Memorial

LXXXI.Joan

came home from visiting her dad, the caregiver was frantic.

After tearfully admitting to the possibility she had napped during Oprah, the RN said that her mother had somehow managed to “slip out.” Upon realizing “the client” was gone, she became distraught and went looking for her. Joan asked if she’d bothered to notify security; she hadn’t, and was tormented afresh by her own incompetence. Joan picked up the phone. The staff said they would immediately alert the police in case Mrs Herlihy had “wandered off-site,” and begin to check ladies’ rooms, pool and cabana areas, and the hidden fern-choked nooks that were plentiful on the grounds — everywhere they could think of.

Joan thanked them, then saw the envelope under the door — a message from the hotel operator, saying “Cora Ludinsky” had called.

She retrieved the voicemail informing that Marj was back in Beverlywood. The neighbor hadn’t left a number and Joan didn’t have it in her Treo afterall (of course) but it didn’t matter, she jumped in the car and went right over. On the way, she phoned the detective who had helped with the fraud case; he said he’d do what he could. Of course when she got there, her mother was gone, and Cora didn’t have much to add, except the disquieting reference to “Lucas.” No one was sure if she’d flagged a cab or gotten on a bus or was just meandering — in a follow-up call, the detective thought the latter a more likely scenario, that she was out there confused, and someone had most likely given refuge, and was in the process of contacting authorities — so Joan canvassed the neighborhood until it was pitch dark. She even stopped at Riki’s and the young man said yes, she’d been in, not too long ago, to buy a ticket. Cora said that Marj was wearing a stylish green coat, and Joan was positive it was the Jil Sander she bought for her that 1st week she’d come home from the hospital. Mom liked to wear it when they ate at the subterranean hotel coffeeshop. She passed that on to the detective.

Joan and Barbet had plans to go to Locanda Portofino for her birthday — a supershitty day to turn 38. (She hadn’t expected her father to remember, and chided herself for even having the sappy, babyish thought that he’d send flowers and a 6pack of Diet Coke.) They wound up meeting at Kate Mantellini’s because the restaurant was sort of between the hotel and the old house; that way, Joan could feel halfway in her skin. There was nothing to do for now and at least she had the gut feeling Mom would soon be found. The detective had his “eyes and ears out there” and was waiting for a high-priced PI colleague to return his page. Joan awaited that callback as well — she’d already emailed a picture of Marj and there was no reason the PI couldn’t get started right away. She told the detective to give his friend a number—$25,000, as retainer fee — and he said that was way too high but Joan insisted. She knew it guaranteed action. She needed someone who would knock on doors if it came down to that.

She dumped all this on Barbet and he was an enormous comfort. He brought a gift, an iPod with the complete downloaded audioworks of Trollope and Dostoevsky (unabridged). Even her favorite, Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita, was on there, bless his soul. A feature allowed you to fast-forward narration without distorting the text, a kind of “speed listening.” (She couldn’t wait to zip through The Idiot.) Barbet managed to get her laughing, and Joan needed that because she was beyond hysteria. She was beyond beyond. He started riffing on Kate Mantellini’s, which was actually designed by Thom Mayne.

“I know,” said Joan. “Did you see the thing in the Times today where Mayne ass-licked El Zorro?”

“The Phaeno Science Center, in Wolfsburg.”

“Will the shiteating never stop?”

“Not as long as there are anuses. Would you look at this restaurant? It’s like a house in Vegas, commissioned by one of the boobs who hit it big in Blue Man Group. This waterhole’s so fuckin ugly. Are those boxers carved out of metal? Is this supposed to be, like, a postmodern sports bar? I mean, whuh? Look, babe, consider yourself lucky. You could have fucked Ground Control to Major Thom, and be about to give birth to some illegitimate Ichabod Crane Pritzkerfetus who needs anger management. Some bitch-slapping toddler with close-cropped hair and a mean streak who’s destined to do yoga with Saul David Raye and eat strawberry salsa à table, at Table.” He pretended to masturbate then looked around, shivering with disgust as she cracked up. “Even the people here. Realtors and loser comedians with trust funds. The feng shui makes your flesh crawl — the ambience! The whole experience is…it must be like the aftertaste people get when they go for chemo. That Writers Guild crowd trickling in from Doheny; they go see movies for free or listen to Bill Maher ‘in conversation’ with Ariadne Huffington”—he was so bombed (he’d had a head start) that’s what he called her—“for the hundred-thousandth time. The vibe here is so creepy. Don’t you think? A nouveau riche sports bar with Major Thom’s usual warm, fuzzy edges — the poor waitresses must get impaled when they turn the corner into the kitchen! At least you didn’t get impaled on a Thom Mayne hard edge. At least you had the sense to be inseminated by a Jew billionaire!”

Her partner knew the paternity issue was conversationally off-limits, but what the hell. He never believed her one-night-stand Geek Squad story anyhow. “Entre rien” (as Barbet put it), he suddenly asked if she wanted to join him next week at the Airport Hilton to “experience” an avatar called Amma, Mata Amritananandamayi (“Say what?” said Joan. “Amma means mother,” said Barbet), popularly known as the Hugging Saint. He said that someone tried to stab her not too long ago in Kollam, where the Big Wave hit, and Joan riposted, “You’re nobody till somebody stabs you.” She was actually surprised to hear Barbet was even interested. He said wryly, “Why not? Everyone can use a hug. Especially after a fucking memorial reject. Besides, I have ulterior motives.”

“Don’t you always?”

“One of our pretentious potential Buddhist clients said I should go.”

“Ah. Is there such a thing as an unpretentious potential Buddhist client?”

Barbet smirked, and said it might give ARK the edge in getting “the job.”

“What job?” she said. “What are you talking about?”

“Some temple in Taos.”

“Been there, done that. Haven’t we had enough faux Buddhists for a while?”

“Well, that ain’t my faux. Anyway, Lew Freiberg isn’t a Buddhist.”

“I hate fucking Buddhists,” said Joan. “I’d rather get raped by a Getty conservator than be invited to another Steve Ehrlich Zen brunch. There are no American Buddhist people of color.”

“What are you, the ACLU now?”

“They’re rich and they’re white and all they do is spend thousands of dollars making precious little pilgrimages to Dharamsala or wherever so they can write 4th-rate prosepoetry ‘essays’ about their cushy, cosmic adventures for Tricycle, or Travel + Leisure. They all suck the Dalai Lama’s 12 inch dick. Legends in their own luminous minds. Oh! And they love to talk about ‘sitting’—you know, my meditation practice can beat up your meditation practice. ‘Just sit’—that’s the big famous phony Buddhist motto. Just sit—on your Prada meditation pillow. You know what I say? Just shit. Take a big shit. That’s what I say.”

“You know why I love you, Joan? You’re the only person angrier than I am.”

Just now, he knew she had every right to be.

“Have you read the magazines, Barbet? I’ve done a lot of research—as you know—and I’ll tell you! Here’s what’s on the covers, every month: Robert Thurman Robert Thurman Robert Thurman, Pema Chödrön Pema Chödrön Pema Chödrön. Robert Thurman in conversation with Robert Thurman in conversation with Pema Chödrön in conversation with Robert Thurman eating out Pema Chödrön. Sharon Salzberg! Sharon Salzberg in conversation with Pema Chödrön! Pema Chödrön in conversation with Sharon Salzberg! Jack Kornfeld on a panel with Jack Kornfeld on a panel with Jack Kornfeld sucking his own dick while Pema Chödrön blows Rudolph the red-nosed Rinpoche!”

“The Aristocrats!”

“Richard Gere Richard Gere Richard Gere! bell hooks bell hooks bell hooks! Oh! And the big controversy—the letters to the editors — are these pathetic assholes who try to distinguish themselves in the hierarchic pecking order by declaring how they think things should be spelled. Barbet, I am serious.” She began to sing, “You say nirvana, I say nibbana, you say the dharma, I say the dhamma — nirvana, nibbana, the dharma, the dhamma—let’s call the whole thing—”

“ ‘Nothingness,’ ” Barbet interjected, arching an eyebrow. She ignored the comment; he grew secretly glum when she didn’t acknowledge a bonafide witticism.

“They even spell tao D-A-O. Like that idiot woman who just had to recycle Swann’s Way: The Way by Swann’s. Dumbshit!”

“You mean ‘The Shit by Dumb.’ ”

“And what is up with the Dalai Lama? Did you hear he said Katrina happened because of people’s karma?”

“Their khamma—”

“Now he’s Pat Robertson! Then I read something about how ol HHDL sat—just sit!—”

“Is that like DHL? UPS? FedEx?”

“—His Highness the Dalai Lama sat with this guy who set himself on fire because of the way the Chinese treat Tibetans. The guy sets himself on fire and goes into prayer position, OK?”

“I do that after sex.”

“But he lived. So Lord Lama comes a-callin! The guy has 4th degree burns and His Holiness gives him a lecture on why he shouldn’t hate the Chinese! The piece of toast tries to sit up — just sit! — out of respect, but keels over! At least His Holiness got his shot in! His parting fucking shot!”

Barbet was howling.

“You know,” said Joan, with a minxy smile. “You’re a pretty good straight man. And you’re straight. We should have had a baby.”

“We tried.”

“Yeah, we did.”

“Besides, I’d be too raged out.”

“I still think you should help me raise it.”

“Help you rage it.”

“Fine, help me rage it. But just help me.”

“That’s a given.”

They gave their 2 miscarriages a moment of silence.

“There is something far out that I saw in the Times,” said Barbet. “You could send it to Freiberg. It’s really interesting. They found 2 fossils fused together, fucking. 65,000,000 years old. In some state in India. Insect lovers or whatever. Now it’s just microscopic fungus, but you can actually see them in the act. Died in the Paleolithic saddle. How’s that for limbic dissonance? Not too bad. I think you should send it to Jew — I mean Lew. You know, the whole Sam and Esther shticky: the Way We Were.”

Another quiet moment.

“So: will you come to the Amma thing?”

She threw back her head and laughed as the waitress brought a pile of calamari.

“Sure.”

“You have to take a number for a hug — seriously, Joan. We need a ‘token.’ Sometimes this woman hugs, like, 9,000 people.

“Sign me up. But can’t you reserve? You know: ‘Dial 777-HUGS’?”

The Treo rang.

It was the PI.

Joan mentioned her price and he said he would find her mother within 24 hours.