I'll Let You Go (39 page)

The Quincunx offices weren't far from the targeted campus, and he often took his “BV walks” after lunch. Dodd apprized the Spanish duplexes, stucco dingbats and occasional multi-units on the school's periphery, then forged past the hideous dirty pink bungalows stuck on the glum, aging playground; strolled from Elm Street to Gregory Way, then to Rexford Drive—peering through the barred gate at the empty library along the way (what was sadder than an empty library?)—then on to Charleville, where sat the condemned, bell-towered auditorium. One of these early walkabouts had engendered a startling idea: what if he were to build a new P.S. template—the “Lilliputian university”? His friend the good Dr. Goodnight had shown the world it could be done with his Cary Academy in North Carolina, and Courtney Ross had made terrific inroads with
her
place in the Hamptons … though for a project of commensurate scale or even somewhat smaller “footprint” Dodd would need a tad more land. Just a
scoche
 … still, he resolved to build the complex in such a way that wouldn't scare off the Board, a design that so artfully concealed its grandness that it would scarcely be noticed. In weaker moments, he thought maybe he should just have his friend Mr. Gehry wrap the whole thing in titanium, bungalows included.

He wondered: what would it take to actually purchase Beverly Vista's hundred or so surrounding residences? The duplexes couldn't go for much more than $600,000 apiece, though it wouldn't have mattered if they were $10 million. (He had the capital.) Dodd Trotter could buy up entire blocks: all the crappy five-story condos with fancy names—Rexford Plaza, Rexford House, Rexford Park—and outlying grids with private homes, too. It was a stroke of genius. He got that adrenalized, impervious feeling in blood and brain that usually presaged a buying jag, only this time it wasn't from skipping meds. He would call his consultant and let the acquisitions begin. His companies had more than sixty thousand employees now—dingbats and multi's would be purchased for secretaries to live in gratis for their first six months of employment; houses and duplexes tagged for newly relocated low-to-mid-level managers. Stealthily, he would mount his campaign—Marcie would be the only one to know. Hadn't Marlborough School in Hancock
Park done the same thing? Bought up the neighborhood for their expanding needs without anyone being the wiser? The trick was to pull it off without displacing schoolkids … disrupting the community was the last thing he wanted. Maybe he'd focus on buying out the
childless
, first—then snap up houses of parents with Vista students at the very
end
, just before construction commenced … or maybe buy the properties
now
but have everyone sign covert agreements allowing them squatters' rights until given notice to vacate; that way no one would be inconvenienced. He'd offer three times the fair market value, and if they hit a snag—if someone got stubborn and wouldn't sell—they'd sweeten the pot with Quincunx stock options. Everyone had his price.

“Frances-Leigh?”

“Yes, Mr. Trotter?”

“Were you able to locate him?”

“Yes sir, I was.”

“Where does he live?”

“In Simi Valley.”

“Isn't that, like, Cop World? What's he doing out there?”

“His son's in law enforcement.”

“Son? I guess Trinnie was wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“About him being a fag.”

“I wouldn't know about that!”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Sure did.”

“Let's call him up.”

Dodd sat there in his Aeron. When she had Dr. Janklow on the line, he rocked a full minute before picking up.

“Dr. Janklow! It's Dodd Trotter.”

“Well, hello!” said the voice on the other end—gone reedily eager and tentative with age. “Gee, that was quick! The woman told me you were going to call.”

“How
are
you?”

“Miserable! Had cancer three times already. Cancer
loves
me.”

“I'm sorry to hear it.”

“I just like to bitch and moan, that's all. But I'm all right. Getting my fifth wind up here in beautiful Simi.”

“Well, it's great to hear your voice.”

“
You
did rather well for yourself.”

“Got lucky, that's all.”

“Now, I don't know if I believe
that
. Been reading about you on the Internet.”

“Ugh.”

“Don't worry!” he said with a laugh. “Nothing too terrible.”

“Dr. Janklow, I can't tell you how often I've thought of you—what an important force you were in my life. You were always there for me.”

“That's a wonderful thing. A wonderful thing to hear.”

“And I wanted to call to say hello and see how you are—and if there was anything you needed.”

“Well, no—unless you were thinking of dropping a few billion on me. You know, I'm set pretty well. My son's here; he and his wife and the grandchildren live close by. I'm doing all right. But now … what is it that
you
need, Mr. Trotter?”

That was the Dr. Janklow he remembered; the sage who gently turned the tables. “Would you—I'd love to take you to dinner.”

“Well, I … 
yes
, that would be nice!
Certainly
, yes. That's one wish I can grant! But I don't drive so well anymore … and I don't like imposing—”

“I'll send a car.”

“It's quite a ways.”

“There're a few things I'd like to talk with you about—about the school. Beverly Vista. Some thoughts and plans …”

“Marcie told me.”

“Marcie did?”

“Oh yes—you know Marcie still keeps me up on all the doings. She's a little compulsive that way, but she
means
well. Does well by the kids, that's for sure. Always has their interests at heart. Now, Marcie said you were cooking up some
wonderful
things and I don't doubt it. But I had no idea you'd call.”

“She's the one who brought me back to it.”

“She'll
do
that if you're not careful! I've been knowing the Millards forever. Do you know Peter? Peter Millard?”

“I'm afraid I don't.”

“Helluva surgeon.”

“Well, we
are
‘cooking up' some wonderful things—and I'd like you to be a part of them.”

“I'm an old man, you know. And I'm disgusted with what's going on in today's schools—all of 'em.”

“We're going to change that.”

“Disgusted! I don't know how I can be of help.”

“Just sitting down and breaking bread with you would make a difference.”

“That sounds rather biblical! Guess my age elicits that. But, Jesus, the guns changed everything. Schools have become damn shooting galleries. I retired before all that, thank God. The minute kids started bringing guns to class—well, that was just the end of the world, far as I could see.”

T
hat night, Dodd told his wife he was divesting himself of far-flung ruins—his hobby had played itself out. They made love for the first time in months, and afterward Joyce nervously told him about
her
special project; how she bought land at Westwood Village Memorial Park because those babies needed a home that wasn't a potter's field. She said she hadn't yet told his father, and Dodd agreed that was probably a good thing. For the time being, anyway. He was so gentle and understanding, and it felt like they were coming to new ground. He said he needed to get back in physical shape, and she made him promise to do yoga with her at the house with Ana Forrest. They spoke of their children and general good fortune. Dodd suggested they go away on a little trip around the time the kids took off on their summer holiday. There were plenty of jets to go around.

As they fell asleep, Joyce touched his shoulder and whispered, “Thank you.” She wasn't sure that he heard; she wanted it to be more than subliminal. So she said it again.

T
he children were away for a whirlwind three-week tour; and while travel was Edward Aurelius Trotter's métier and he never felt more anchored than when bonds to earth were severed, the hardships he so gracefully endured amid numbered leave-takings from the softship of his father's customized cabin were notable and should be recorded for future invalids, real and imaginary.

Exactly who was part of this airborne sodality? Let us first introduce those professionally engaged. The retooled 737 came with six pilots, whose tag-team approach allowed them to enjoy more than a few sights (one might think this arrangement was on account of Dodd Trotter's largesse, when in actuality it was his wife's suggestion, being Joyce's sensible opinion that a happy, rested crew made for a safer voyage); two in-flight helpers—a hunky Greek, whom the overheated Lucy fantasized about on days when Tull was particularly distant and uncaring—and a stewardess, whose protracted, ritualized reapplication of lip gloss and outliner may as well have been a morbid surgical procedure for all the fascinated attention it received from the boys of Four Winds; a portly medical doctor by the name of Dr. Raff, who was a part-time resident of the hidden clinic at Olde CityWalk, hence well familiar with Edward's condition; two homely, overqualified nurses—whose looks still proved eminently watchable to certain of our younger captives, and who seemed on this trip to stick thermometers in more mouths than they could remember—their technical skills and general know-how being of emergency-room caliber; a physical therapist and self-proclaimed tai chi instructor (dubbed Slouching Tiger by Edward) for
whom no one seemed to care and who, to his credit, cared less in return and, aside from massaging the first cousin, which he did well enough, mostly took up “carrying” duties familiar to Epitacio, Eulogio and Sling Blade, delicately hoisting the boy in his arms on request; two techies—one, an expert in upkeep, maintenance and troubleshooting of aspirators, defibrillators and assorted hose-and-pump gewgaws (an inventory that remained, thankfully, unused) and the other, a kind of practical engineer, who saw to it that Edward's portable AirBuggy, a more modest version of the bulkier trademark dry-docked at Olde CityWalk, would be up and running and not sputter out on the Via Whatever in front of Ruin XXVII; three bodyguards, charged with the security of the group and who were to be sure no kidnappings, hijackings or explosive surprises ensued; two
cuisiniers particuliers
and their assistants, all of whose glacially indifferent dispositions challenged one's romantic notions of the fiery cook-as-artist; and finally, one of Dodd Trotter's crack efficiency mavens, whose only job was to facilitate hemispheric, longitudinal and latitudinal comings and goings, VIP clearances, embassy liaisons, passports and vaccinations, baggage wranglings, concierge-strokings and hotel check-ins, general politics, skullduggeries and laundry. That would be dry-cleaning
and
fluff 'n' fold.

Let us examine the next level up. Here resides the venerable Mr. Hookstratten, whose civilian clothes and multiplicity of camera gear first severely embarrassed the children, as they weren't used to seeing him bustle about in the real world. (It felt way too intimate.) The teacher was joined by his life partner, a supposed expert in the field of celestial navigation, whose name was Reed, apropos for an attenuated, fuzzy-haired body that seemed to tilt sardonically in the wind, and who smiled at the little ones with the benevolence of a sadist who'd already poisoned their pie. There was a professor of medieval history with terrible breath, who was wont to accompany himself on guitar singing Middle English “ditties”; he was eventually exonerated, even extolled, after Edward proclaimed the man's knowledge to be authentic and of enormous range. Rounding things out came a chess-master-cum-alpinist upon whom the physical-therapist-cum-tai-chi-master instantly fixated as nemesis.

Having dispensed with the above, we now arrive at a small VIP subset: the actress Diane Keaton and her daughter, Dex—the latter already slated to be a Four Winds scholar, class of 2012. As previously noted, Tull and the actress shared a dog walker, but the ties went deeper.

Trinnie and Ms. Keaton had a reunion of sorts at the oft-referred-to Animal CAT-scan Ball, which, the reader cannot fail to recall, was attended by Ron Bass himself. Diane, a former client of Marcus Weiner, had always been captivated by Katrina (the actress being a fabled cognoscente of style, genius and tragedy) and had long followed her career in the garden journals and magazines, coincidentally even visiting some of the heiress's more acclaimed and faraway private commissions. While Mr. Bass commiserated with the now-former “Rafe” Mirdling, Trinnie poured out some of her scandalized heart to the entranced and startled Ms. Keaton, filling in the gaps of the actress's knowledge, which of necessity had been dependent on gossip and newspaper accounts read long ago, now almost forgotten. The two had lunch at Il Pastaio, and Trinnie even went so far as to accommodate her old acquaintance and newfound friend (Ms. Keaton, to her eternal regret, had been unable to attend the wedding) with a moonlit tour of the near-virginal grounds of La Colonne. In the months since the benefit, the actress had met the entire Trotter clan and become enamored of them, as anyone would. While Trinnie was the initial connection, credit must be given to Joyce (who never receives enough) for suggesting that Diane and her sweet-banged Dexter join the kids for at least part of their international campaign.