Memorial

LXVIII.Marjorie

AT home, Joan tried getting into the bathroom but it was locked.

“Estrella?”

“Si,” came the shyly muffled voice.

“Jesus,” said Joan audibly. She stripped off her clothes right then and there. “I really need to get in, Estrella.”

After a minute came a flush. The maid emerged with a tight smile. There was a stench.

“I’ve told you,” said Joan. “If you have to use the shitcan — which you always seem to—don’t do it in the master bath. Is that so difficult to comprehend? Is that asking too much? Because you can find another job. I can find you a job where all you do is clean huge office building lavatories, so that when nature calls — and nature seems to call a lot! — you can go do your business without disrupting your workday. OK, Estrella? Comprende? Comprende? Bueno.”

She was taken aback by her own fury.

She drove to her mother’s, on the phone with Barbet most of the way. He was tender and supportive, pissed at Freiberg for stringing them along. Her partner swore (not that she needed reassurance) the Calatrava thing wouldn’t happen because Lew was a mercurial Perelmanian headcase. Then he actually said she should “have the kid” (not that she needed his advice), but Joan didn’t want to get into any kind of a thing about it, not on that level, and not now. She didn’t want this sacred being tainted by his throwaway spite. She knew where Barbet was going next: she’d better have the lawyers put something on paper guaranteeing the child’s future, something exceedingly in her favor. Joan wasn’t worried — she would have the baby, and it never had anything to do with getting or not getting the Mem (Barbet informed her he was having a tattoo inked on his left shoulder, the traditional heart-pierced-by-arrow, only with MEM instead of MOM inside), it had to do with the fact she was almost 40 fucking years old and this was how God happened to have said Ha. Still, she let him rail on. She knew he was hurt and only masking his disappointment.

They wound up talking about another job coming down the pike, a Demeulemeester boutique in Belgium. When Barbet said he’d make sure Fathom was on its way back safe and sound, Joan told him Lew loved the model so much that he wanted it “on permanent exhibition” in the gallery Richard Gluckman was building in Mendocino. Barbet laughed out loud.

“Let him have it! For a hundred-and-50,000. It’s no longer a maquette, now it’s art, right? Keep it, baby! But send the check! We’ll invoice Guerdon.”

WHEN she got to Marj’s, the old Imperial was in front, the window on the driver’s side wavily broken.

It looked like there was blood.

Joan ashened.

Cora approached, holding the King Charles in her arms. It yapped and she shushed, nuzzling its half-shaved crown. Shocky and breathless, Joan asked what happened and the neighbor said Marj was at the hospital.

Which hospital.

“Midway.”

When.

“Last night.”

Is she—

“I talked to her on the phone this morning.”

That was the extent of it.

Joan got back in the Range Rover. Cora ran after to exclaim through the passenger side that she had been the one to find her mother, right here in the driveway. What happened. She said Pahrump was “acting funny” and she was going to get Marj’s opinion about whether to call Stein or just take him to the vet but no one answered the door, and on her way home she saw, or thought she did, someone sitting in the car like a mannequin — it was Marj. She’d been assaulted. What do you mean. Cora said she was careful not to “disturb” anything before running to the house to dial 911. Then she returned with a damp towel, but didn’t know what to do with it, and suddenly thought that the people who were responsible for this unspeakable act might still be “lurking.”

She jerked the car into the street and headed up Robertson, speeddialing Barbet to tell him what was going on — he didn’t answer and she left a message — then started to call Chess, before pressing END. Why bother?

The usual mindlessly galling, passive-aggressive encounters with testily indifferent functionaries and grinning eunuchized volunteers ensued, a tangle of nerves, short circuits, and wrong information, before mother and daughter reunited. Marj looked so awful. She smiled valiantly then collapsed in tears; the women held each other and Mom whispered, “I was so afraid they had hurt you!” Joan, uncomprehending, said she was fine and stroked the old woman’s hair as they wept. An RN came to check vitals. She casually said that whoever had done this had broken the jaw and it would need to be “wired.” Marj was half-naked. Joan reworked the cheap gown to cover her. She said she wanted to be alone with her mother and when the nurse ignored her, Joan insisted on speaking to a doctor. The Angel of Mercy, suddenly churlish, said she “would have one paged but they’re very busy.” Joan noticed wet bedsheets and the nurse assured her she was aware of it and would have them changed as soon as an orderly was free. Joan said if she would bring linen, or show her the linen closet, she would change them herself. The RN said she would have to wait and Joan said, Do not fuck with me, I want those sheets changed, do you understand? At that moment the nurse didn’t have what it took to go up against her.

She was trying to digest it all. She sat holding her mother’s hand. The orderly came with fresh sheets. He spoke to Marjorie as if she were a child, and it was tender and comforting to behold. Joan helped him put Mom in a chair. She told Marj she was going to make a few phone calls but the helper gently cautioned not to leave her because she might fall. The orderly said he could “loosely” tie her to the chair but Joan said no, she’d wait till the sheets were changed, and they could put her back in bed, with the rails up. At least he was a human being.

When it was done, she caught her breath outside the room. Who to contact 1st? She found the number of the FBI agent but it had been disconnected. (Joan didn’t have the chance or even the inclination to check in from Mendocino. She’d been so blackjacked.) That gave her a funny feeling. She was digging in her wallet for that lady Cynthia’s Wells Fargo card when a different nurse came in and handed her the name and number of a cop. Joan dialed and got right through — a direct line. Short introductions were made. The detective said he had just been heading to the hospital for a chat with Mrs Herlihy. He asked how her mother was doing (shorthand for Do you think she’s up for an interview?) and Joan said not too well. He said that was understandable and wanted to know if Joan would be there when he arrived — that would be helpful — she said of course. The detective told her it would be 45 minutes or so depending on traffic. Joan wondered if it’d be OK to go to the house and pick up some things for her mom, and he said that was a great idea. See you soon.

She told Mom she was going home for her robe and toiletries and was there anything else she needed. Marj said, with a feeble smile that stabbed Joan’s heart, that all the jewelry was gone, even the wedding ring Hamilton designed. Joan said not to worry, not to worry about anything but getting better, everything was insured, and that she was here now, her daughter was here, and wouldn’t leave her, all she wanted was that Marj use her energy to get better, that was the only thing that mattered. OK, Mom? So is there anything else you need? Anything you can think of? Marj said there were a few books by the bed, one about Jesus and his visit to India, another about Christian missionaries. Also, if she’d keep an eye out for her addressbook because she wanted to phone Cora and check on Pahrump but couldn’t for the life of her remember the number. Joan said she had it in her Treo, she had Cora’s number, and Stein’s too, and anyway she’d just seen Cora and would give her the message when she went back to Beverlywood. But did she want a special blanket or quilt? Something homey? Marj just smiled and shook her cracked, distended head, thanking her. You are the most wonderful daughter. Joan knew that she wasn’t and it broke her heart all over again. They cried and hugged. Marj said to be careful with the addressbook because tucked inside was a fortune cookie message “with important numbers” that she used whenever she bought a lottery ticket at Riki’s. Joan smiled and said, “Your secrets are safe with me, Ms Morningstar.”

THE house was musty. She opened a window. Then, suddenly mindful of the violent, mysterious intruder, slammed it shut; the glass trembled and paint flecked off the old wooden frame. She would get the detective’s take on all of it — who was this person, and was he likely to come back? Shouldn’t they be dusting the car for prints? That sort of thing.

A dress was on the bathroom floor, crumpled and soiled. There were new bags from Neiman’s and Barneys, with extravagant receipts inside. That seemed uncharacteristic. The tub was filled with dirty water. Stockings and underthings floated like ratty, lifeless swamp creatures. Everything smelled of excrement. Joan wrung them out and drained the bath.

She wandered from room to room, each one somehow permeated by her mother, as if she were walking through Marj’s body itself, and even though Joan had been there recently, it was such a long time since she’d actually looked with her eyes and her heart, so long since she’d stepped outside the castle of Self to consider Marjorie Rausch Herlihy née Donovan as a separate, living being, fading balletomane, frail and mortal, with longings, dreams, and desires, who’d suffered abandonment by one husband and death by another and the abandonment/death of her children too. Shame washed over her; Joan no longer recognized who she was. She may as well have been the thug who had violated the woman who bore her. Here and there were things from India she’d grown up around and still remembered from girlhood. Here and there were photographs, her father, Raymond, carefully excised, the technique divorced women sometimes favored, memories halved or quartered, images of Joan and her brother at an early age without either parent, when the proper editorial couldn’t be surgically achieved. There were unopened boxes of incense, and little wood-and-copper Buddhas that she liked to give away as “friendship” gifts.

On her mother’s nightstand, a tidy stack: The Life and Works of Jesus in India, The Da Vinci Code: The Illustrated Edition, The Automatic Millionaire, and Die Rich and Tax Free! Joan smiled when she saw a picturebook of the Taj Mahal, and decided to bring that along; maybe they’d make the trip afterall. Is that her consolation prize for the beating? You wretched cunt? You are such a cunt. Who are you who are you who are you—

It took longer to find the addressbook. The fortune cookie adage was indeed tucked within. Tiny lottery numbers — the last digit altered by Mom’s quivery cursive — were printed beneath: LOVE IS AROUND THE CORNER.

WHEN she returned to Midway, the detective was already talking with Marj — though it was hard to understand her through the clenched jaw — who was propped on pillows, and seemed animated, enjoying the company of a gentleman. Joan shook his hand then kissed her mother on the forehead and showed off the little suitcase she’d retrieved. (The same one Marj had packed for New York.) She pulled out the addressbook too, with a corny magician’s flourish, eliciting a broad, pained smile; then set everything down beside the chair. Joan noticed the IV had backed up with blood and rang for a nurse. Just then, the old woman was brought a liquid supper. (The fracture had been scheduled for repair tomorrow afternoon.) Joan said she was going to have a talk with her “gentleman caller” and would be right back. A volunteer, close to Marj’s age, helped arrange the tray on an overhanging bed table.

Detective Whitsell had a folder with a few phony documents Marj had been given by the people who had drained her savings, and assaulted her — he was convinced they were one and the same group. He shared everything he’d been able to piece together to date, which, in such a short time, seemed quite a bit: the initial, elaborate “Blind Sister” lottery scam; the “reload,” where Mrs Herlihy was asked to virtually empty her accounts; the “recovery room,” with an FBI twist, promising justice and restitution — the victim even brazenly asked to participate in capturing those who defrauded her; and finally, the blackmailing that began with the impersonation of Joan herself, the chaotic traffic accident and “miscarriage,” the superfluous on-scene personal injury attorney, and so forth, ending with the robbery of precious jewels and aberrantly sadistic beating of the helpless mark. The detective had only meager remnants of the gang’s handiwork (he’d worked a case 10 months ago that bore a striking resemblance) — receipts and other effluvia tucked in Marjorie’s pocketbook; she’d handed them over when he arrived — and doubted that a search of the house would reveal much more because the team would have wisely erased the paper trail, covering their evidentiary tracks. They were very, very good.

Joan hyperventilated as she listened, unable to suppress her rage and her soul sickness. She told Detective Whitsell that she had spoken with the lady at the “bank” and been completely fooled. He said the gang excelled at “phonework,” even using sound effects to make it seem like they worked out of large agencies or offices. He called them “stormchasers,” elaborating how they exploited any form of natural disaster or human weakness. For example, he knew that a splinter gang associated with the group that fleeced her mother was still working Katrina, siphoning money from bogus Web sites. “You can’t tell their homepages from the Red Cross’s. Some are Aryan Brotherhood, believe it or not—extremely well done. They’ve got viral embeds: click on ‘Hurricane Rebuild Update’ then Zap! your personal info is history. Your identity’s gone and you’ll never get it back. One guy set up a site before the storm hit Louisiana! (They should have made him head of FEMA.) Other scams are a little ‘dirtier,’ like the Nigerian stuff we see, the ‘419s.’ Misspellings, boldface pleas for money — is it boldface or baldface? — it’s baldfaced, right? — ‘I lost everything including my wife.’ That sort of deal. I’ve even heard of crews going down there to pick through garbage. And I don’t mean Mardi Gras ‘krewes.’ What they’re looking for are water-logged bank statements, Social Security cards, driver’s licenses, and the like. Hell, a buddy of mine caught one up at Lindy Boggs — the hospital? They go right in the nursing homes and pick through patient records. It’s pretty much beyond the pale.

“But we have individuals out here who are just as imaginative. You might have read about a fellow in the paper who gave a donation of a hundred-and-12,000,000 to a little college in Northern California. They were so thrilled, they gave him a 1st edition of The Origin of Species—and arranged for the guy to be blessed by the Pope! A convicted felon! Of course, the pledges turned out to be completely spurious. The human animal has a primal need to believe. It’s very important to believe, and there are folks out there who take advantage of that. I think it was St Mary’s — St Mary’s College. So at least your mom’s in good company.”

SHE stayed overnight at the hospital. Barbet stopped by. They had coffee in the cafeteria and commiserated.

After he left, she watched television while her mother slept. The usual reports of bombings, bird flu, and mass burials; anchors spoke of Death’s details — always sketchy and sexily half-baked, like a stairwell dry hump — with a breathy, erotic edge to their voices. She zoned out and tried to read. It was after 10. There was a segment about a former TV journalist who’d recovered from cancer and now devoted his life to helping others who were disabled or trying to recover from catastrophic illnesses. The feature ended with a visit to a quadraplegic who spoke with the aid of a synthesizer. When the retired newsman asked the quad how he would now describe his life, the electronic voicebox replied, “I — am — happy — always.”

She thought of Mom’s fortune cookie (love is around the corner) and collapsed in silent tears.