Memorial

LXXXIV.Marjorie

nattily dressed woman who after 2 hours asked where they were and the kind fat black female driver said, “Long Beach. End of the line,” asking if she needed any help but the old lady smiled and said she’d be fine, and God Bless.

Marj felt buoyant and alive.

Unencumbered.

She intuited the presence of Hamilton — as if somehow guided by him, her actions sanctioned.

It was dark and as she walked she caught her reflection in the windows of closed shops. Long Beach was such an empty, pretty place. Occasionally the quiet cool of the night was interrupted by stinging sounds or shouts. Someone in a passing car yelled, “Raggedyass bitch!” and threw empty cans out the car. Probably just kids. Marjorie smiled — there was nothing anyone could do to dampen her spirits. She was in upbeat missionary mode, and it was about time! — back to the girlish days when she dreamed of spiritual repatriation, an Indian pilgrimage to give succor (and red peonies) to the destitute and dying (and be succored by them as well), to be lifted up and ennobled, oh she had loved Mother Teresa so, heart filled with respect and admiration for this frail giant of incalculable courage and resolve who sought out the poorest of the poor, to love their very diseases and rotting limbs, a saint who wished only to feed them and touch them and wash their wounds. In other words, a true Christian. Was there such a thing as a true Christian anymore? In these, the last years of her life, she was finally ready. She would work from the Taj Mahal Palace, in nurse’s whites, rent an entire floor for homebase, she would use the monies from the fire sale of her land, the Travel Gals could arrange it, Joanie too, she said she would come if her pregnancy didn’t interfere but Marj still wasn’t certain she was pregnant, maybe it was a ruse, another excuse to back out, but no, she didn’t think so, her daughter really did want to come this time, it didn’t matter if she did, Marj was doing this for herself, and in a strange way for Ham and her father, she wanted to be a true Christian, this was the time of life such plans came to fruition — just like that socialite from Beverly Hills who went to live in a jail in Tijuana, Marj Herlihy could make a difference, but without fanfare, no books written about her, this was her time to give, and give back, so many moribund beggars and stunted needy children all within a stone’s throw of the Gate of India — she’d seen them again in that marvelous Judy Davis movie—that was where she was needed, not some fancy Sunset Boulevard hotel. Had not the burning of her beloved home been a sign? In the middle of the night, she’d been pulled from the flames by a mother of mercy, angel in white, the flames hadn’t frightened but instead filled her with longing for the great Indian festival of lights, Diwali, the one she’d been so privileged to see with her father, millions of lanterns and butterlamps, was it not the good Lord’s way of showing that her time as missionary had arrived? The Beverlywood conflagration was like that which surrounded Kali in her picturebooks and the articles in the Britannica as well. There was nothing left, her children were grown, they were independent people leading independent lives. They didn’t share much with her and that was all right, they were basically damn good kids, even if Marj didn’t approve of everything she knew (and didn’t know) about them, that’s how it was supposed to be, they’d left the nest long ago and now stood on their own 2 feet. Her parents and husband and children were gone and it was time. Even poor Riki’s death — wasn’t he from Calcutta, like dear Mother Teresa? no, maybe Mumbai — even his brutal murder had illumined her path.

Suddenly came a stabbing pain and she had to use a powderroom. The streets looked desolate. The old woman grimaced as she looked in all directions. She saw something distant, a brightly lit intersection, and made her way. Her angular, half-dancing gait was comical and she knew it and tried to laugh at herself — how I must look! — the only way she could walk to hold it in. Marj realized she’d been riding around all that time without “going,” unusual for her, she’d been lost in thought, she distracted herself with images of the journey, as she got closer to the bright Conoco lights she conjured the Taj Mahal Palace and Towers, how soon she would be going, with Joan, it seemed like her daughter talked about it every day! they even sat in the hotel watching the DVD Nigel gave her (Marj felt bad for not having yet returned it) and she wondered again if Joanie was telling the truth about that baby (if she wasn’t, why on earth had she lied?), the insistent story of impregnation by a rich man, she had watched her belly with discreet diligence but it never seemed to get any rounder, when Joan pulled up her blouse to show, sometimes it was distended but that was probably just the food she was packing away, every time you turned around hordes of room service brought pancakes, club sandwiches, Waldorf salads, banana split sundaes, and what have you, Marj winced again at what it must be costing, still, she didn’t think her little girl would actually invent something like that, so drastic, just to cover up a weight gain, not unless she was planning on going to hell in a handbasket and putting on 50 pounds, no, that wasn’t her, Joan wasn’t crazy (not like her brother), she was a professional woman, with a respectable architectural practice, she was vain, and didn’t tell lies all the time like Chesapeake did, not that a falsely claimed pregnancy was a badge of honor, but if Joan was going to gain a few pounds it was more in her character to let it all hang out, that’s how she was, not one to conceal such a thing, especially some extra padding, she was almost 40 years old, common enough for a gal her age, you start to thicken up at 40 and there isn’t much you can do about it, those silly diet books don’t work, you could run on a treadmill to your heart’s content just like Mr Pahrump did before he died but at that age no matter what they say it doesn’t help one iota, anything you do only works a few months then you bounce right back to whatever weight you were struggling not to be. (Even those surgeries didn’t help, where they stapled your tummy, and besides, before you went that route you had to be truly obese, even afterward the people who had it done still looked fat.) But maybe her daughter was pregnant and that’d be divine—wouldn’t it? — in which case the trip to India would have to be postponed, at least on Joanie’s end (if they didn’t leave right away), but Marjorie dug in her heels, she would not be derailed, she’d take steps if Joan tried to prevent her — the way everyone had been treating her like a child lately anything was possible — get a lawyer involved if need be, she would have her freedom, she’d call Ham’s old friend, the one who had helped with the term life policy, but was certain that wouldn’t be necessary, no no, closer now to the Conocolights the old woman would just go straight ahead without Joan, Joanie couldn’t stop her, she wouldn’t dare, like it or not, Marj Herlihy was going straight ahead with her missionary work full-steam and Joan could catch up when the baby was old enough to travel, the work was too important, yes of course she wanted a grandchild, but the work was the thing, at this stage of her life, and she would use the Taj Mahal Palace as homebase. Once her “offices” were set up she’d send for them — Joan and the baby — not that India was the best place for an infant, that would be up to Mommy, but plenty had done it, plenty of wealthy, intrepid folks had raised their kids in all kinds of places, my God, Africa or even remote parts of America, if Joan didn’t like the idea than Marj would tell her to just stay put—in Beverly Hills—but Joanie was headstrong…like someone else she knew! Once her daughter set her mind to something she was hard to sway. So if she wanted to come, that would be that. Plenty of room for everyone. The Taj Mahal Palace and Towers could handle just about anything! You could see that from the DVD, if they could handle President Clinton after heart surgery they could certainly handle Joan Hennison Herlihy (who’d informed in an aside that she was keeping the Herlihy name, married or not) with a newborn. The hospitals were marvelous — she’d watched the 60 Minutes rerun with Mike Wallace and oh! that young man Nigel had been so right, even Cora saw the segment about the woman who went to Delhi for a hip replacement and stayed at a special post-op spa. It was paradise. In fact, she wouldn’t be surprised if the Taj was included in one of those surgical packages…you had your operation, then recuperated by the pool. And not at “pink bungalow” prices!

Marj broke into a lurching run.

When she got to the 76, the man in the glass booth (just like the one at Wells) — he wore a turban and looked Indian — told her the bathroom was broken. She said it was an emergency and he saw how crestfallen she was. He said she could use the mensroom, and slid a key attached to a wirehanger into the metal tray. She stood there until he waved his arm showing which way to go.

She went around back. A door was open. She ran into the darkness. She couldn’t find the switch but as her eyes adjusted she saw a wood board over the bowl, and a sanitary napkin dispenser. She was in the ladiesroom. She hobbled to the men’s, jiggling the key in the lock but it was broken and she tried again, about to run to the Indian, when the door gave way. It wouldn’t shut but she was in trouble, again no light, this room darker, she managed to find the toilet by the indirect hard fluorescence the banks above the gas pumps cast through unclosable metal door and high tiny window over the bowl, nature calling, no time left to even check if there was paper, hiked up her dress, sitting on the cracked, sticky bowl, and everything splattered out. The room so filthy and malodorous but she was grateful, she thought of Mother Teresa then almost with shame at how much wealth and ease she, Marj Herlihy, had experienced in this life, what was this but a minor discomfort, and how soon she would be home, at the Taj Mahal, the Taj Mahal Palace and Towers, the simple comfort of a clean cot was all she would ask for, all that she needed, there she could reach out to the poorest of the poor, their world so much worse than this ruined powderroom, gut now settling, relieved, panting from the effort, she would reach out from the Taj as Jesus did from Orissa, yes, not many people knew it but Jesus had been mentored in India and spread the gospel there, he had even been to Benares where bodies are burned and thrown in the river except for children who are wrapped. So this dank little lavatory would not trouble her, she would not let the debacle of outhouse smells intrude, she would spin them into perfume, they were afterall nothing and would soon be a memory. She hadn’t even thought about where she would go — when she finished her business. She would ask the Indian man. They were a friendly culture, like an enormous family, why, it might turn out the man behind the glass knew Riki (whom she’d be sure to mention), and if he didn’t, perhaps he’d have heard of him because of his martyred, somewhat notorious death. They might establish a bond that way.

She heard someone at the door and thought it was the turban’d gentleman. “I’m in here!” she shouted. “Someone is in here!”—because she wasn’t yet done, cramping again and splattering, at the same time groping with her eyes because they had failed to adjust enough to find tissue paper — on that front she had not had much luck. There was a big box stuck to the wall that was supposed to have seat covers but it was empty.

He burst in, not the Indian but someone else, she knew it wasn’t the Indian because he stank, and scuttled like a bony spider before she might even gasp, there was no turban and he tore her off the seat, she was on the cold floor, numb, face slammed hard and cold where the jaw had been injured, pain seared through, she tried to speak but he slapped and the corrosive pain jabbed at the still-healing fracture, he ripped off the blouse and stuffed it in her mouth and she was thinking how can he why would he I haven’t even cleaned myself I am so old—she felt pain down there and splattered and peed and that made him angry but she couldn’t hear the words he was saying, he was trying to mute himself, mindful, she thought, that the door could not close and perhaps someone, the Indian, or passersby, might come, and while he kept on she distracted herself by thinking again of the work she would do once she got home to the palace in Bombay, the work she would do with men like him, spidery men who’d known nothing but sorrow and horror and disease, bereft men who descended like locusts on children and missionaries like herself and burned them or mauled them like sick wounded tigers, empty dank men who knew not what they did, and she was not there, she was no longer there for the longest time, she smelled his breath and his vomit, an alcoholic man, a drunken drug-addicted man, then somehow she was on her feet with the green Jil Sander wrapped around her, spiderman gone, of a sudden she was outside, a person pumping gas into their car stared, the turban glimpsed her through the glass, gesticulating, she realized he wanted the key back but she kept going and was not really there, kept walking until she came to a group of homeless smoking and laughing and she wondered if they were the ones who threw the empty cans but she wasn’t there and 2 of them were women and they made jokes at 1st like the girls that night at Rite Aid then grew warm and concerned and saw she’d been hurt, called her Mother, Moms, Poor Mama, one of them was hurt as well and they took Marj along, pied piperwalking it seemed forever but telling her all the insufferable way they would soon be there she knew that her journey had begun and when they reached the tiny building with wire fence and neatened closecropped lawn — more like a cottage, same size as the Beverly Hills bungalow — they were met by a kind lady in a white coat, nurse’s coat, caregiver’s coat, a clean, middleaged gal in whites, ethnicity undetermined, and the kennel-like barking of dogs, they barked and barked, a stern, confident, friendly chorus, the clean white-coated lady seemed to know all of the people Marj traveled with, the ones who had come to her aid like missionaries themselves, and the white-coated lady didn’t really see Marj at 1st, she looked at the other sick one and said, That arm is infected, it is abscessed, she would give something for the infection, the dogs kept barking and then the white-coated lady suddenly saw Marj and was taken aback (as if only used to seeing this street tribe without her, solving their troubles best she could, kindly middleaged gal a true Christian, what Marj aspired toward), when she saw the old woman with hammered swollen face and bloody shitsmeared legs trying to cover her modesty she gasped and said, My God, what happened to her, Mercy, and the others said they didn’t know but found Old Moms near the 76 and she was in a bad way, looked like a rich lady, and White Coat spoke in such sweet delicate overtures, did someone abduct you, but Marj was beyond words, she couldn’t understand, did someone assault you, she was so tired, still silently distracted with thoughts of the Taj Mahal Palace, she wasn’t really there, she was in Bombay, not there with the tribe, and the dogs kept barking and the lady said she would call 911, Marj needed real attention, “hospital attention,” and the police, they would have to be — it was a police matter, at the very mention of the word some of the gaggle peeled off and vanished, but the one with infected arm helped put a blanket on Moms, who the middleaged woman said was in shock and she went to call while the others gathered round and the dogs barked and barked and barked and barked