Memorial

LVI.Marjorie

THEY went shopping at Saks and Neiman’s.

At 1st, she felt abashed — Marjorie couldn’t remember the last time she bought clothes for herself, and was still in a period of mourning Hamilton. But her new friend did much to raise her spirits. They tried on everything from frocks to 35,000 dollar gowns. Bonita said this would be the party of their lives, and they should just say the hell with it. Marj wound up with an aristocratically festive suit by YSL, but her Sister was more daring: a Céline cherry bouclé jacket, and a, well, interesting ensemble by an unpronounceable Japanese designer.

At the last minute, Bonita said she’d foolishly left her pocketbook at home. Marj offered to put the 85-hundred dollar charge on her Visa — Bonita would have nothing of it. When the old woman finally said she wasn’t going to leave the store without the dresses, the Sister almost tearfully relented. She said she would bring a check to Spago tonight. As they left the Fifth Avenue Club, they sang “High Hopes,” arm in arm, followed by a darling young man who carried their things. It was like out of a movie or a dream.

MARJ was so excited she didn’t know what to do with herself. It was only 3 o’clock and the dinner was at 8. She bounced around the house, singing, “Oops, there goes another rubber tree plant,” and whispering under her breath, “Dinner at 8! Dinner at 8!” She decided to burn off energy and stroll over to Riki’s for a lottery ticket.

Home again, she languorously picked through a bookshelf in the den while running a bath. She hadn’t seen this one in what seemed like a century: a moss-green copy of The Jungle Book with a faded Piranesi-style arch ex Libris: RAYMOND RAUSCH pasted inside. She loved Kipling, as had her father (the writer was born in Bombay, so Marj felt an immediate kinship. She always imagined he looked like Sean Connery, who played one of his characters in that glorious movie The Man Who Would Be King). She was almost certain Rudyard had stayed at the Taj Mahal Palace — maybe she’d ask Joanie to look it up on her computer.

Marj flipped through the pages as she soaked in the tub, careful to keep elbows above water. She remembered her ex husband reading to Chester at bedtime — especially “Toomai of the Elephants.” Oh, Chess loved that one! It was the story of a little boy who was told about something no man or mahout had ever seen: clearings deep in the forest called elephants’ ballrooms where the ancient creatures went to dance. Could anything be more delightful? She reread it, and the sound of Ray’s voice rushed back to her, as if seizing the words: one stormy night, a noble bull called Kala Nag (“black snake”) broke free of his ropes and galloped with Little Toomai on his back for miles and miles, to the legendary, mysterious bacchanal. There, the elephants partook of doum and marula, mgongo and palmyra, fermented fruits that made them drunk. And dance, they did! When the terrified, delirious boy returned at dawn to tell his tale, the hunters were skeptical until they finally went and found the place he’d described, in the heart of the jungle — a vast “ballroom” of trampled wood, with trails leading to and from and every which way. That night, in a very human celebration, Little Toomai was rechristened Toomai of the Elephants, and the magnificent brawny beasts raised their trunks, trumpeting in joy for the new King of Mahouts.

She read the opening verse aloud:

I will remember what I was. I am sick of rope and chain.

I will remember my old strength and all my forest affairs.

I will not sell my back to man for a bundle of sugarcane…

I will go out until the day, until the morning break — out to

the winds’ untainted kiss, the waters’ clean caress—

I will forget my ankle-ring and snap my picket-stake. I will

revisit my lost loves, and playmates masterless!

SHE put on her “lucky” Schlumberger peas-in-the-

pod and parrot-and-feather Tiffany pins, plus a necklace she hadn’t worn in years made of tourmalines, peridot, and aquamarine stones. (They set off the fire of her wedding ring opal.) It crossed her mind that Cora might look through the window and see her wheeling the suitcase she’d packed for New York; Marj wasn’t up for any explaining. In fact, she rather enjoyed the idea of Cora guessing her whereabouts. The mystery of it. The old woman smiled to herself, feeling like a double agent — a saboteur! It was very Graham Greene! She could always say she’d been to the elephants’ ball…but when she thought of Pahrump and how tough a time her neighbor had been having, Marj felt a little less “cock-of-the-walk” (an expression Hamilton liked to use). She scribbled a note saying she was on her way to La Quinta with her daughter and stuck it in Cora’s mailbox. The suitcase was small but the old woman had trouble lifting it to the trunk. She slid it into the backseat instead. She would get help once she got to the restaurant.

MARJ drove right past Spago. For a moment, she didn’t have a clue where she was. Why hadn’t she hitched a ride with Bonita? Dumb, dumb, dumb. She circled Rite Aid a few times before coming back around Wilshire to Cañon. There was sidewalk construction going on but then she saw the valets.

She felt glamorous making her entrance. The pretty Asian woman looked up “Mr Weyerhauser” then asked if the party might be under a different name. Marj said, as if intoning a password at the Magic Castle (she’d been to that place in the Hollywood Hills years ago, with Ham), “the Blind Sisters.” The hostess seemed puzzled but a confident Marj added, “It should be a large group.” The gal checked again, under “Weyerhauser” and “Herlihy” and “Blind Sisters,” but came up blank. She couldn’t remember Bonita’s last name, not that it made much sense that it would have been used for the reservation. She nearly blurted out “State of New York” and “lottery winners,” but thought that unwise. (It might even be illegal.)

The hostess never stopped smiling. She made the old woman feel comfortable that there had been a mistake, and her party was certain to arrive soon. She led her to an empty table for 2, opposite the bar. She was lovely — and my, there were so many people there, yet she had been so personable! No wonder Lucas had chosen this place.

She ordered Perrier and after a few minutes pulled Mr Weyerhauser’s card from her wallet. Stupidly, she’d left the cellphone Joan gave her at home. (Her daughter would have been mad about that. She told her never to leave the house without it.) Marj asked the server if there was another Spago and was politely told there once was, but no more. She waited almost an hour. She left a kerchief on the chair so that no one would claim it, then went to the bathroom, passing parties of beautifully dressed diners who seemed to stare at her with respect — Marjorie Herlihy knew that tonight she exuded elegance, wealth, sophistication. The old woman splashed her face and the water felt good; she had diarrhea from her nerves and wondered how much longer she should stay. She found a payphone to call Lucas but didn’t have any coins.

She sat down at the bar for another 40 minutes — a gal her age, sitting in a bar! Ham would have laughed — nursing a glass of red wine. She wondered if there had been an invitation, and searched her mind. Did Lucas give her something with an address, something for the party? She told him she was coming — didn’t she? — but there wasn’t anything to RSVP. Usually, for a grand gala, there was a number you could call to RIP…no, they were probably careful about that. This sort of thing, if you had it on paper, was too easy to “leak.” Still, she imagined those federal people had printers they worked with who were bonded. It was probably her own damn fault for being a late enrollee in the Expedited Award Program. There wouldn’t have been time to send something out.

When she finally left, she made deliberate, old-world pains to thank the attractive hostess, one of those marvelous professionals trained never to make assumptions or judgments nor to condescend. She told Marj she was sorry, but nothing, not a scintilla, of her demeanor made the guest feel foolish, and for that Mrs Herlihy was grateful.

Perhaps she’d made a terrible mistake and the plan had been to meet at the Four Seasons all along. She needed to drive over, right away — where was that hotel? On Doheny? The thought crossed her mind that something awful might have happened to Lucas; or, more reasonably, the dinner was canceled due to a sudden emergency, and both he and Bonita had been trying to call. (Not that it mattered, because the damn “mobile” was at home. Anyhow, the old woman wasn’t sure she’d ever given them her number — and how could she? She didn’t even know it herself. Joanie kept saying she was going to tape it on the back but never did.) Wait. No! Now she remembered…Bonita saying she would give her a check for the dresses she’d charged “tonight at Spago.” So even if there had been a last-minute change, Bonita — Billingsley! — would still have met her at Spago—someone would have — then proceeded, arm in arm High Hopes, to the Four Seasons or wherever it was they had settled on. She kicked herself for remembering to pack everything in the world — everything except that stupid phone.

She went to Rite Aid for coins to call the special State of New York Blind Sister Beneficiary Hotline. Everything was so brightly lit that she felt herself coming out of her skin. The cashier was a surly Mexican who said, “I don’t have no change.” (Marj expected Rite Aid to have a higher caliber of worker, at least in Beverly Hills.) The girl wouldn’t even look at her and Marj knew that she was lying. Maybe they’d be kinder in the Rx section but it was so busy she would probably have to wait 20 minutes just to talk to the cashier. (She needed to use the toilet again.) The only place to sit was at the machine that took your blood pressure but right when she got close a little boy clambered onto the seat. Marj smiled and turned to leave. She was at a loss.

Up front, a raucous pack of youngsters jockeyed for ice cream, and she remembered how she used to buy Chess and Joanie cones and sundaes at 31 Flavors, kitty-corner to the drugstore (which back then was called Thrifty’s). Ray didn’t like it but she enjoyed taking the children on excursions to Beverly Hills, she thought it was good for their character to be exposed to wealth. She wanted them to see the large and orderly houses tended to by gardeners, homes she knew one day they could live in. More than anything, she had the desire for her children to attend Beverly Hills schools, the finest in the nation. (Ray never knew it but on Sundays, when Marj said she was with a galfriend, she went apartment hunting, just south of Olympic. But the prices were beyond their ken.) There was a huge pond on Santa Monica Boulevard and Beverly Drive and she sat with the kids on its stone borders, watching the big colorful fishes. Occasionally Marj even spotted someone that she recognized from television or the movies — she swore she once saw Fess Parker and Joan Fontaine but couldn’t get Raymond to believe it. To this day, she retained the habit of walking around the city, and a few weeks ago actually passed by “31” on her way to get bunion medicine — it amazed, but the parlor was still there, one of the few surviving landmarks from that time. There used to be 3 theaters in the neighborhood, and 3 bookstores too — all gone now. She remembered vividly that the Beverly movie palace was literally in the shape of the Taj Mahal, it had become more important to her through the years, after the children had grown she parked nearby just to look. (Best to see its dollop of a roof from a block or so away.) It hadn’t been a working theater for decades, enduring a series of drab transformations from clothing stores to banks, yet rose like a creampuff cloud above storefront commerce, visible only to the delighted cognoscenti, until finally, only a few months ago, they tore the icon down. It was almost proof there was a God that it had managed to stay for so long. Bless 31 Flavors, and bless the memory of the Taj Mahal too. She took the kids there for Saturday matinees. Ray didn’t like that either.

“Ain’t Culver City good enough?” he used to say. His English was perfectly fine but he liked to goad her by talking like a yokel. “No,” she would answer. “It isn’t.”

She was surprised when the Mexican shouted at her. She thought the cashier was being rude but instead she gave Marj 4 quarters. The girl must have felt bad about how she had treated her, and the old woman thought, See that? Everyone has a conscience. Maybe the man who shot poor Riki dead was in a motel room somewhere, a tormented soul thinking about turning himself in. She thanked her then made the mistake of asking where the phones were and the cashier got surly again, pointing outside with disdain. Marj cursed herself—of course they were outside. She already knew that. She hated being the helpless old lady. The girl probably thought she was a refugee from the expensive new Assisting Living condos that had recently gone up around the corner. She probably resented her because here she was working for minimum wage and this wizened crone, this witch who lived in luxury and came and went as she pleased, was pestering her for coins. Still, the cashier showed she had a heart.

The pack of ice cream kids had migrated outside (they all looked Persian) and were being so noisy that Marj had trouble concentrating on dialing. Their cars were just sitting in the lot with the doors open and music blaring. She called the toll free hotline and left her name.

Then she found Bonita’s number and listened to the strange message: Thank you for calling. Unfortunately, the person who gave you this number does not want to talk to you or speak to you — ever again. We would like to take this opportunity to officially reject you. If you would like to order personalized rejection cards with this number printed on them, please visit our website at www.rejectworld.com. Our certified rejection specialists are standing by to serve you in this time of need.

She winced in confusion. Some sort of joke? Bonita did have a quirky sense of humor. She tried the number again, and got the same recording. (Now her coins were all used up.)

She took a few steps and threw up. Like everyone her age, she had been trained to ask, “Am I having a heart attack?” but decided it was only the wine and her nerves. (“High Hopes” and “The Days of Wine and Roses” were catfighting in her head. She missed Jack Lemmon.) Joanie said, If you think you’re having a heart attack, breathe deep and force a deep cough. Keep doing that, then call 911. The music from the cars drowned out “High Hopes” and one of the rowdy kids yelped, alerting his friends to the old woman who puked. “That’s disgusting!” said a girl. Another girl said, “It’s sad. Maybe we should help.” Another wandered closer and said, “Lady?” Marj didn’t have the strength to respond. Another said, “Just call 911,” then boisterously broke into peals of laughter. Marj kept seeing the face of Jack Lemmon in his little hat; he would see her through. A boy said, “Call the pound!” A girl said, “That is so mean.” A boy said, “She just threw up. She ain’t dyin.” “Maybe she’s been partying.” “She looks really rich.” “It’s a Senior Moment.” “Is she a junior or a Senior?” “Hope she’s wearing her Pampers!”

The pack moved toward the alley, laughing and smoking and remonstrating, then disappeared.

SUDDENLY Marj was driving south on Robertson, without any memory of having gotten in the car. She was lightheaded but seemed to have her wits about her. She resolved to call Joanie in the morning; her daughter would help sort things out. She felt something was “off” but wouldn’t allow herself to believe she’d been done wrong. No, that could not be. She would get to the bottom of it in the morning but for now it was important to just get home and get to the bathroom (she was cramping badly from holding it in), take a tub, and climb into bed. She’d just leave her luggage in the trunk, where the valets had transferred it, and snatch back the note from Cora’s mailbox. Maybe there were messages from Lucas on her answering machine or cell. She didn’t know how to retrieve messages from the cell.

When she turned the corner onto her block, a car with dimly flashing white lights was parked in front of the house.

She pulled into the drive and got out.

A man approached.

“Mrs Herlihy?”

“Yes. What is it? What’s happened?”

“I’m Federal Agent Marone, from the antifraud division. I’d like to speak with you about a person who goes by the name of Lucas Weyerhauser. I know it’s a late hour, Mrs Herlihy, but — may I come in?”