I'll Let You Go (69 page)

Dearest Katrina,

How kind your letters were, how kind and thoughtful, and how difficult it has been for me not to answer them; I have been mindful of your emotions, and of course, of the boy's, and feel a great pang of selfishness in now breaking my silence—but I must, just as you, put some things down! If this returns unopened, so be it; I will make the next entry to my journal instead, a notebook which I have kept for many years and entitled “News from Nowhere.” Aptly named it is too, for that is the very strange place I resided all this live-long time. Until now.

I remember everything about you. While I appreciate your delicacy
in referring to the powerful forces that conspired to have me living homelessly and somewhat deranged these past years, reading your words (which I have, over and over, in the wee hours of the night)—“Or do you feel nothing? Do you even remember who I am or what we had?”—has caused much sorrow. And I do not wish you had not written them. I encourage you—implore you—to set down, if you've a mind, every little miserable thing, to the end. It is a help rather than a hindrance. I stand on the prow of a ship now, in the head wind; each memory that slaps my face and stings my eye also revivifies, and makes me more human. I never felt that I lost my humanity in that other incarnation; but I did lose the one who was closest to me. I do not think it unwise you told the boy I was a goner; I might have done the same. What else could you have said? Please do not badger yourself over decisions and choices made in the wake of that upheaval.

In my travels, I met a wondrous dog named “Half Dead”—and so it was, as you wrote, that I had become. But Half Dead was a scrapper, and a good soul; I think I'm made of the same stuff.

Your father has been a godsend. He greets me without judgment, and I am moved by him—as I was moved by your courageous outpourings. I will understand if you do not choose to respond to my unsolicited phrases; be assured then, I will not bother you any more.

Your words about our son were sorely needed when they arrived. I thank you for them. You can be assured too that I will not impose myself on the boy, or badger him. I feel that I am here by the lights of some strange god, and will do nothing to fall from his graces. I hope I have not forever fallen from yours—and remain,

Marcus

Dear Katrina,

I hope I did not say anything to put you off; I mean, anything untoward or presumptuous. I've raked over the letter in my head and
wish like hell I hadn't written “dearest” at the onset; it was improper to imply an intimacy I long ago forsook. There are other things I wish I hadn't said but I don't desire to make this a catalogue. I'm not even certain that my letter was read; perhaps it would be better for both of us that it wasn't. I do not mean to sound neurotic because that is not how I feel; I am merely mindful of not making false steps—I imagine that would be impossible! I waited a week or so before sending this out—I thought perhaps my first letter might be returned, and if not, that perhaps your father would have passed on a hint that any such correspondence from me was unwelcome. Which, of course, I would honor. But as I heard nothing, and received nothing back, I will humbly set down just a few short thoughts.

The medication I have been taking (thanks again to Louis) has worked wonders. Luckily, I am a fine candidate, neurologically, for such treatment. I have lost quite a bit of weight and am feeling rather fit. I don't mean to boast. My life has settled in here; I go to the sea with my “men,” and often cook us lunch on the beach, which they invariably declare most saporific. (Do you remember the tall chef's hat you once gave me?) My mother and father have been to see me. They look old, and poor Harry had a stroke. But he is soldiering on—

This IS diabolically difficult. You were so right when you said there was “too much and too little” to put in a letter. My God. Do you know that you never left my thoughts, Katy? Katrina? It is just that, in my disordered world, you had become someone else, someone called “Janey”—Jane Morris, the wife of William, that genius of English design. I cannot elaborate for now, for it is painful to set this down, because it is shaming; my illness is shaming and shameful. But the one thing I wished to say is that I never felt I would have harmed you. I do not have that in me. I am not wounded by your mentioning it; it seems a reasonable explanation for what you called an unfathomable thing. I have tried myself to piece together that night and that morning and the months that followed, but it is as if something ruptured. I only see colors and a drizzle before my eyes—and the Tower itself. I remember the Tower receding as I ran, like a giant struck dumb and immobilized. It was the TOWER, it
seems, and not you, from which I was running. The Tower had become a conspirator—against us, and our happiness. The Tower had to be placated. It was such a beauteous thing; we are often trapped within wondrous designs, without explanation (the intricate patterns of Mr. Morris's tapestries being a felicitous example of this most unfelicitous condition). Even then, as I struggled in panic to escape, it loomed over me, gorgeous and well-made. I feel nothing for it now; should I be walked to that place this very hour, I am certain it would have no court or sway. It never was an icon of superstition for me, nor did it have a demonic voice—it simply became something that must be jettisoned, or it would have crushed the world. It is, as you said, unfathomable, and unfathomable to me now.

But I always thought of you, Katrina, and NEVER wished you harm nor thought I could be harm's instrument. I ask for your forbearance and forgiveness and will not write if that is what you so desire. And I would not leave again without the boy's “consent”; would not even dream of it. But it was wise and motherly for you to say what you did. I remain

Yours,
Marcus Weiner

Dear Marcus,

I thank you for your letters; and yes, of course, I read them. And yes, of course, I hesitated in responding, for a number of reasons—the primary being that I don't want to lead you on. Any exchange might somehow charge off, by itself and without warning, in a wrong direction. You are mending now and I would not wish to contribute to anything that deters from that. You must spend your time in exercise and meditation, not in composing letters to
me—letters that, if I can be blunt—cannot lead to anything. Our thoughts, I think (and I am not sure I have many left!) would probably best be confined to personal diaries. No?

As said, I did not initially respond, because I didn't want you to get the wrong impression—that any kind of romance could be rekindled. If this sounds vain, then let it—I may as well be “up-front” and put all the cards on the table (forgive the cliché). For I am past all that, Marcus. Another reason for my hesitance was I'd hope that if it
did
come to pass that you saw Toulouse—that you were serious when you said “I would not leave without the boy's consent”—then I became suddenly fearful you might misinterpret my “interest” (i.e. any sort of correspondence) and
that
would become the driving influence on your decision to remain, at least for the time being, here in Los Angeles … or in our lives or however one wants to put it. “Waiting for the next letter,” so to say. I know this might sound monstrously egocentric but I must speak my mind. I know you have affection for the boy but as you have not yet met him, he is still an abstract. He might better remain that. I am hoping that by making it VERY clear that I do not wish to pursue anything romantic—or anything really at all—that you will—if that is the main thing that was holding you here—that you will leave this city before seeing our son. In other words, I can't know your motivations, and while I
do
believe you're a good soul, and
always
believed that (and always will), I would not condemn or judge if you felt you should move on—cut your losses so to speak. Your seeing Toulouse cannot be contigent on something between us which is not (& I suppose was never) meant to be. I'm sorry to speak so crudely but I am protective of my son. If after reading this you
do
have a mind to leave then I implore you do so
before
seeing him. For what good would it do, other than to perversely appease a curiosity?

(It is a day-and-a-half later.) I let this sit awhile, because I felt a bit self-righteous upon finishing. I'll add this to it, rather than attempting to revise; I don't think I have it in me to revise anything anymore.

Perhaps I “spoke” too soon. If you
are
planning on going away again it might actually be a “far better thing” for you to actually
meet with Toulouse, so you can (both) “get it out of your system.” I don't want to be the Gestapo.

I suppose there aren't any rules, are there? So for me at this point to try and make them seems a little arrogant. I do not mean to sound all over the map, and am sorry for that. But I am

Sincerely,
Trinnie Trotter

Dearest K,

First off, may I say how gladdened I am you took the time to read my letters, and also took time to so thoughtfully respond.

Secondly, your point on the “romantic” front is well-taken. Katrina, I think the world of you, but promise I do not harbor such illusions notions. You are to me—aside from being the mother of my son, which is itself a new and astonishing complication—like a friend with whom I once shared many things, turbulent and joyous, and with whom I have recently had the pleasure and good fortune to make reacquaintance.

As for the boy—I can't say they are forever dead but whatever demons drove me—well, they are so quiet or at least now so distant that I can't make them out against the general landscape. Perhaps they lie in wait, as on that long-ago morning; perhaps they've met their match in therapist's pharmacopia. But your point was, as usual, well-made, and well-taken.

I see the above was a bit unclear. What I meant to say was that the sirens do not call. Not anymore. And that I have not commingled your presence—the existence of you—with the boy's. And that my head is on straight about it.

[three hours later] Katy, I must now divulge something which it now seems clear you've not been told—I have met the boy. I know that

[one hour later] If I have violated a confidence, so be it—it does
me no good to part with information which my sponsor, my father-in-law if I may, might rather I had kept to myself. He never said as much, mind you, so I don't feel the complete opprobrium of betrayal; still, he has been so kind and I am uncomfortably shy in exposing him. But I fear if you WERE told—you may be in possession of such knowledge at this reading for all I know—if you WERE told and I did not mention this development, you might feel again wronged by me and have fuel for myriad resentments and suspicions. I do not wish such emotions to come between us. It has been difficult enough.

Katy, I do not know what goes on at this time between you and Louis; but I do believe that your father, for reasons which I shall put forth in a moment, must have had the very same thoughts as you regarding the urgency of a summit between Toulouse and myself, and so arranged a meeting on Christmas Day. (He had his own “intelligences” for believing the boy was in fact ready to see me, or ready as he might be.) An opportunity to meet him on home ground dovetailed with your absence; why he decided on Saint-Cloud I am uncertain. He had brought me there to show the maze, and we were then, I had been told, to move on to the Hotel Bel-Air for a rendezvous with our son. But then your father felt poorly and rubbed a bit at his neck as if something pained him so we stayed instead and cold tea was brought for him to drink and a wet towel to lay on like a poultice.

The most peculiar thing was that I had already “met” the boy without having known it (this is the “intelligence” of which I spoke). You see, I had a grievous chore to attend to and the vehicle called the Mawk was borrowed when our own broke down. When Toulouse found out I was to be onboard, he stowed away. It was such a sad errand for me, Katy, that I saw him but did not really notice, and thought he belonged to the the driver, Mr. Blade. In any case, I was certainly not introduced. When Louis learned of it, he said to himself what I imagine to be the very same thing you put to letter: well, that the two (or at least Toulouse) should “get it out of their systems.”

Anyway, I won't go on much more just now—I'm only hoping THIS piece of intelligence, as dear Louis might say, finds you in a charitable, forgiving moment of your day. Lay the blame on me if
you wish, for I can bear it, especially from you, but your father was not at fault. He is the best of men, with the best intentions. Katrina, forgive me! My words sound rife with patronization, but I'd rather be back on the streets, mindless and unhinged, if they were to be taken as such, which is the furthest from how they are meant!

Earnestly, and with
Devotion
Respect
MW

P.S. I recall that Louis was emphatic in voicing his desire that you should know that meeting took place; perhaps he has not yet found the right time to convey what transpired. I hope the time
I
found—and took—was not the wrong one.

Katrina,

I understand your silence. In my fear you would sever contact, I selfishly failed to even mention how the meeting with our son Toulouse went. It did not go all that bad. I made inquiries of his schooling and while the boy was reticent to engage in much discussion, he was clearly not afraid, or intimidated. This, I know, does not sound valedictory or sanguine—but is relevant in that he might have heard many unfounded but terrifying rumors about his father.

I have not seen him since, though I long to. I am leaving it to Louis—and to you—and to the boy himself of course—to decide otherwise. I know that you desired to limit your correspondence with me and I don't wish it to seem I am enlisting you into some sort of contract where I await your delegations; this is so damn difficult, Katy.

I will leave you in peace and am sorry to have disturbed you but felt compelled to send this corollary.

May you have a Good Day,
Marcus