Memorial

LXXXIX.Joan

the final signing of executorship. She would manage her mother’s estate and “affairs.” (Legal word.)

She told Barbet she wouldn’t be coming back to ARK but would stay on as consultant. (Which was understood, but they formalized it. Her life had become all about formalizing and witnessing. Joan Hennison Herlihy was formalizing, princess in a prefecture, she was sealing and waxing, embossing and imprimaturing, and felt like a mature woman for the 1st time in her earthy, earthly life.) She was now in charge of some $93,000,000—excluding the 20 soon to be given her by Lew for the care and feeding of the bastard out of (North) California. There were foundations to be tilled, hedges and charities to be pruned and seeded, tax havens to be harvested, analysts and planners to be planted and yanked like weeds. More than anything, she wanted to buy land, thousands of acres of open space, with rivers running through. She would build little, fabulous sepulchral follies, her own fucking Marfa loop, and name it Barfa (Barbet laughed at what he thought was an homage to himself) yet make it a serious venture. Spicey Zorritos, Rimjob K, and Thom Pain would all sit up and take notice — even Lew.

Especially Lew.

SHE phoned her brother, knowing it was time to tell him everything. Joan was at once melancholy yet winsome because of the baby, that almost abstract unwhisperable wildflower tendril of hope which only visited itself upon the unexpectedly expectant, those blessed and trashed and terrified mothers-to-be, the ones who were older or damaged in whatever way the leaves of the world had rustled No to their numb, unmeaning or sometimes superdeliberate bid to create, the Year of the Horse she was, now having the ride of her life, Joan felt an obscene bounty of sanguineous spirit — she would make the call, to the brother she’d so ruthlessly judged since they were kids, her little (that’s how she thought of him) Chess, Mama’s Chesapeake, Daddy’s Chesterfield, fucked-up 1st born who afterall did the best he could, as had everyone — St Joan the Exemplar! She wanted to give him 2,000,000, just like that, drop it right down, to snap him out of whatever place he was in or drive him further into darkness, that wasn’t up to her, only the impulse was, the urge was the only thing she could rightfully own, she would see what it would do, if it could dislodge him from what she knew hadn’t been the best of places, he was worn out, injured, and embarrassed, it was a motherfucker being a man in America, Joan imagined the look on his face when she told him, he’d be able to take care of shit he’d never dared even mention, he would probably throw away the 1st million, what did she expect, none of her business, maybe for that reason she’d give it in 2 hunks of a mil each, let him throw it away, if that’s what it took, she’d put governors on the 2nd installment, contractually lay it out like that, up front and open, she could even invest the 2nd part, buy Chess a ranch in Thousand Oaks or Agoura, there were a hundred ways she and her advisers could go, but all good, fucking supreme, she had no control over the results and could only hope he didn’t nut out and get paranoid and chase after her for the rest of the money, challenging her right to manage the estate, but maybe it’d go the best way, and he could settle down and have a kid or kids of his own. From the legal end, she’d pretty much covered the this-is-Mother’s-money-not-ours-and-I’m-the-caretaker angle, and made it ironclad. But you never knew. She didn’t want her brother going ballistic and eating up a bunch of the trust by challenging her theodicy, she did what she’d had to, using Lew’s very expensive lawyers to make certain: she wouldn’t tell Chess about that until it was necessary, wouldn’t bring out the big guns about his drug abuse and doctor shopping and priors having to do with stealing from their mom — in the last 6 months, he’d forged Marj’s name to checks totaling 35-hundred dollars. No big thing. She wouldn’t go there unless he forced her. There was always the chance he’d use whatever money she gave him to somehow find out about her and Lew, to pester the surrogate paperworked geekdad decoy, maybe causing major/minor problems, but that was unlikely. She caught herself being paranoid and didn’t like the feeling.

Maybe she wouldn’t give him shit.

No, I will…

Joan had been nothing if not thorough, that was her nature — attorneys had made stipulations in case of death, hers, Joan’s, because she knew Chess could get wayward and she never fully trusted him or his buddies, like that Maurie Levin character, or the Squeaky Fromme masseuse, not because her brother was malicious, only because he was weak and exorbitant and pettily grandiose, disorganized and on the dumb side, but that wasn’t a crime, it was just him, nothing to be judged or punished for, they were old now, or older anyway, how many decades did they have left between them? She had of course designed a simple airtight proviso in the event of her mother’s but mostly Joan’s demise that would seed the Freiberg monies to Trust so her baby would be taken care of in perpetua, not that Chess could ever even remotely get his hands on that, and Joan had her own ideas of what to do with Mom’s fortune, how it could best be used to benefit others (excluding her bro), how Marjorie Herlihy’s name would live on in the form of the Herlihy Giving Foundation. Still, she wanted to find Chess, Chesapeake, Chesterfield, wanted to tell him everything and present the no-strings cash award, she would say that was part of a gift allowed legally, for tax purposes, from the estate, a gift in equal parts to both of them that stemmed from the lotto windfall, she wanted to find him and sit with him and tell him everything, the wanting with almost urgent maternal longing. Joan tugged toward Family now, the little one growing inside her an advanced scout, a runner’s torch that spurred her into the arms of her imperfect flesh and blood. She felt a sea change, literal and spiritual, in the family fortune.

His home and cellphones were disconnected and that worried her (she would get the PI on it if she had to) so she stopped by his WeHo rental. She’d never even been there, and that fact alone made her feel derelict as a sibling, the desire to help him redoubling. The landlord, a warm and welcoming girl who Joan suddenly remembered was the daughter of Don Knotts, told her Chester had moved out, her tenant said his mother had been sick—“Is she OK?” Karen asked dolefully, with big brown empathic eyes—Yes, said Joan, doing much, much better—and that Chester said he was moving back to the family place to take care of her.

Joan thanked her and fibbed: Yes, her brother was coming home, and Karen said something about him going on a scout, a 2 week scout in the Rockies. How stupid of me, said Joan. Now I remember. It’s just — we’ve been so overwhelmed. I know you understand. She touched Joan’s arm, inviting her in for coffee. Joan politely declined. What a sweet, sweet woman.

She probably did more for Chess than I ever did.

Joan called the PI and told him what was happening — her brother was gone. He said he would find him. This is the guy they shoulda sicced on Osama.

SHE drove to the City of Industry. This time she didn’t need the Woman to lead her. This time she didn’t go to the liquor store for Diet Coke, cigarettes, and chips. This time she didn’t wait outside but went straight upstairs to knock at the door but no one answered. Then her heart seized as the dog jumped from nowhere and barked, he leapt on the couch and butted against the window its snot and wild eyes, the television was on but