Whatever Lola Wants (41 page)

•

Lola touched my forearm. “He sounds like you.”

I nodded. I hid my smile from her.

•

A nineteenth-century system
of locks and canals, recently revived, makes it possible to sail from New York Harbor, head up the Hudson and along the old Barge Canal to Lake Champlain, through its hundred-mile length to the Sabrevois and Richelieu Rivers, on to the St. Lawrence and back to the Atlantic. The New England states plus the Gaspé Peninsula of southeastern Quebec, together with New Brunswick: thought of in this way, they become a huge island.

The headwaters of the Missisquoi and the Richelieu were rapid little streams, the Sabrevois more peaceful, sluggish even. From where Fortier Creek emptied into the Sabrevois the water dropped seventy-nine feet over forty-one miles to the St. Lawrence and was navigable by pleasure boats its full length.

The phone rang. Charlie Dart. “Checking if you're in. Stay there. I'm coming over.”

“Sure, but what's—”

“I'll be there in half an hour.”

What was up with Charlie? Carney went back to his research. The fist-bump north containing the Cochan and Magnussen properties was covered with shallow-earth fields. The land around was lightly forested. A granite shelf began just below the surface, now and then erupting into visible crags and low cliffs. The light soil produced patches of corn, and some hay. The roots of such pine, maple, spruce and birch as managed to grow spread broad and shallow.

To the north, over into Quebec, lay rich farming land. Only sixty-five hundred years ago the area had been an immense lake, large as Erie. At its eastern end, on the far side of what was now Quebec City, a massive ridge creating falls to rival Niagara had dammed it in place. But under the force of erosion the St. Lawrence deepened its channel and over centuries of surge and thrust the falls collapsed. The lake emptied forever, revealing new land, a bed that had filled over millions of years with rich soil drained from the plains and prairies via the Great Lakes and the upper St. Lawrence. Now five months a year when the sun warmed the soil the land provided wondrous corn and hay, berries, apples.

He heard Charlie's car arriving. He set his computer on standby.

Was there a pattern to all that information? Nothing about caves, caverns, underground spaces. His head shook a little.

Charlie made himself comfortable in a chair across from Carney. “There's no way to say this easily. Julie died last week. I just found out.”

Carney's head dropped, he massaged his forehead, he rubbed his eyebrows. He felt a chill down his back. His nose began to run. He saw her again, a shadow of her young self, on the bed in the semi-dark. No, he would remember her as the young woman she'd been. He sniffed, wiped his nose with his hands. “What happened?”

“She starved herself. She had a living will. They didn't try to keep her alive.”

“Oh god, Charlie.”

“She wanted to go. You saw her. You know that.”

“Yes. I know. Doesn't help, though.”

“Want a drink?”

“No.” Carney stood. “No, I've got some work to do this afternoon. Is she—is she buried somewhere nearby?”

“Cremated. Ashes thrown into the wind.”

Carney nodded. “Into the wind.”

9.

The afternoon meeting with Carney
swelled into a brain-boil in Cochan's head. He should go to the cemetery now. Be gone when Carney arrived. What difference, one more sale of Terramac property. If not a Carney, someone else.

He stood. He thought, I am not dominated by the demands of others. He walked down the steps, past the silent worktables to the front door. He pushed it open. A warm sunny day. He stepped outside.

Ridiculous. Giving in to urges? Childish.

He could go home, maybe talk now to Priscilla, tell her his plan for Benjie. She would say, What a lovely thing to do. She would say, Then he'd be with us forever. And she'd say, He's coming back to us. And Johnnie would say, Yes.

And she would say, Soon. And, He's a quarter of the way here. And, He's growing again, just like before. And, He's here, feel him, touch my belly, press—

No!

Yes, she'd say, I'm going to rebear Benjie, our Benjie.

No you will not! How could she say such things, there's only one Benjie, that Benjie is away, far away forever.

Johnnie banished her from his mind. Sweat poured from the back of his scalp down his nape. He opened the door again, went back in, headed for the washroom, a little water on his face. He stared at himself in the mirror. His black hair lay stiff and clotted on his head. His mustache was too long, the thin bristles dribbled into his mouth. His eyebrows had gone all but hairless. His ears stuck out too far. But his nose, straight in profile, thin and elegant, united the elements of his face and turned it handsome. He cupped his hands and splashed water.

•

“Ted!”

I stared at her. Her eyes were wide. “What? Lola, what?”

“That's him!”

“Who?”

“His face.” She grabbed my arm.

“Lola. Whose face?”

“Him. My final last lover. The very wealthy man.” She slammed the heels of her palms over her eyes.

I shook my head. “This is Johnnie Cochan. He couldn't have been more than a boy when you died.”

She opened her eyes slowly. “You're right.” She shook her head. “But you described him so clearly, the nose of his face—”

I shrugged. “Lots of people look like that.”

She nodded. But her thoughts were elsewhere.

•

John Cochan returned
to his desk. To prepare for Lexington. When Carney has left, go to Benjie.

10.

Carney told Bobbie about Julie's
death. They had sat still and silent in the Jaguar, the top down. Finally Bobbie hugged him. Nothing to be said.

Then for an hour while she searched a couple of bookstores for the few good among the many bad new poets, Carney visited with Theresa. And Milton, sitting in silence. Theresa lay flat, her unwavering stare examining a single spot in the ceiling.

What Theresa saw there: a picture, a photo, a young woman, blond bobbed hair a halo round her head, tiny mouth, dark lips pouting, buxom in a tight sweater, slender waist, long legs beneath a long skirt. She brandished a fencing foil. My ethical visitor, Theresa said, and, Where were you when I needed you? The woman in the photo remained silent. Theresa's brain shouted: Get down from there! The woman clung to the ceiling. Theresa couldn't yell louder so she whispered, Please, help me. No response. She breathed, My embodied reality reduced to a picture. I am powerless to help myself.

Carney saw he could do no good here, so left and drove up the hill to Karl's stone house. He would mourn Julie in due time. Not now. Karl opened the door and drew Carney in. “Now what's your greatest need? Scotch? Vodka-tonic?”

“Too early. Just a fruit juice, thanks.”

“She likes you a great deal, you know. You charmed her.”

“Oh?”

Karl nodded. “She was impressed. First time she met you. Each time after that.”

“Wouldn't have guessed it.” At her cabin he recalled Sarah as fully uninterested.

“She doesn't take to people, these days. Hasn't for years.”

“And why's that?”

“People disappoint her.” He stopped, his head angled down to his right shoulder. “The family not least.”

“I see.” Carney waited.

“She was gorgeous when she was young. You should see pictures of her. Could've won any beauty pageant.” Karl dropped ice into two glasses. “Can you imagine? Men fell in love left and right.” He shook his head. “She put on a lot of weight. Not good for her.”

“Weight?”

“It didn't matter to Theresa. And Milton liked her that way.” Karl laughed. “She lost most of the weight after her last stroke.”

Ah.

Karl shook his head. “She's never been attracted to any man but him, she had all kinds of appetites but I don't think she ever strayed, not sexually anyway. One man her whole life long, can you imagine?”

Carney, to show he understood, said, “I saw a wedding picture in Theresa's study.”

“They were a”—Karl's voice broke, he looked away—“a fine couple.”

“They still are.”

“Yes. I suppose.” He poured Scotch over the ice. “He was an unhandsome young man. Ugly, you could say. Took him years to grow into his face, turn it more complex. Good job, eh?”

Karl the cynic, romanticizing his parents. “You care for them a lot.”

“Yes. I do.” He was staring through the big window overlooking the lake. “I love them.”

Miles from the distant son Theresa had described. In Karl's face, kindness there, but also uncertainty.

“I bother some people. Often that's okay.” Karl sipped his Scotch. “Sometimes not.”

“You enjoy bothering people?”

“As a rule? There's no rule that's always true. As Theresa might say.”

Carney nodded. “I've read some of her essays. And the book on anarchism.”

“She's no anarchist. She's herself. She doesn't much like previously used categories, so she's always creating her own to fit the situation.”

Carney shrugged. “Could make her a good historian.” He sipped.

“Makes it hard to be her son.” He sniffed. “Or anyone close to her. Except maybe Milton.”

“Maybe he's a good historian too.”

Karl's head shook. “He understands her too well. And all of us.”

“He doesn't think he understands you.”

The drink at his lips stopped so sharply a couple of drops spilled on his hand. “My god, he did take to you. He talk about his peeves? Why I turned R.C., why I was once a Wild Young Man?” He laughed. “Don't believe him. He gets it wrong.” He sipped. “Know why?”

“I give up.”

“Because he forgets there are many many ways to live.”

“Yeah?”

“And if you don't try them when they come around it's a piece of life lost. A shame. People want to be normal, whatever that is, so they live their lives in agony because they never give in to their golden perversities. You know what golden perversity is?”

Carney knew he wasn't being asked for his version of anything perverse. And felt several misgivings at Karl therapizing some poor patient's psyche. “Tell me.”

“It's loving where you find love. I don't mean screwing, I mean loving. I don't mean screwing anyone we want in the privacy of our bedrooms, our mothers and brothers and sisters, our kid—”

The doorbell rang.

“What's truly golden perversity is loving more than one person at the same time. They always make us choose, truly loving two women at the same time, a woman loving two men, three—”

The bell again.

“Everybody's multiply-desiring, and multiply-bestowing. So few admit it. If people allowed themselves—”

The bell. Carney gestured with his head. “Better answer the door, no?”

“We'll talk more.” He raised his glass, saluted, took a sip. “Later.” He opened the door.

Ti-Jean Seymour stooped as if he might scrape his crown on the lintel. He nodded. “Doesn't your doorbell work?”

“Yes, Ti-Jean. It works fine.”

Ti-Jean came in and sat on the couch, acknowledging Carney with a nod. Karl offered him a beer. Ti-Jean crossed his legs, raised the bottle as a kind of toast, drank down half, and turned to Carney. “Seen Cochan yet?”

“Made an appointment. Through his front-man, Boce.”

Ti-Jean swallowed more beer, stared at Carney, and in his eye a small spark flared.

The spark held Carney. He fought it. He couldn't look away.

Ti-Jean said, “His spirits are corrupted.”

“Who, Cochan?”

Ti-Jean's head shook. “Aristide Boce. Handy Johnnie can't be anything except what he is. Boce is a mercenary.”

“Wouldn't you say”—Carney's eyelids squeezed and opened, trying to soften Ti-Jean's uncompromising gaze—“both of them are?”

Ti-Jean's eyes never blinked. “No. Somewhere in the shadow Boce sold himself.” His glance held level.

Carney broke away then and looked for his glass. “So?”

“Boce kills the life in his ancestors' land. My ancestors' land! We're cousins from far back, Boce and me. He transforms a tree into flooring and siding. I know, I buy it. But Boce does more, he markets the earth's living body and calls it real estate property.”

Carney laughed, took a sip. “Ah.”

He touched Carney's elbow, and again held Carney's eye. “Literally.”

Carney couldn't stop looking back to the glint there. Stuck between amused and chilled.

Karl said, “I agree, Ti-Jean.”

In Ti-Jean's eye the glimmer faded, faded, and was gone.

“Karl? Why'd you ask me to stop by?”

Karl reached out and took Carney by the elbow. “Make Cochan leave them alone. He's going to kill them.”

“Stop Terramac?”

“Too late for that. Just the harassment, the offers to buy.”

“I'll talk to him, that's about all—”

“I couldn't stand it if he killed them.” Tears welled in his eyes.

11.

“How good of you to
come,” said John Cochan. “Please. Sit.” Cochan pulled a chair out for Bobbie, and one for Carney. “Easy trip up?”

Yes, they conceded, very easy.

“Good. Now, my colleague Aristide Boce tells me you're interested in Terramac units.”

“That's right,” said Carney, thinking, Okay, go for it. “Ms. Feyerlicht is more traditional than I am”—Bobbie scowled a little—“so she's considering a two-bedroom surface place. Myself, I'm interested in one of the underground units.”

John Cochan said nothing. Suddenly he smiled. “I'm impressed, Mr. Carney. We've not released information on Underland. Is this merely first-rate research, or have you been spying?”