t y’all go up there?”

“Yeah,” I said. “We did.”

“Spooky place. They found your friend — Ms. Fremantle — on the periphery. Mr. Michelet was farther off. Did Detective Raintree tell you the position of the bodies?”

I stopped him short, done with the travelogue.

I thanked him for his time and set off.

“Drive safely,” he said.

By the time I got there, it was nearly dusk. As I strolled the “periphery,” a few hikers passed by and waved. Then I was alone with the rocks and the phantoms.

Raintree had reconstructed things thus: Thad and Clea were observed at the 49er Café, in late afternoon. They were drinking. It was noted by patrons that he wore a strange costume — one witness likened it to a toga — but all were in agreement the peculiar getup “wasn’t the cleanest looking.” The barkeep recognized Thad right away, and engaged the pair in friendly conversation. The actor said they were filming nearby. The barkeep didn’t know who Clea was and later told the detective that it seemed “the female companion” was in some kind of distress. I was certain my poor, beleaguered darling had by then become captive (years of news reports about Stockholm syndrome and the psychology of battered women sorrowfully told me so). They left just after sundown, driving about an hour before going off road, where the Taurus had indeed broken its axle.

As I walked, I saw them in my mind’s eye — Thad, with the unerring instincts of a drunk, uncannily finding the Racetrack, almost 9:00 P.M. now — veering off asphalt in querulousness or exaggerated jest before smacking the stone that cracked the undercarriage. Explosion of expletives and laughter. He’d have been the first to leave the car — Clea, cowed — for cursory damage report. Futzing with keys, rumbling in trunk. Retrieving… then reconnoitering. Clea pulling herself together then wandering after him into stillness, stoned, though maybe not, maybe even already having run through her stash — tragic! — stumbling along in numb, detoxed, zombified despair. Saw them clumsily pick through sharp-stoned black-and-blue darkness toward that dry lake of ancient monoliths, Thad yodeling, guffawing, shrieking, that tritely maddening bay-at-the-moon routine he did when out here last but no longer in the realm of charming, wild or willful, of “entertainer,” or the realm of anything anymore. Clea dazed, shaken, animal-knowing this was the end as they lurched toward Paleolithic infield of petrified mud, deaf-and-dumb klatches of rubble, following her keeper’s bruising makeshift path through sleeping creosote bushes, rattlesnake weed and moonflowers, gravel ghosts and cream cups, conspirational windflowers and whispering beardtongues.

… Saw him reach the lake bed and breathe, finally berthed on the cleared, smooth surface, untrammeled, almost hygienic in contrast to chaotic, uneven roadway, syrupy quiet all around again, Zabriskie Point stillness, cooler now that they’d stopped the trudge, his trudge, sweating the dope out, free at last from the nettles and brambles of their rugged, improvised trek: not broken, bullheaded Taurus rentals but twin Geminis, now he was home, a prince returned to Fellcrum serenity. He had doubles of the fastidious propmaster’s daggers stowed — dagger back-ups! Dagger stand-ins! — imagine carrying them two weeks on the lam then thoughtfully transferring from suitcase to car — and used them to bludgeon because they could not properly stab. I saw him after his exertions, that stillness again, nearly religious, Clea’s breath truncated then finally stopped, his own growing less ragged, all actions now become the same, flatness and lack of consequence, expirations and inhalations all one, the assault as if in a dream, bad script, bad dream from which he’d awake to complain of migraine, retiring to trailer or Chateau hours later or in morning to begin again but when he saw he could not waken, still the flatness of response, not remorse, more the discomfort of it and the wishing away, the whooshing, but the acceptance too, and the knowing it would all soon end. The irrefutable knowing.

Saw it all as I walked toward larger rocks. Moon full enough to see tracks from which the Playa took its name, slid-boulders like tombstones in my father’s old E.C.s.

The detective said the ranger found Thad propped up against one like he’d been pushing — again, I saw: laughing, thrusting, cut-rate costume warrior wrestling sisyphean sculptor’s stone, expiring herniated breath and life force as he butted, in breathing concert with mysterious forces that moved the rocks, Atlas strained and shrugged, and that was when the blood came through the mouth — choking on its torrent (so the coroner said), an aneurysm was what killed him and I thought: what a rare, good thing, how merciful of that which governs, knowing he wouldn’t have had the will to finish himself and certain that was his plan because it was learned he’d left a gun in the trunk, forgotten but maybe deliberate in the forgetting, I wasn’t convinced he had the strength to retrieve it, the gall, the stamina, better a gory red fountain through ruptured aqueduct of worn-out tissue than to lose one’s mind, already lost, in prison, useless hell of that, better to fatally shoulder Outback rock than suffer sick frenzy of renown accompanying incarceration and trial.

I phoned the ranger who discovered them but he was on holiday. I wondered if he was the kind of person for whom images fade or retain their power: clump of woman in early fossilized pupfish purplish insect hummed dawn, beat and disfigured though from a distance merely at rest on outside oval track — farther in, the curious half-standing figure rooted in a brackish pool of his own black blood, barefoot in the interplanetary park, cheaply woven garment hanging like a sequined burlap bag, dull-edged dumb-bass Super Kmart dagger on hardscrabble desert floor, laughable instrument of the settling of royal disputes.

That was not the place I wished to say good-bye.

In the morning, I headed for Badwater.

The narcotic silence was there, and tourists too. I walked out as far as I could till hardly anyone was in sight. Sponged up the quiet. Said a prayer for Clea. Told her I loved her and would always be there. I remembered kissing her a lifetime ago in her mother’s house and when I thought of Leif doing the same, sweet dimple-chinned Leif long dead and gone, I felt that familiar jealous twinge and laughed out loud in the sacred stillness, sobbing at the invincible riddle of it (imagining Clea laughing her tattooed ass off as well). Just then it struck me she would never age, she would always be that girl, the shy, nervous one with the outsized movie-star mom — and I, the nervous boy, forever groping and adoring in that celestial second-story room, beloved Californian winds in holy chastisement, roughing up the voyeuristic trees outside our window. The thing of it is, she was with Leif now; the kid had the upper hand but I was happy for him. I smiled with the maudlin thought they were together, “on the other side.” What comfort!

Grateful to have this phantasmagorical inkling that my Clea could travel between worlds and boy-lovers evermore, if that was her wish.

I left the valley.