Whatever Lola Wants (49 page)

How does one who feels no guilt learn the agony of remorse? In an earlier day he might have beat it into her. Today Johnnie couldn't slap around his one-time wife, however low she sank. In such an act, there at the edge of darkness stood the pit. But the pit was her.

She had worn her wifehood as a disguise, had slipped into this camouflage at will. And, out again. In public moments she looked like a wife, mother to his son and daughters. She acted like a wife, in bed, yes, spoke like a wife, smiled like a wife. The hood of wife was her protection, the image of a sweet and natural wife. There, inside the hood, the camouflage, a package of duplicity and lies.

Not sweet. Her breath, her kisses, her sweat, a stale and fusty damp. Smiling, she'd made him inhale the poison. Daily the toxin mingled with the breath in his lungs and lodged there, a bitter virulence that spread to his flesh, belly, heart. In the days after Burlington he'd felt the chills of nausea. How could he have saved himself from this?

Not he. Benjie! From this, from her!

John Cochan would pass beyond this toxicity. And trust no woman again.

Benjie had tried to save him, tell him. What prepares a husband for this? He should never have married. Women devour. No, the fact was he did marry. Kids, a house. All the plans, six-eight kids roaming the house. Benjie the eldest, big brother Benjie. That one time, if the bogus wife had pampered the boy a bit only that one time, held him instead of stealing away to Burlington, back an hour late. One hour!

What was left? Terramac, alone, beneath the ground. He'd known this from the first. Down. One more blast would do it. With the new large chamber, elegant stalactites, Underland's estate would be complete. A frontier beyond frontiers. What they might find there! Lives to build there. Decorum, worry free, to dwell there. A metropolis to quicken the heart.

How he'd atoned for his father's mistakes since he'd sold off CochPharm and built the mighty Intraterra. How he fulfilled Terramac's promise in all spheres: not amelioration but vital creation: control, managed transformation. To be forged by its citizens from within their Terramac libraries and data banks, comfortable with their systems of knowledge interchange, matrices of imagination and power across the earth. Fear of the new, eternally conquered.

Terramac, City of Creation in memory of Benjie. Twice lost. Nowhere would he not search for Benjie. The bugs had gotten in. Let in by someone Johnnie trusted. He'd scour every cave and cavern, search out the attics and cellars of each house, shop, laboratory, apartment, school. To reclaim Benjie's little body, anything.

6.

Theresa made talk-like noises. To
Carney when he walked in she said, “Ghoo …thhe …zsee …oo …” meaning, Milton told him, Good to see you.

“How're you feeling?”

“Nherr …err'r.” Never better.

Carney sat beside the bed. Theresa and Milton were watching
Some Like It Hot
on
TV
.

Theresa said, “Eesge …ay-ki …ourr—”

“Make it louder?” Milton asked.

Theresa's eyes blinked hard. “Eesge—”

Concentrate, and the slurs took on meaning.

“Actually, I'll stop it for a bit.” He flicked the remote. “While Carney's here.”

She's pretending to scowl, Carney thought. A fake scowl.

Milton beamed. “We're getting a big
TV
like this brought in for when Theresa gets out of here. We've never cared for videocassettes, not on the tiny screen like we have up in the Grange. But with this now, it's just about as big as in those small movie complexes.”

Milton and Carney had organized a number of Carney's all-time favorite films for her, various Marx Brothers, more Chaplin, W.C. Field's
The Bank Dick
and
My Little Chickadee
, some Doris Day–Rock Hudson items. And
Red Carpet Treatment, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, A Pocketful of Miracles
, Mel Brooks's
Blazing Saddles
— Theresa adored the post-bean-eating flatus scene, she had made Milton back it up to resee it, four times. She also liked
Mustache of the Walrus
; Carney didn't tell her his father had written the book it was based on. Some of Woody Allen's, especially
Love and Death
, Theresa roared in wheezes at the tiny shovelful of sod, a piece of the homeland. She watched these over and over.

Carney sat through the end of
Some Like it Hot
and all of
The Seven Year Itch
that afternoon with Theresa. Out of the room he said to Milton, “She's insatiable.”

“Her real favorites are those Marilyn Monroe comedies, and all of Lola's.”

“Dirty old woman.”

“It's as if she's trying to catch up with her laughing. The delight she takes, the way her laughter rises. It's wonderful.” He laughed, and his eyes teared. “Neither of us had seen a film with Lola before. We were watching
Beyond Venus
and it was like Theresa had been hypnotized. She kept asking for more of Lola's films. She's a new Theresa. And that's because of you.”

“No no.”

“Yes yes yes. She sees humor in everything these days. You know, yesterday in the afternoon she reached out, her hand works pretty well, maybe the rest will soon again—”

“It will.”

“She reached out and touched my hair. Sort of stroked it, and she burst out laughing.”

Carney would have sworn Milton blushed. “She enjoys having you there, Milton.”

He glanced away but allowed a grin. “I hope it's not her mind weakening.”

Hear him, Theresa? You getting soft in the head?

•

By the door down there, her silver shape. Lola. Her whisper warmed me, my face and fingers felt aglow. Lola? Where've you been?

No answer.

I shouted, Lola! Lola!

•

Theresa muttered, I
hear an echo of your name.

Lola smiled at her. In your imagination, Theresa.

No, here.

What? Those two outside? I'll go see.

Don't leave— Damn it, Lola.

Theresa fascinated Lola. She stood between Carney and Milton. Had she not died young and beautiful, so tragic and grand, she might have aged like Theresa, quick and jolly.

•

I imagine Lola thinking: Not so bad.

I called again, Lola! It's not too late! Come back!

•

Theresa yelled, Come
back here!

Lola reappeared in the doorway.

Come closer!

Orders, Theresa?

Or I'll run you through.

Oh yeah? You and what sword?

My pole.

What pole?

My foilpole! Fishing fencing fighting pole. One hand left to slice with. Take my hand. Good. Two hands, one mortgaged to the fingertips. Like my own poor mortal soul.

What did you say?

One hand left—

What was that you mortgaged, Theresa?

The fingers? The mortal soul?

What a curious expression.

Don't shake my faith in mortality.

Not me, Theresa. I'm eternal, remember? Will be forever, don't you think?

Haha! That's a sneak question.

Was it funny?

Sort of.

Good. Answer it.

Okay. Gods aren't anything. Gods don't exist.

I exist.

Only in my mind.

Well, Theresa, I like that. You have a mind powerful enough to create a magnificent gorgeous being like me, sweet pouty lips, my crown of chestnut hair, the laughter of these green and purple eyes, my curvin' features sheathed in shiny white from bosom to a graceful turn of heel?

Sure. So long as fantasy remains.

Oh you make us so casually, you humans.

I know how the mind works. You're some conglomeration—

That's pretty funny.

Look. Tomorrow they take me home. My husband, Milton, a kind large man, he'll feed me with a spoon, he'll wipe my nose and my ass, he'll change my drippage and drainage. That's John Milton Magnussen. And I'll be easy in that care. Got it? That's what's left.

And that's okay with Theresa?

That's how it is. A three-bedroom, white-clapboard, green-shuttered house. A deck for sun on the warm days. A garden. No place for you.

Do I take up space?

You're here. I talk to you.

You believe in me, then?

Does it matter?

Absolutely. To both of us.

Okay. I believe in you.

Words.

All I've got.

No, Theresa. You've got your—what did you say?—mortal soul. And some of your body.

Negligible. A neck, an arm. Hey, what're you—do—ing—

Huggin' you. Be quiet.

That—brings back—

Memories?

Yeah.

Good.

How about you? Got any memories?

Course not. I'm eternal. Unlike you.

A vital distinction.

Theresa, punning?

So what?

You know I'm eternal. I killed myself and woke up eternal.

What? Killed yourself?

Overdosed myself.

Not what it says in your biographies.

What? It says what?

You were done in.

Me? Who?

Come on. Your lover's wife did it. You don't know? I thought that's why you're here.

I'm here because you called me, Theresa. Who is my lover's wife?

Was. You know, her. Mom. Handy Johnnie's ma.

I didn't—kill myself?

Why should you?

Beth. Libby. Wife of Joe. Oh my.

That's what the books say. He had her committed. So she couldn't stand trial for murder.

Imagine that. Just imagine that.

You really didn't know. Ha!

Yes. Ha! Theresa. A deal? I'll come with you. You'll come with me?

What's in it for you?

New memories, maybe?

Okay. And maybe I can get to do one more fine, special thing. When do we start?

Tomorrow.

You're leaving again?

I'll come back, Theresa.

By then I'll be—at home. Does she know the address? Damn. Maybe she'll hug your bulgy shoulders again? Haha!

7.

“Oh Sheriff Nottingham! Just thinking
about you.” John smiled, stood, all grace. He drew up a chair for the Sheriff. “Sit, talk to me. Tell me what you know.”

Henry Nottingham sat. “Not all that much, Mr. Cochan.” Trouble was, the Sheriff sensed more than he knew and knew more than he said. “Not much at all.”

John smiled his most genial. “Now come on, man like you, you know everybody in the county, finger in every pot and scandal.” He sat across from the Sheriff.

The Sheriff grinned. “You'd be surprised how little of what I know is real knowledge. Most often just educated guesses.”

“It's the educated part I like.”

“A feel for the region, Mr. Cochan.”

“Now look, Hank, I've told you to call me John for years, haven't I?”

“You have, sir.”

“We've been through a lot together, some very personal moments. We're friends, right?”

“I appreciate that. John.”

“Good. And I know you have something to tell me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But you're reluctant.”

“In a way, yes.”

“Because of an earlier conversation we had.”

“You could say that, John.”

“I understand your hesitations. After all it's very delicate. But you see, I need to know.”

“I guess you do.”

“Let me make it easier. You know what happened to Benjie, don't you.”

“Mr. Cochan— John, I don't think—”

“I'm afraid I do, Hank. I have to know.”

“Yes sir.”

“You investigated, didn't you? After I asked you not to.”

“Yes.”

“Come on, that's your job. You had to. I understand.” John smiled, careful.

“It's good hearing you say that.”

“Though I can't imagine where you'd nose around. With a question like this.”

“It's delicate, like you said.”

“Delicate? More complicated than delicate, I'd bet.”

“Yes, sort of.”

Suddenly John was afraid. Of what he might hear? “They must be near impossible to track, the—bugs.”

“No, sir, no bugs, I didn't have to do that.”

“Well you can't exactly talk to them, little conversations over a drink, whatever methods you use.” He laughed.

“No, you can't.” This conversation was getting too testy for Henry Nottingham. Say what he'd learned and get out.

“Then what'd you do?”

“Well, first I checked all the mortuaries—”

“Why'd you do that?”

“Oh I figured if they'd put the coffin in the ground maybe they took it back out.”

“And that proved a false lead—”

“No, a pretty good one. Third place I tried, Henniken Brothers, said yes, it'd been them.”

John leaned forward. “I don't understand.”

“Well, of course I should've tried the Coroner's Office first, but I didn't need to. Tom Henniken said they'd been asked to, sir. They showed me the disinterment order.”

“I can't believe this.”

“I'm sorry, John, you said you wanted to know.”

“It's impossible.”

“Should I go on?”

“On? Yes, go on.”

“Well, the body was brought to the mortuary, cremated there.” No. Wrong. Over an instant John Cochan had gone pale. Henry Nottingham should've denied he knew. He hoped Yakahama was still in the other office. “I understand the ashes were thrown to the wind.”

“The wind.”

“On your land, sir. The Fortier Farm.”

“No.”

“That's what the order said.”

“No.”

“I imagine you realize who signed the order, sir.”

“No.”

“I'm afraid, uh, it was Mrs. Cochan.”

“No. No.”

“I'm sorry, sir, you did say. I mean, that I should—”

John stared at the Sheriff. Face unmoving, eyes blinking sharp jabs, breath shallow, for seconds no breath at all.