I'll Let You Go

CHAPTER 40. Phantoms and Convocations

Louis Trotter ignored the calls from his physicians. He’d been feeling much better since the emergency-room visit; his collar buttons were even fastening again. While such indifference to “follow-up” was perhaps unwise, it should not of necessity be considered a harbinger of doom — the old man had survived all manner of assault to his various systems, in degrees both large and small. It would take a lot to bring him down.

He busied himself with Bluey, who was still settling in — if that’s the appropriate phrase when all the settling is done for you, and nearly against your will. He held her hand and occasionally ducked or broke away when the going got rough; then clucked and chuffed and asked of her his pet question over the years: “And how, little girl Blue, do you like your new digs?” (The thin humor of this being that she had always called him the digger.) “I don’t like them at all,” she said cogently and it pierced him through and through.

She asked why he had put her there, and while Louis remorsefully pondered a reply, Bluey shouted he was trying to kill her and that she’d fix his wagon good. She reached in her diaper, pulled out a hand smeared with feces and gave chase. The dapper old man dodged and parried as nurses in arm-length latex gloves scrambled — Marx Brothers by way of Dante.

The staff was careful around him, because they knew he was a donor and had billions and that his daughter had even designed the wandering garden; but Louis still worried about what they’d do to his wife when he wasn’t there. He would have to hire special people to stand around, like NATO observers; more men in suits. No … best not to meddle. He was horrified to find himself comforted by the fact that Bluey bruised easily — a handy indicator of skulduggeries. Maybe he would install a webcam in her room so that he could watch her from Saint-Cloud. (He thought of a friend whose wife had lost her mind. The suspicious man set up a secret camera to document the abuse — as it had turned out, the one being abused was the nurse.)

He rushed out, unable to bear any more. Passing through the doors, he found Winter on her way in; they could hear Bluey’s chilling chorus of “I’m afraid!”s.

“Can’t they give her something, Winter? Why don’t they give her something to knock her out?”

“I’ll go see about it, Mr. Trotter. Don’t you worry.”

He sat by himself on a bench. He had yet to share with the old nanny any details relating to the purchase of the “condominium.” He wasn’t sure how to bring it up; there was time enough for that. There would be time … But it was real. The condo was very real.

He surveyed his daughter’s handiwork. A profusion of honey locust trees with underplantings of fern and Siberian iris abounded, in the intimate style of a sixteenth-century garden; lining the Yorkstone path were bluebells, cosmos and mini-narcissus. Senescent creatures walked this eternal return of heavenly road — more surreal by far than anything made of yellow brick — waxen-skinned foragers on a looped and loopy veldt.

The boy waited impatiently in the foyer — Mr. Trotter could not help noticing him from the living room, where he entertained his fiftyish, rumpled guest. About half an hour later, he ushered the visitor to the door, where they exchanged earnest good-byes.

Upon entering the Withdrawing Room, he saw his grandson among the grove of tombstone maquettes. One look told him all he needed. “I see you’ve spoken to your mother.”

Toulouse nodded glumly. His face was puffy from worry and sleeplessness; a rough night in the doghouse all around.

His grandfather pursed his lips, a habit carried over from business— a “hardball” rictus unpleasantly familiar to those who had sparred with him on the corporate level. “What would you like me to do?”

“I want to see him.”

“He’s not ready for that, Toulouse.”

“Is he sick?”

“That’s a complicated question, isn’t it?”

“It doesn’t sound complicated.”

“Let’s say he’s getting better.”

“What’s wrong with him? Is it the schizophrenia?”

His grandfather laughed, then chuffed. “You might put it that way! But he has the best care now and the doctors are seeing to his every need.”

“Was he in jail?”

“He was.”

“For murder?”

“For a crime he did not commit. That is why he was released.”

“What crime?”

“That is irrelevant.”

“Has Mother been to visit him?”

“No. Refuses to — and I’m glad. I don’t think he’s ready to see anyone.” He added, “I don’t think she’s ready.”

“Is it true he weighs four hundred pounds?”

“He’s not that heavy.” He laughed, knowing whence the exaggeration came. “A nutritionist has his diet completely under control.”

“Then why can’t I see him?” The boy dug in; he had his grandfather’s genes after all.

“Because it is not the time,” said the old man insistently.

“If it wasn’t for me,” said Toulouse, scowling, “you would never even have found him!”

“How’s that?”

“I’m the one who called Harry and Ruth—”

“I know it. And you shouldn’t have imposed on them that way.”

“They were glad we went to see them. And I’m the one who bought the jellies that reminded her of him! I’m the one who wanted to find my father in the first place! No one else did—”

“You know that isn’t true, Toulouse.”

“But it is true! No one wanted to find him enough. And you didn’t want Mother to marry him in the first place! And she didn’t care — it was better for her with him gone. That way, she could be happy taking her precious drugs! If he did come back, what would her excuse be then?”

Though his words stung, the old man stifled a swell of pride at the boy’s sagacity. “That’s enough now! You’re far too young to sit in judgment of me, let alone your mother. You will see your father in time—and that will be soon enough. Do a few months really matter? Do you want to ambush the man before he’s ready? Are you that selfish, Toulouse? I don’t think so. He is your father, regardless of how he behaved in the past. He has been pursued by Furies, and now we are trying to chase those demons away. Or as many as we can. He needs all his energy for that struggle, do you understand? I don’t want him derailed by certain — well, let’s just say I want him stronger before he has any more shocks. For you will be a shock to him. Now, do we have a deal? You agree that you will see your father when he’s ready?” He held out his hand, and the boy grudgingly shook it. Toulouse had been persuaded; his grandfather’s logic was sound.

“Deal.”

“Good. And not a word of this to anyone — not Lucy or Edward — not anyone. And leave your mother alone about it! What you said about her is true; before she sees him, she has to shed lots of dead skin. And it’s not an easy thing. But she’s holding up. Doing damn well, she is.”

He put an arm upon the boy’s shoulder while walking him out.

When they reached the door, Toulouse looked into his eyes. “I’m so sorry about Grandma,” he said sweetly. “I’d like to visit her soon.”

“She’d love that.” He was moved by the youngster’s politesse, for that was another visit of large proportion that needed the old man’s sanction. “Epitacio will take you whenever you like.” He leaned to kiss his head. “You’re a wonderful boy, Toulouse. You’ve a strange lot in life, but you’re unforgettable. I am proud you’re my grandson, and will do anything I can for you in the years I have left.”

While Toulouse acceded to his grandfather’s wishes, his pact did not prevent him from listening in on a visit paid his mother by the lovelorn detective. Though Trinnie remained beguilingly, if morosely, in bed for the occasion, her son’s efforts were made easier by an open door. He assumed Samson had left it that way on purpose, to let his mother know he didn’t have any big ideas.

After the usual awkward chitchat of the recently estranged, Trinnie inquired after her husband (she knew Samson had been spending time with him). He affably responded, happy to have alit on familiar ground. It was all very conversational; one would never have suspected the extraordinarily baroque details involved. The detective told her that Marcus had a “pretty good setup over there.” Toulouse hoped “there” would be named, and was not disappointed.

The Hotel Bel-Air wasn’t far — the boy felt the flush of the downhill walk, and the flush of illicitness too, not dissimilar from the feeling that had overtaken him when he had first climbed through the broken hedge of La Colonne. He had promised Grandpa Lou not to interfere and would keep that promise; yet, as in the trespass of the forbidding park on Carcassone Way, he seemed powerless to stop his legs from propelling him forward.

He waved to Kevin, who knew him well from two years of Pull-manesque peregrinations. The valet let him park the dog by a sleeping Ferrari while he went in to investigate.

Toulouse struck out over the bridge, glancing down to the postcard pond with its swan fantasia. His plan was to dash through the small lobby and walk to the pool, then back past the bar and restaurant in hopes of “seeing something.” Before he had the chance, he noticed a figure crouching at the edge of the water. It was Sling Blade, who vied for the attentions of the long-neck’d, floating beauties while grinning at some remark a man nearby had tossed off. The man laughed, the laughter itself as full-bodied as the throat from which it poured out—

Toulouse froze. Was it? — it must be — it was … it was! — him. Him.

He was looking at his father.

Then came a shock from another direction: “Toulouse?”

Boulder fairly tackled him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her face frozen in a country-club smile that said: Celebrities Only.

He couldn’t answer; he couldn’t speak.

“Are you rolling? Oh my God, you look like you’re rolling!”

“What?” he managed.

“Like you took E.”

“E?”

“Ecstasy, stupid. Anyway, I’m just kidding …”

“Boulder, I have to — I have to go …”

“Diane’s here, with Dex. Don’t you want to say hello? You have to. We’re having a brunch — we have the same agent now, isn’t it cool? I signed with William Morris!”

As recent events were too much to assimilate alone, Toulouse was forced to throw himself on the mercy of the court of Olde CityWalk, his rationale being that Lucy and Edward had been in on the search for his father from the very beginning and that, to this date anyway, the suppression of family secrets had done the Trotter clan no apparent good. Like in the early days, the musketeers convened in Edward’s apartments — and that, beginning with Trinnie’s boudoir confession, is where he brought them up to speed.

“Oh my God!” cried Lucy. “Why didn’t you tell us!”

Toulouse instantly regretted having opened his mouth. “I’m telling you now. I just found out! Grandpa would kill—”

“I cannot believe you saw him and didn’t say anything! Weren’t you dying to go up to him?”

“And say what? Hey, how ya doin’? It’s me, your son! You know — the one Mom had after you flipped out.”

“But how could you at least not—”

“Lucille Rose,” said her brother. “Please chill.”

The wise guy had spoken. The eyes of Oracle Ed blinked languidly above the veil. “None of this comes as a great surprise,” he continued with studied nonchalance. “I believe I came into that ‘piece of intelligence’—as Grandpa Lou would say — some days ago.”

“Don’t tell me you knew all along,” said Toulouse, prepared to be at once astonished and betrayed.

“Edward!” she rebuked. “You knew and didn’t tell us?”

“I had all the ingredients but didn’t have a recipe — until now. See, for the last week or so, Dad’s been acting very strange. At first I thought it was fallout from the Alzheimer’s. That he was getting ’emotional.’ But then I happened to learn from Eulogio (you know how close we’ve become) that he’s been shepherding dear old Pops to — guess where? The Hotel Bel-Air.”

“But Grandpa said no one knew—”

“I assumed he was having a dalliance. I thought, Good for him—because he sure doesn’t get enough at home!”

“Edward,” said his sister. “That is so mean.”

“When I implied as much out loud, Eulogio said he didn’t think a woman was involved. So then I thought: it’s a man!”

“Ed-ward!”

He squealed with delight. “Now why, pray tell, asked I of Eulogio, why would you think a woman was not involved? Getting information from that fellow is like pulling dumpster-baby teeth. (Well, maybe harder.) Because each time he drove him there, Eulogio responded, each time he drove Señor Dodd, he would later see him strolling about the pond with a heavyset man whose features were much as you described.”

“Fuck!” spat Toulouse. “The whole world knows!”

“The immediate family — and I’m certain Grandpa Lou has taken pains to keep it immediate — is hardly the whole world, Toulouse. So chill.”

“We have to go there,” said Lucy, fiendishly agog at the plotty new developments. Tonight her Smythson would get a workout.

“I glossed it,” said the cousin, kicking himself. “I thought it was just one of Dodd’s pasty Seattle friends holed up in Tinseltown incognito to do a little bullshit consulting on the middle-school project — you know, Billionaire-Boys’-Club stuff. But then it came back to me … one night at dinner last week — remember, Lucy? — Father received a phone call. He stepped away from the table, which was rare; had to be Grandpa Lou. He listened for a second, then shot two words back to the phone.” Edward paused dramatically. “ ‘John Burnham.’ ”

“Yes!” said Lucy knowingly, though just then she wasn’t sure what she knew.

“John Burnham?” Toulouse was lost.

“Then Grandpa said something else, because Father’s forehead wrinkled up and he asked: ‘When?’ ”

“ ‘When?’ ” echoed Toulouse.

“Yes!” cried Lucy. “He said, ‘When?’!”

“—and at this point, Joyce was listening very carefully. Her ear was moving toward the receiver like it was going to fucking dock with it. Then Father says, ‘Did they speak?’ ”

“Into the phone?”

“Into the phone.”

“ ‘Did they speak?’ ”

“Yes!” corroborated Lucy, with great excitation. “And then Dad said, [she lowered her voice in imitation] ‘I’ll take care of it.’ ”

“ ‘I’ll take care of it’?” said Toulouse, sounding — and feeling — like a simpleton.

“Exactly. ‘I’ll take care of it.’ ”

“What is this, The Sopranos?”

“Who is John Burnham?” begged Lucy of her brother.

Edward shoved a cappuccino truffle under the veil and crunched. “I didn’t put it together until Boulder called to gossip about Tull snubbing her at the Bel-Air. After she got it out of her system, she went on and on about how she and Diane Keaton had the same agent — John Burnham! That night, I innocently mentioned Mr. Burnham to Mother during a bath. There was a long pause — I mean long. Then she said, ‘He was best man at their wedding.’ Just like that.”

Toulouse sagely nodded.

“What does it mean?” said Lucy, beside herself. “What does it mean?”

Toulouse filled in the blanks. “Mr. Burnham must have run into my father at the hotel — must have recognized him. They probably spoke, and that’s what the phone call was about. Sling Blade — or some other ‘handler’—probably saw it and reported back.”

“Bingo,” said Edward.

“I guess the cat really is out of the bag,” said Toulouse.

“Not if Grandpa Lou can help it,” said the cousin. “And, believe me — he can help it.”

The gentleman Louis Trotter had received in his living room was the inimitable Mr. Burnham, a higher-up at the William Morris Agency at that time, invited to Saint-Cloud to give express assurance that he would not give away the unexpected return of a fragile old friend — and that if he had already discussed it with, say, a colleague, then would he be so kind to cover his tracks by declaring himself to have been mistaken. Marcus Weiner was by no means the center of Mr. Burnham’s world; thus far, he had only mentioned the brief encounter to Ms. Keaton, his client and confidante. (The actress had of course already told him about her summer holiday with the kids — and of her affection for the profligately talented Katrina; Mr. Burnham had said hello to the latter not so long ago at Ivy at the Shore and found her alluring. Recently divorced, he was on the lookout, but his halfhearted entreaties to Ms. Keaton to play matchmaker had been ignored.) He felt the Trotters were a shade on the paranoid side, but appreciated their sensitivities. A thing like this could attract unwanted press.

This is what led to their summit: after being informed by his father of the swan-side run-in, uneventful of itself yet fraught with potentially hazardous repercussions if not quickly contained, Dodd cold-called the agent, who was also by chance an alumnus of Beverly Vista, albeit some years ahead of him. Mr. Burnham was tickled; having the eccentric billionaire on one’s phone sheet was somewhat of a coup. Dodd quickly gave him the lowdown — while the jailing and other convolutions were withheld, the saga of an ongoing recovery from debilitating mental illness was not. Mr. Burnham was more than happy to comply with the request to, as they say, put a sock in it. He was somewhat taken aback when Dodd, in a transparent and superfluous effort to solidify the agent’s trust, brought up the sketchy idea of a future creative alliance between Quincunx and the Morris agency — something in the digital realm or perhaps an interactive project that might tie in with his plans to rejuvenate old BV. (Until now, Mr. Burnham had been unaware that they had that place in common.) Dodd ended by saying his father was eager to meet him face-to-face. An interview at Saint-Cloud was arranged. As reported earlier, that conference was amicable, leaving Trotter the Elder much at ease. Again Mr. Burnham felt it odd, for he had already given his word; but he had always wanted to meet the legendary digger nonetheless, and seized the opportunity, which did not disappoint.

There was no longer any sense, not that there had been in the first place, in keeping Marcus at the Bel-Air. Mr. Trotter hadn’t properly thought it through — the hotel was still a watering hole of the industry his son-in-law had once taken for his own. Though Marcus’s appearance had radically transformed since his show business days, the digger of course had recognized him at once, at his most ragged and obese; it only stood to reason that others, all the Burnham types, would follow suit as he shrank closer to his former dimensions.

A house in Montecito was secured. Marcus decamped with ear-piece’d retinue, and the Bel-Air lodgings were no more.

The old man now obediently turned his attention to a flurry of medical procedures thus far avoided. He was strapped to a chair while a needle poked about the small mass in his neck (for it had lazily returned) in an unpleasant and futile attempt to extract cells. After forty-five minutes, Mr. Trotter thought he might faint and said as much; the doctor stepped away with a flourish while of a sudden the chair went upside down with a great metallic whir so the blood could rush to his head. (He hadn’t been quite ready for that little trick.) All told, the frustrated man spent more than an hour trying to get what he needed — and what he needled — but, failing miserably, could do nothing but schedule an MRI. Mr. Trotter smiled on his way out in such a way that the medic felt he had undergone a nasty procedure himself.

Midweek and mid-December now, and all is weirdly well at the house on Saint-Cloud. For Trinnie, the swelling, so to speak, has gone down. She busies herself with the wandering garden, which has become a kind of obsession. The old woman has not yet taken to its winding path, but her daughter prepares for her arrival through daily diligence and micromanagement of fountain and flora, belying the fact that she herself has utterly lost her way. (It is the Trotters’ special gift to grow or build the family metaphors.) As for Bluey, she has calmed somewhat, Winter’s presence being no small reason. But the Icelander is adrift, shell-shocked by the change of venue. Mr. Trotter finally confirmed that the mystery condo was real; when he began to elaborate, she stopped him, as it would have been vulgar to evince curiosity. Still, his wife’s generous bequeathment made the days lighter and filled her with gratitude.

Drawing on “intelligences” gleaned from his kind patron, Marcus Weiner embarks on a sacred mission.

Around nine o’clock one chilly Wednesday morning, he leaves the 1930s Lutah Maria Riggs — designed Montecito aerie and sets out by chauffeured car for Boyle Heights, a rough, historic neighborhood not far east of the bridge that had once sheltered him. He does not look like the same man who left the Hotel Bel-Air as mysteriously as he arrived; he carries forty pounds less, and there’s a spring to both step and mind that is decidedly un-Victorian. A kind of contemporary reason has returned, along with memories of life before Gypsydom. The therapist has kept a watchful eye out for relapse. Ready to triage, she is lying in wait to cushion his fall when the classic epiphany comes: when the patient realizes the scope of all that has been robbed him and can never be recovered — time, tide and loved ones — but with Marcus, such frissons seem to come and go like trains at a station, leaving him sadder but wiser, morose but not marooned. (Mr. Trotter is unsurprised at his son-in-law’s stamina and resolve.) So today — this dreary, exalted Wednesday morning — our bighearted pilgrim is on a numinous journey, preapproved by all those concerned. His shrink would like him to corral that elusive nineties’ warhorse called closure; but he wishes simply to say good-bye.

And the boy? He has decided that if he cannot see his father, he will at least see Amaryllis. He called the detective to ask where she was; Toulouse had become seriously “proactive.” Samson stonewalled — any information about the girl or her whereabouts, he said, was confidential. Besides, he added, you kids caused enough trouble. He went on to say how cruel it was to expose a girl like that to so many luxuries; how it was his opinion the children had been selfish and condescending “from day one”; how the boy’s demands to see her—“your very tone in this conversation”—showed him to be selfish, impetuous and “entitled” still. In other words, the detective gave Toulouse a piece of his mind. Our hero did not feel at all well after their conversation and to make himself better, wrote the diatribe off as Samson’s spleen at being spurned.

The very same children the detective maligned now gather at Olde CityWalk for yet another in a series of pre-holiday feasts. As Christmas approaches, Stradella House is busy with charity lunches and dinners and the attendant tours, so it is not unusual for the cousins to look out the gingerbread window above the Boar’s Head Inn and see groups of strangers nosing about or passing by in special trams. (The Majestyk has screened It’s a Wonderful Life more than once to benefit Joyce’s Candlelighters.) Lucy is the only one who appears to relish the intrusions of the outside world, though Pullman never seems to mind the endless gaggle of awed spectators, who fuss over him as if he were a unicorn. On wintry nights, cobblestone backstreets fill with carolers and caterers’ torches and carriages pulled by draft horses; the scene is set for Lucille Rose to imagine it really is the London of H. G. Wells and his time machine, a London soon to be expanded upon by an irresistible series of mystery books to be known the world over simply as Blue Maze.

At Toulouse’s request, his braided cousin, who had tirelessly transcribed the orphan’s outpourings for future novelistic use, took to the Smythsonian archives and in no time at all located Amaryllis’s AWOL reference — the marble-hearted institution from which she had escaped. The infamous Mac (Lucy’s footnote: “short for MacLaren Children’s Center. In common usage”) was in a distant town called El Monte.

Toulouse suggested they call the place forthwith. Edward, shrouded in white linen and suffering nobly through a holiday pestilence of acne, barked that it was useless to ring the place up — they should board the MSV instead and hope for a sighting. They could lie in wait just as Amaryllis had outside Four Winds; with gull wings extended, the rescue party should be easy enough for the prisoner to spot (Edward as yet being unaware of the height of MacLaren’s walls). Better yet, they’d come bearing Yuletide gifts and offertories for the fucked-up little foundlings — a veritable Trojan Mauck.

“You know,” said Edward to his cousin, “we haven’t talked about this …” He waited until he had their full attention. “It’s actually pretty intense.”

Toulouse was thinking he was finally going to announce the date of his facial surgery.

“I haven’t told you either, Lucy.”

“Then tell us!” said the girl, with customary exasperation. “Just tell us, Edward.”

“Well … think back. To the day of our wonderful interrogation by the good detective Dowling. Now, if you recall, the detective was wondering … if the girl — Amaryllis — had ever been seen in the company of a certain bearded gentleman—” He swiveled his head toward his sister. “You’re supposed to be the author. You’re supposed to listen. Have Inspector Javert’s comments been forgotten?”

“Bearded?” said Toulouse. “I don’t remember him saying anything about a bearded—”

Lucy frantically flipped through her BIRD NOTES. “He’s right, he’s right! The detective asked if she was with someone — that first time we met … remember, Toulouse? He wanted to know if she was with someone when she came to Boulder’s movie set — here!” She reached a pertinent passage in the Smythsonian transcript: “ ‘A large-built bearded man …’ ”

“Very good!” shouted Edward.

“What are you saying?” asked Toulouse.

“What I am saying is … that your father—and this is going to come as a bit of a shock — your father befriended Amaryllis on skid row. He took care of her: you know, brought her food, looked after her and so forth.”

“That is bullshit!”

“But here’s the shocker. Maybe you’d better sit down …”

“Tell me!” said the apoplectic boy. “You better fucking tell me now!”

“Edward, tell us—”

“And you better not be bullshitting!”

“Well … you see, it was Amaryllis’s mother who Marcus was accused of murdering. That’s why he was in jail.”

Lucy gasped and was so overcome that she lay on the floor to steady herself. Toulouse fought the impulse to knock down his cousin, and was glad he didn’t, for the consequences would have been dire.

“But who — who told you this?” snapped Toulouse, like a lawyer on the losing side. He’d gone white as Edward’s veil.

“I wish I could say I deduced it myself, but I can’t. It was Mother who spilled the beans, during a bath — that’s when her guard’s down. She tells me everything during a bath.”

Toulouse began to gibber. “I can’t — I can’t believe — murdering her mother … my father! — fed her? looked after? you mean to say she was actually friends with—” He went on like that, much as a sensitive piece of equipment that had been dropped on its head.

“It’s karma,” said Edward, sounding like his aunt. (The whole world sounded more like Trinnie every day.) “What goes around comes around.”

What came around just then was Sling Blade, preceded by a rap at the door. Due to complicated dynastic interweavings, the caretaker had a knack for popping up when family members least expected; yet precisely because of such ubiquity, his presence was never puzzled over. Sling Blade informed that he had come to borrow the MSV as per their grandfather’s hasty request. Edward was outraged, or pretended as much — before a sixth sense that “intrigue” was afoot won out.

“And why,” said the cousin, having a bit of sport, “would Grandpa Lou be suddenly inclined to joyride in the Mauck?”

“It’s not for your grandpa,” he answered, one-upping.

“Really!” said Edward, like a Roman toying with a slave boy. “Then who is it for? Is it for you, Blade?” They’d somehow stopped calling him by the full appellation, for the groundless fear he might take offense.

“That fellow in Santa Barbara.”

Eureka! Edward winked at Toulouse, who had not by a long shot recovered from the blow delivered only minutes before.

“Which fellow?” asked the boy.

“You know who he’s talking about,” said the cousin snidely.

The caretaker became circumspect. “I’m going to stay out of everybody’s business.”

“Well then, why does he need the Mauck?” asked Toulouse.

“Town Car broke down on the freeway somewhere.”

“He’s driving himself?” asked the astonished Lucy.

“I didn’t say that. Car broke down over in the Valley. Gonna go pick him up.”

Sling Blade was unaware of the blood ties between Toulouse and the agreeable “fellow” he occasionally ferried from one place to another. (He never thought to ask his employer about the big man; that was his way.) Mr. Trotter didn’t wish Marcus to know about the boy — not yet — so had kept the cognoscenti to a minimum. That way, there’d be less chance of a slipup. He had already issued a rather stern warning to the Weiners, but was concerned that Harry and Ruth would inadvertently kvell about their grandson to Marcus before he was psychologically prepared to “deal.”

Sling Blade asked if he might use the rest room, and was pointed the way.

When he disappeared, an agitated Edward lifted his gauzy mask. “Toulouse, this is it. This is fate! You’ve got to get in the Mauck!” Lucy and Toulouse gaped at him. “I’m telling you — go! Hide in the Mauck! You want to see your father, don’t you?”

“But—” stammered Toulouse, “hide where?”

“In the media cabinet! It’s totally empty — they’re swapping out the components. Take my sister if you’re so scared. There’s room for both of you!”

“Oh my God …” hissed Lucy, like air rushing from a tire.

“I can’t—” said Toulouse.

“Then you’ll never see him! And you’ll always remember this day! You’re the one who found him, OK? And they’re doing what they always do — conducting business on their time and at their convenience. It’s your right, don’t you get it? What if he runs away again? You don’t think that could happen? What will you say then?”

“Come on, Toulouse, let’s hide in the closet!”

“But what if he—”

Edward shook his head dismissively. “Aw, he’s chickenshit.”

“Why don’t you just go fuck yourself, Edward?”

He had never spoken like that to his cousin, and the goad quickly replaced the veil, not out of effrontery but rather to conceal a classic if malformed Cheshire grin.

In mere sweaty minutes, Lucy and Toulouse stood still as hostages upon the plush carpet and chopped wiring-conduit remains of the Mauck media center bowels. The plucky scamp took the opportunity to stick her tongue down his throat; he was about to push her away when suddenly she started.

“Oh my God, I left my pad! Be right back!”

She bolted from the truck just as Sling Blade entered the garage, lifting the gull wing to clamber in. In a blur of moments, he had switched on the engine, secured the passenger door and backed out into the circular drive.

Toulouse would tell him it was only a prank — after they passed through the gate, he’d reveal himself, then have Sling Blade drive him home. (He only hoped the caretaker wouldn’t be so startled by his presence that he’d swerve into something.) But how would he live it down to his cousin? He would have to say Sling Blade heard him cough and that’s how he was discovered. Or maybe that he’d gotten an electric shock from one of the exposed wires and had cried out …

Sling Blade turned on the radio and began to sing the way people do when they’re alone. Being a stowaway was more fun than he’d thought; he was glad Lucy had left. He could smell her on his upper lip, and wiped a residue of saliva away with his cuff. His driver bantered with the guards as the Stradella delivery gate was raised, and then they were on the open road, winding toward the West Gate.

Toulouse thought of the immigrant boy he had once read about, hiding in the wheel well of a jet to escape his country, and for some reason that made him think of the trip to Easter Island — he could see Edward in the AirBuggy, stalwartly motoring among great stone moai. The impossible revelation of a “street” bond between his father and Amaryllis brought to mind the dinner they had all shared at Trader Vic’s … His thoughts continued willy-nilly: on their way to Cedars, Lucy was in the midst of telling him his father was still alive — then he tasted pomegranate jelly, and blood in his mouth too, unleashed by the fist of the Four Winds bully. He winced at the sight of his mother weeping in bed, fearful to meet the man whose absence had governed her aborted life.

By the time he emerged from his reveries, Sling Blade had already steered the Mauck onto the 405, past the hulking hillside clinic of the Getty (where Amaryllis had communed with gilt-edged saints, and devils too), and joined the artery of the eastbound Ventura. He would go the distance now; there was nothing to fear. He would not be a cowering Trinnie … hadn’t he been watered by his grandfather’s blood? They had all seen his dad, every single one: Burnham and Uncle Dodd and Sling Blade, even the Monasterios — was he, Toulouse Trotter, the very son, less than them? He stewed in the cabinet, raging at Grandpa Lou for so elegantly bamboozling him. Your father’s not ready, he said … as if anyone ever was. As if anyone in this whole fucked-up scenario could be. When the old man accused him of being selfish — just as the detective had! they were a coven, conspiring together! — it had caught the boy off guard. Wily, clever old man! Now he’d had enough. Edward was right; fate dictated the moment. It was his time and his right, and he would lay claim.

Sling Blade muttered, “There they are, there they are,” and the Mauck slowed, edging to the shoulder. “Stay in there, stay in there, you dumb fuck.”

Toulouse wondered who he was talking about; maybe his father was stepping from the disabled car. Maybe his father would be struck down by a drunk or a Caltrans truck and that would be the end of it.

He opened the door of the cabinet and listened a moment to the voices beneath the drone of speeding traffic. Hunching over, he crept out to peer through the tinted window. A tow was attaching itself to the Town Car while Sling Blade and a suited man spoke; the boy assumed he was his father’s chauffeur. That was when he saw Marcus Weiner heading for the Mauck.

He panicked and ran back to the closet. Fate now dictated that his bravado was no more; he whispered imprecations and prayed he wouldn’t sob or soil his pants. He could hear Sling Blade helping with the door, and the carriage was rocked by the weight of entry. What if out of sheer curiosity his father opened the closet and found him hiding there? Toulouse knew little about the man’s disease: maybe schizophrenics didn’t like jack-in-the-box surprises and reacted violently, even bloodily. Hadn’t the man recently been fingered for homicide? He never heard details … maybe he’d been released on a technicality and was guilty after all — that would be a fitting end to the saga of Toulouse Trotter’s poignant search: torn to shreds à la Hannibal by his mentally deranged dad! Lucy would have to run a fresh proposal by Mr. Hookstratten. Might not be appropriate for the kiddies.

Marcus lowered himself in the captain’s chair with a grunt. It seemed the man in the suit would be staying behind with Triple-A. “We’ll be fine,” he heard Sling Blade call out, to which the man responded, “Oh, they know I’m not going ahead with y’all — no one has a problem with that.” The Mauck shook again as the caretaker entered through the passenger side and pulled the door down after him. He opened the fridge and got an Evian for Marcus, who thanked him.

Toulouse sat cross-legged in the darkness. If he never saw his father face-to-face, at least he’d had this proximity, at once horrifying and intimate. He could hear the rider’s breath, and even a few low farts. Occasionally, Sling Blade made small talk or inquired if his passenger wished to hear music. Toulouse wondered where they were going. His plan was to escape as soon as they reached their destination, but that might be difficult if it was a secure area — say, an airport runway. They’d probably get gas or stretch their legs soon enough … but why would they? Onboard facilities were more than adequate, and Sling Blade had most likely received instructions discouraging pit stops.

The big man began to hum, and Toulouse was swamped by embarrassment and self-loathing. His grandfather was right; he was selfish. How could he have let Edward manipulate him into this absurd, potentially cruel enterprise? Hiding in the closet like an a-hole! Incredibly, he had just been told of the mind-blowing ties between the girl — his beloved — and the father he had staked everything to find … Amaryllis, whom this mysterious being had nurtured (according to Edward), would never have stooped so low; Dad raised her with more dignity than that. But here he was, the putative son, quailing in the media cabinet. For shame! He would have to have a “sit-down” with Grandpa Lou. He would tell him he had decided it was unnecessary to meet the gentleman who had sired him — and that all he wished was for Mr. Weiner to stabilize and move on to some measure of happiness; that initiating the search had been a terrible experiment in egotism which had caused irreparable harm to his mother in the process. He would hereafter devote his life to good works. During their study of religion at Four Winds, the students learned of a monastery in the heart of Hollywood filled with cloistered Benedictine nuns. Perhaps there was an equivalent place for boys. He would live a life of seclusion as penance for his tomfoolery, and in time, after demonstrating proper maturity, might oversee a vast trust established by the Trotter Family Foundation to help those afflicted by mental illness — and homeless children, too. He could administer the moneys without ever leaving the confines of his austere spiritual haven.

Having achieved a near-beatific state during his musings, Toulouse managed to remain calm upon realizing that the MSV had glided off the freeway and was downshifting toward what felt like an end point. Not five minutes later, his feelings were borne out.

The Mauck came to rest. He waited a few minutes after the men had left before emerging from the closet. He moved slowly through the cabin and could smell the not unpleasant, musky imprint of his father; he shivered again with shame.

He crept outside and looked around. They were in some kind of urban park, on a gently sloping grassy hill. At the crest of that hill was a building with a tall smokestack. He saw the figures of Sling Blade and his father sitting on a bench, waiting. Toulouse left the parking area and walked down to the street. There was a graffiti’d sign at the entry — CREMATORIUM — and now he could see that a cemetery abutted the place he’d just been. It stretched for blocks. The surrounding neighborhood looked bleak and dangerous. He had left his StarTAC at Stradella; he would need to find a pay phone to call the cousins, to make Eulogio pick him up. Instead, he retraced his footsteps until he was again beside the MSV.

“Jesus, what are you doing?”

Sling Blade, who had just emerged from the Mauck with two bottles of Evian, barreled toward him.

“It was just a joke! I didn’t mean to …”

“But how did you—”

“I hid in the closet!” he said nervously. “We were just messing around, Blade — it was just a joke! I was going to come out, but you pulled away …”

“A joke! Just a joke that’s gonna get me fired!”

“It’s OK. I’ll take a cab—”

“The hell you will,” said the caretaker, forcefully grabbing his arm. “You come with me!”

“No!—”

“That’s all I need! You getting a drive-by. Now, come on!”

“But what do we say? What do we tell him—”

Sling Blade scratched his head; the boy’s overweening concern about an alibi for the sake of “the heavyset fellow” never even registered. “We’ll just say that — that you’re my nephew.” He cringed at the inadequacy of it all. “Oh shit. Goddamnit, Toulouse! Why’d you do this stupid thing? We’ll just say you’re my nephew, OK? No! — Dot’s nephew! You’re Dot’s nephew — Dot’s my boss. We’ll say she lives around here, OK? You knew where I was gonna be and came around to say hello. Or no! You saw me — like a coincidence. He won’t ask any questions; he’s a little disturbed. When we’re finished here, I’ll take the 10 and drop you near the Getty. And if you tell your grandfather—”

There was little chance that he would.

Toulouse followed him into the chimney-building like one condemned. “What is this place?”

“It’s where they burn up bodies.”

When they reached Mr. Weiner, he was talking to a man who held a shoe box filled with human remains under his arm. The shoe-box man took in Toulouse with vague disapproval, but the boy wouldn’t meet his eye — or anyone else’s. Marcus never gave his son a glance.

Because of this obliviousness, and because Sling Blade’s scowls gradually subsided, Toulouse had the opportunity to scrutinize the burly character now standing at a lectern skimming a ledger of the dead and holding what looked to be a prayerbook in his hand. How handsome his father was, he thought — already much thinner than the day he saw him at the Bel-Air, and with a powerful magnetism about him, though his eyes were red and his face swollen and ruddy from weeping. His suit was finely cut yet capacious as a tent. He looked wise and kind and fierce, too; he was no one to tangle with, yet that’s all the boy wanted to do.

“Her name is Scull, not Scall,” said Marcus matter-of-factly after examining the log. Their host said nothing and made no move to correct the entry. “Well, I’ll see her now.” He daubed at his nose with a handkerchief and walked outside.

Toulouse watched him thread his way down the hill; keeping a discreet distance, the boy struck out on his own. There were no tombstones, but he noticed markers embedded in the grass, with years instead of names, memorialized: 1978, 1983, 1991. His father squatted down to touch one. Then Sling Blade strenuously motioned for Toulouse to return to the Mauck.

On the way back, he saw beer bottles washed up at the bottom of a chain-link fence, the sediment of small-time paganism.

They left the parking area without discussion and pulled into the street. Toulouse felt at once numb and giddily relieved — for better or for worse, the mysterious man who happened to be his father now seemed more novelty than threat. He was cocky enough to think it might be time for Sling Blade to make an introduction. He was about to nudge the caretaker when Marcus Weiner began an oratory of tears that jolted both boy and driver from their seats.

“Janey! Janey, my Janey! What did they do to you?” He tore at his hair; a worried Sling Blade looked in his rearview and was at least assured that the man had wits enough to have used his seat belt. “Why’d they do it to you, Janey? Why? My darling, my darling!” He wailed and snorted and thrashed about. The book he’d been carrying fell to the floor, and with it the envelope that was tucked inside:

To my Darling Will …

The caretaker, though inured to the trappings of grief, to its keens and waterworks, and bodies lowered into the earth, could not help but grimace at the force of his rider’s pain. There was beauty in it, too — just as in the gnarled olive trees of Westwood Memorial Park. Toulouse was all gooseflesh, like a riptide had sucked off his clothes.

Sling Blade glanced sidewise at the boy, pleased at the demonstration of humility. He saw that Toulouse was sorely moved by this stranger, and such maturity in one so young unexpectedly moved him too. Came the caterwauling and lamentations: now melodious, now atonal, now piano, now forte, monolithic arpeggios of sorrow lit by plaintive trills — grace notes singing the leitmotif: Janey, why!

He took the Sunset off-ramp and left the boy just south of Sunset. When Toulouse began the walk to Saint-Cloud, he thought, Surely this life of ours is a dream — and those who said otherwise could not even aspire to be phantoms of a phantom world.