Memorial

LII.Marjorie

SHE bought her daily ticket.

A funny feeling, because the notes and flowers that decorated the liquor store in memoriam were down now, and you had to look hard to see the wires, mostly gone themselves, that once held bouquets in place.

The devout son was behind the counter and the mother nowhere to be seen. The young man smiled and went about his business. It was strange to Marjorie, not that it should have or could have been any other way, but she had the unsettling feeling that Riki had somehow died in a different way — the violence of it had conveniently receded, and now it seemed as if his death had been natural, or he’d gotten the flu and would soon be back, or he’d simply returned to India for an indeterminate amount of time. Marjorie knew it would be poor form to share her little wish-fulfillment fantasy-observations. What right had she to smalltalk about such a thing? Besides, it wasn’t part of their culture to endlessly hash over death; death was so much a part of their world that no one had the need to “kibitz” about it (as Hamilton would say). The Indian people embraced the cycle of life — karma, death, and rebirth — and didn’t need to be inoculated or familiarized or talked down to, or have their noses rubbed in the obvious by meddling, mawkish Westerners. That would be ignorant and presumptuous. But part of her still stubbornly wanted to reach out, and she remembered hearing something on a talkshow, maybe Dr Phil, where an expert said that in times like this, the worst thing a person could say was “nothing.” That had really stuck. Well, she would just have to get over it. She had done her part and given the widow an honorarium and anything else at this point would be self-indulgent. Marj would continue to patronize the shop, as usual, thus actively demonstrating her support. The side benefit being that the old woman could help restore a sense of normalcy, not that it was even possible. And she mustn’t forget: they would soon reap the benefits of her Blind Sister winnings. She needed to ask Lucas when they would be told, and if an exception could be made to inform them earlier. She wondered what % they had coming.

Ever since she gave them the money, the grieving family treated her with what sometimes felt like an awkward obsequiousness, which was perhaps cultural as well. The son slipped small gifts into her hand that his mother had delicately wrapped, packages of sweets or modest scarves of silken fabric. When Marjorie came in, the young man warmly greeted her and never let her leave unescorted, not only for safety reasons but it seemed from deep respect and gratitude. (Another facet of Indian society was to respect the elderly, which was wonderful, because lately, with all the excitement, Marj Herlihy sometimes felt her age.) She had the means to lighten their heavy load, which she did, and Bonita helped her to feel humbly ennobled. My God, look what Bill Gates does with his billions! Say what you like, but he gives away more money than any other person on planet Earth. By helping Riki’s family, she was nurturing her connection to Mother — Mother India, whose arms in which she would soon be embraced.

SHE had given a check to Lucas for the Expedited Award Program and when Marj checked her balance at Wells it reflected the 565,000-dollar debit. She was surprised the State of New York had cashed the monies so quickly but Lucas said he was the court-appointed caretaker and after he explained, it made sense that the faster the check was “converted,” the faster the “upstream” of “shadow monies” would “flow” through Marjorie’s account. It was nervous-making but exciting as well.

There was a message from Bonita on the answering machine asking if she wanted to “do a little New York shopping,” and to “please place a call to the darling bungalow—22B — where Ms Billingsley is currently residing, with her retinue of shirtless manservants, at the very pink and very posh Pink Palace.” She went on to say — it was a long message — that “a little birdie” told her Marj had enrolled in the EAP and after shouting “Congratulations, Moneybags!” reminded her of the dinner at Spago on Saturday night. “Your 1st check should be in by then and honey, let’s splurge! We have got to get our rich asses over to Hermès!”

She used salty language but Marj didn’t mind — Bonita was a fun new friend. How long had it been since Marj had a new friend? She couldn’t even think when. And what in the world was the Pink Palace?

She had planned to stop by Cora’s: though now her heart was racing! Manhattan…she was dying to tell someone but had been warned of “interstate (intrastate?) disclosure penalties,” something like that, she probably had it wrong, yet there definitely were consequences. Even Bonita told her not to “gab” until she got that 1st installment. Marj didn’t want to jinx anything.

She dipped her hand in the mailbox and tore open an envelope with a check for $150,000 from a company called Amerimac. At 1st she thought it was a Blind Sister copayment but then she looked closer and stamped across was THIS IS NOT A CHECK. She read the attached letter; she’d been prequalified to consolidate her debts. Well, she didn’t have any debts. It said One Low Payment, and No Equity Required, and Refinances Also Available. She decided to show it to Lucas — it was the kind of thing that would make him laugh. He’d come up with some witty remark to put those junk mailers in their place.

Another letter was from Who’s Who.

Dear Our New Member:

Congratulations, MARJORIE HERLIGHY. May I take this moment to personally congratulate you as a new United America’s Who’s Who in Families and Professionals member? You will be pleased to learn that we have formatted the publication to make it even easier for our members to produce beneficial business relationships with other United America’s Who’s Who people, so that you might contact others of your immense professional status.

United America’s Who’s Who in Executives and Professionals takes great pride in formulating as successful a directory as possible each year.

We appreciate your support and look forward to a continuing relationship.

Very Truly Yours,

Randall Wolcott-Jones, President

The old woman presumed the invite had been triggered by her recent admission into what Bonita called the “country club” of Blind Sisters; or maybe it had something to do with the EAP. The puzzling thing was that no one was supposed to know about the prize yet — though organizations like Who’s Who probably had some sort of inside track. That would be something else to ask Lucas. (Even Hamilton had never been solicited to join the august group. Marj always wanted to be in the Blue Book but it seemed you had to be born in Pasadena or San Marino to make the cut.) It said there was a fee, which Marj assumed covered printing costs. She put the “congratulations” in the drawer, with the Amerimac check.

The phone was ringing—

My, am I popular this morning!

“There you are!”

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Trudy! Trudy Gest. Now what’s all this I hear about you wanting to go to India, Mrs Herlihy? Did you find yourself a boyfriend?”

“Oh heavens no!”

That was the sort of thing Trudy liked to say, even when Ham was alive. It was her style, and reminded Marj of Bonita, though not quite the class act. Then it occurred that she was only thinking of Bonita as “classy” because she knew how wealthy her new friend was; and that just wasn’t fair. Shame on you, Marj Herlihy. The old woman asked after her health. The Travel Gal responded that she was still “putt-puttin along”—an area she obviously didn’t feel comfortable talking about (again, the reprimand: What a busybody I’ve become). Trudy probably suspected Nigel had blabbed, and Marj hoped he wouldn’t get in trouble on her account.

“If you want to go to India, I’m going to have to start calling you Mother Marjorie — as in Mother Teresa!”

Trudy went on about how excited she was with the potential itinerary, before interrupting herself.

“Guess who I talked to?”

Marj thought she was going to say Lucas but she said Joan instead.

“My — daughter?”

“She still is, the last time I checked! I couldn’t get ahold of you, sweetheart, you’re a very busy girl. Out painting the town red, no doubt — or whatever color they’re using now. The merry widow. You don’t have to tell me. And Joan was just thrilled—she wants to help us plan. Now, I understand Nigel had a very lovely conversation with you about Mumbai. Nigel tends to get a little enthused: if you’re not careful, you can walk away with a severe case of TMI…that’s Too Much Information!”

“Is Joan coming?” she said, a bit flustered.

“She’d be a fool not to! But you know our Joan. A little stand-offish — Lord, she’s even busier than you are! Bless her heart, I wish my children were that busy. But, sweetheart, you have got to let me talk you out of spending too much time in Mumbai! Especially if you’re going to travel alone.”

Overwhelmed, Marj went on default.

“When I was a girl, my father took me to the Taj Mahal.”

“Oh yes, I know!”

“I want very much to see that place again.”

“It’s the one place you must see if you go all that way — but the Taj Mahal is a ‘far piece’ from Mumbai, sweetheart. Why don’t we put you in Delhi, Mother Marj? We’ll get you a bed on Singapore Airlines. That airline is marvelous. Next time you’re at the market pick up Travel + Leisure, or any of those magazines: Singapore Air is consistently rated the absolute highest. Par excellence. Did you know they will even come right to the house to pick up your bags for check-in? Now, I think it’s a 17 or 18 hour flight, but—”

“I meant the Taj Mahal Palace—the hotel, in Bombay.”

There was a pause before Trudy horse-laughed.

“Oh, I’m sorry! Of course you did! Now I remember…Nigel’s notes are a mess—he’s been out sick for a week. The Taj is lovely—the old wing. Bill Clinton’s absolute favorite, by the way. But don’t you want to go to the Taj Mahal? In Agra?”

“Only if Joanie comes.”

“I’ll talk to her again.” Before Marj could raise an objection to that, Trudy said, “Now, if you do stay at the Taj Mahal Palace and Towers in Mumbai — I want to make sure I have that straight! — I wouldn’t recommend leaving! Marjorie, the city is a horror. If the taxis don’t kill you, those street urchins will! We have had people run down by cars. Oh yes. The filth and the smells—I personally don’t have the stomach. I think you may be romanticizing! Which is what our memories do…my friend Florence was just there. She gave one of those little beggars a single rupee, and made a friend for life. They will not leave you alone! They chase after you for miles. The Indians! One step outside the hotel…they’re all petty thieves!” (Marj winced, thinking of Riki and his family.) “Flo had a pregnant girl come up to her and when she tried to give her a few coins, the girl said she didn’t want any money, all she wanted was milk. Flo kept saying, ‘I’ll give you money and you can buy milk.’ But the girl insisted. Flo said she looked like an angel. It was very convincing. How can you turn down an angel who’s asking for milk instead of money? The land of milk and money! The little criminal pointed out a place where Flo could buy the milk. Well, by now my friend’s curiosity was piqued, Flo is very inquisitive, and hard, may I add, to get the better of. You’ve got to wake up pretty early to do that, and let me tell you, these Indians are early risers! So Florence buys the angel-faced girl milk then walks away and hides; 10 minutes later, she sees the girl go back and return it! She’s in cahoots with the people who own the shop! Flo said she wasn’t even sure she was pregnant, that she thought it might be padding. Do you see, Marj? It’s a sham! The merchants pocket the money and get the milk too and the whole thing begins all over again! Florence was extremely impressed. The Indians are the most extraordinary bunco artists. That’s why they use them in the call centers. They learn English perfectly and the next thing you know they’re phoning at dinnertime — with perfect American accents! — and you think you’re getting someone from AT&T! When they’re 10,000 miles away! Oh, the companies that hire them here in the States are no fools, I assure you. But are you certain that you and Joan don’t want to go to Italy? Or Spain? Or Scotland? Scotland’s wonderful this time of year. We’ll put you at the Balmoral. There’s a marvelous train that beats the pants off the Orient Express. Hands down. It winds through the countryside and during the day, you picnic with royalty, right in their castles. It’s a 4 hour layover in Newark and you’re there the next morning. That’s what I think you should do, Mother Marj. That’s what I think you should do.”