I'll Let You Go (52 page)

When he returned to the shelter in the afternoon, Janey wasn't there. He took up supper duties, then set about preparing a special
dessert for her alone. William heated sugar in a saucepan until it was pale gold, then swirled the caramel; whilst adding juice from the pomegranate, the caramel steamed and hardened and he stirred until it dissolved. He made a separate bowl of arrowroot and water and ruffled that into the mix. He cooked the whole sauce until it boiled and thickened, before covering it to let it cool. At about ten that night, he blended in the carefully shucked ruby-colored seeds of the ancient fruit, and when someone said Janey'd come back, he spooned the caramel sauce over three scoops of vanilla Häagen-Dazs.

Bowl in hand, he was suddenly disquieted—he had been so preoccupied with pith and pip and memories of the Red Lands that he hadn't given proper weight to her uncustomary absence. Earlier, he had taken one of the counselor's casual asides (that Janey was at a sobriety meeting at Clare) at face value, knowing full well she refused to attend those peculiar, mandatory gatherings with anyone but him. William found her sitting on a bench inside the shelter's chain-link enclosure and saw immediately that she was in no mood for treats. She was pale and drawn, and drawn in on herself too.

“Janey, what is it? Are you unwell?” Her body shook, and she could not get a word out. “Shall I call a doctor?”

Her dress had a smear of crimson, as if one of his fruits had been crushed down there, and William, in his naïveté, thought her embarrassed by some menstrual clumsiness. But in fact she had come from her chores with Please-Help.-Bless, who was particularly indifferent to her frailties that night and had made her suffer greatly.

She glanced at the dessert offering, then stood up, kissed William's cheek and took to her bed until morning.

B
luey came home. A conspiracy of sophisticated scans revealed the disease to be at an alarmingly advanced stage, the brain under siege by a riot of dementia; memories and faces had begun their anarchic stampede from tear-gas clouds of vanishing or misbegotten cells, while moods and emotions cowered, blackjacked in the rainy, atrophied back alleys of the cavum septum pellucidum (which was not so pellucid, or even lucid, anymore). Toulouse wasn't sure what all the fuss was about—Grandma was still Grandma, more or less. At least, to him.

He strolled with the old woman along the perimeter of the maze (a
metaphor too tidy by half, yet unavoidable when inviting a faddish archetype into one's backyard). Those with the disease of forgetting enjoyed their wanderings, as monks had done in meditation labyrinths of old—though enlightenment was not the thing awaiting Bluey Trotter at puzzle's end.

“The strange thing is, I remember
everything—
from half a century ago. Though sometimes I can't remember my
name
,” she said, and smiled. “But I
do
recall the oddest details. San Francisco, 1947. A piece of jade I bought at Gump's—clear as a bell. The amazing thing is, I haven't thought about that jade
or
Gump's in a hundred years. Vic Bergeron—that was ‘Trader Vic'—and George Mardikian … the
restaurants
, Toulouse. I'm so glad you've started calling yourself that! Baghdad by the Bay—oh, Tull, it was just … 
creamy
, like those pastries I love. Or a late de Kooning—do you know who that is? The painter, not the pastor. He had a rough time of it mentally, too. Do you know what San Francisco was like back then? There seemed to be no
people
there—just women in long white gloves. Swans … like the movie
Vertigo
. Oh, but Kim Novak was a beauty. But you've never
seen Vertigo
, have you, Tull? Of course you haven't. Your mother
loved
that city; that wasn't until so much later. But
then
!
1947!
Oh good Lord, it was
heaven
—it was
all
heaven. And Capri!” she gasped. “How can I describe for you Capri? I remember the little chalk scribblings the boys made on the cliffside rocks, boys just your age. See them clear as day. You've heard of Capri? Well of
course
you have! My world traveler! Good Lord, you've been to more places than
I
have.”

She stopped near a leafy inlet and drew her fingers through her grandson's hair. Pullman came over, and Toulouse watched a tiny shock wave of fear enlarge her eyes until the dog passed. She hadn't recognized the animal.

They walked some more in silence, until reaching the side of the maze farthest from the house. “My parents never wanted me to marry him, you know. To them he was a trashman, a digger of holes. A mole. Worse: a
clotheshorse
mole! Now,
your
father, well, the situation was … those people—those
Redlands
people had no money, but what difference did it make? We didn't care about that. One thing your grandmother is
not
is a snob. And your father … Marcus seemed a bit ‘lost,' no? He had his Oxford side, St. John's and all, and then he had his Hollywood side. Very Jewish that way. Well, we didn't give a yap about
any
of it, your
grandfather and I. We only wanted Trinnie to be happy.” She traced a line with her foot in the pebbly ground. “Your father … well—what was meant to be was meant to be. He was not
mentally correct
. Do you love him?” The question took him aback. Again, with a rakish smile: “Do you love him?”

“Grandma, I've never even met him!”

“I'm sure you will,” she said, with a pixie's amusement.

“Sometimes I wish Lucy never told me he was … alive.”

“Oh, but
someone
would have. And you'd have been angry, no? Lucy is a great friend, no? You love Lucy, don't you?”

“Yes.”

They passed a second entrance to the box hedge, and Bluey gave an inquiring side glance.

“Don't think I'll go in—not today.”

She gathered herself on a stone bench. He sat down beside her.

“Do you know what is
truly
distressing?” She had the hollow, watery eyes of an excommunicant. “The thing I'm terrified of?—”

“Grandma, what is it?”

He thought she would burst into tears.

“You promise you won't say anything to anyone?”

“I promise.”

“Are you certain, Toulouse? Because I don't want this to get back to your mother! And I sure as hell don't want Louis bothered by it.”

“I won't,” he said, genuinely wanting to ease her agony. “I wouldn't tell
anyone
.”

She leaned in his ear and whispered: “We are running out of money.”

Toulouse was nonplussed; under contagion of the old woman's derangement, he struggled to understand. He'd never given money much thought—its running-outs
or
running-ins.

“But … did someone
say
it?”

“No! No! Of
course
not! Of course no one
said
it. No one ever
says
it. No one ever says
anything
. It's something I
know
and it does
not
need ratification
or
ratiocination. But I
cannot
discuss this with your grandfather, do you understand? Because that
will
‘hasten' me—in their eyes. They'll send me away! Did you know Louis bought a set of buttons at auction for twenty-three thousand dollars? A set of buttons, Toulouse! From the Court of Louis the Fourteenth. He collects anything with ‘Louis' attached,
such is his
vanitas
—'vanity of vanities,' sayeth the Preacher. And to what end? How are we to maintain the house, Toulouse? Do you
know
what that man hoards in his den? (You
should
know; you're in there enough.) More than Croesus, that's what! And your
mother
is cut from the same cloth. I told them to sell that house—that crazy cracked tower. I told them
years
ago. What good does it do just sitting there? Do you know what that land is
worth
? Families could live there fourteen times over! But your mother and grandfather would rather keep a haunted house. Well now
I've
come to haunt
them—I'll
make them pinch a penny!”

“Grandma, let's go back.”

“You cannot breathe a
word
—”

“I wouldn't.”

She began to weep.

“Your uncle Dodd … I had such hopes for your uncle Dodd—that
he
would be the one to restore us. But he spends so much! Lord, he flies around in a plane that costs millions and millions—you need an entire crew and every one of those crew-people have their own lifestyles that must be maintained. And you have to
pay
! You're supporting a whole
city
of people you don't even know! Joyce says she makes him take pills so he won't spend the money—his wife is an
angel
. But I
do
think they may be worse off than we are! The market is
constantly crashing
. But you wouldn't know it from talking to Uncle Dodd! No you wouldn't. He's got his head in the sand, Tullie … Do you think they'll ask for anything? Do you think they'll ask Grandpa for money? That would be a terrible calamity. Because we simply do not have it!”

“M
r. Trotter?” She stood outside the Withdrawing Room like a child. “Mr. Trotter, may I come in?”

The old man was surprised, and pleased to see her. “Yes, Winter, of course.”

“I won't take too much of your time.”

“Not at all, come in! Come in.” He was having his drink, and strolling amid the little tombs. “How's our girl doing?”

“Not so bad today. Keeps to her scrapbooks.” She smiled rather painfully. “Says we lost one of the notices—that I misplaced it. Sometimes she even says I steal them.”

“Never was a shy one!” he said. “Always spoke her mind.”

“Spends most her time looking, looking, looking—then forgets what she's looking
for
.”

He chuffed and clucked and shook his head. “Invidious disease.”

He sipped at his sherry and offered her some, surprised when she acceded.

Winter looked around at the room's wonders, and he handed her a glass. He knew she had more to say. She'd been under a great strain and perhaps wanted a sabbatical; the timing could not be more inopportune.

“And how are
you
bearing up, Winter?”

“Me, sir? I'm all right. I've been through it before—with an aunt. In Reykjavík. But it's not an easy thing …”

“No. Not an easy thing.”

“Mr. Trotter … there's something been on my mind. And I—I wanted to talk it over.”

“Yes! Anything, Winter! Please!”

“Well, some months ago Mrs. Trotter said she bought me something. And I was
very
glad and
very
grateful of it at the time but now … now that her troubles seem to have gotten so much worse—”

“What did she buy you, Winter?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Well, sir, she said—she said it was a condo.”

“A condo?”

“Yessir. A condominium.”

He chuffed and looked thoughtfully into the air. “Where?”

“I don't know, Mr. Trotter. I never asked.”

“I see. And … well, she never mentioned—never mentioned any details?”

“No, sir. Not a word.” She looked at the ground, as if at a loss; he thought he would help her along.

“And you want to know if the papers are in order …” Winter looked up, confused. “You're concerned that with the onset of Bluey's ‘difficulties,' the paperwork or records of ownership might be, shall we say,
in flux
.”

“No sir, I—”

He chuffed, trying to lighten the mood, which had become a trifle morbid. “Perhaps
that's
the thing she thinks you've misplaced—perhaps that's what she's been searching for. I'll look into it, Winter, you have my word. And I'm glad you came to me. It's an absolutely valid concern.”

“But, Mr. Trotter, you misunderstand!”

“Oh?”

“I don't care about any condo—I never have! I never asked for anything and never expected anything in all my years with the family! But, sir—if she
did
do this thing—if she
did
buy this place for me—which was quite unusual in that she'd never done anything like it before in the thirty-five—if she
did
do this thing on account of—her ‘difficulties,' as you said—if she bought this thing for me and doesn't remember or never meant to in the
first
place … or
wouldn't
have if not for her ‘difficulties'—”

The old man stopped her short. He chuffed a bit, and fiddled with a cuff link before meeting her eye.

“Winter, I am truly sorry if I jumped to conclusions. I
do
understand you now and it's so good of you. Forgive me. Because there
are
people who prey on—not you, certainly not!—but in the time since all these ‘difficulties' came to a head, so to speak, I have learned that my wife—that Bluey has written checks in the last six months to various charitable organizations, some of which have proved dubious. Some of these came from phone solicitations. There are whole armies of people, it seems, who prey on people such as my wife. We are actively going over all her transactions of the past year. We are doing it at this very moment. So I appreciate you coming to me, Winter. And I assure you everything will be looked into.”

“You won't say anything to her, will you, Mr. Trotter? About my concerns?”

“Of course not,” he said, putting an arm around her.

“Thank you! Thank you so much.”

“Thank
you
, Winter. Now, get some rest. You look tired.”