Whatever Lola Wants (51 page)

“The cycles of nature?”

“Swallows and jays and the like eat most kinds of butterflies. But they've learned something. Munch on a monarch, you retch till you die.”

“Charming.”

“Be quiet. At last I'm understanding you.”

“What?”

“Carney the viceroy, Carney the orphan, Carney his aunt's ward, Carney the cellist, macho Carney of the fires, Carney the loner, Carney the contradiction with a single name.”

“Parts of the above. Except maybe the viceroy.”

“You'll tell me everything. When you're ready. But for now talking isn't on.”

“And what is?”

“For me, you.” She gazed into a middle distance. “And for you?”

“I'd like to take you fishing.”

She turned, took his head gently with eight fingertips, kissed his mouth. “I'd like to go.”

For an hour they swam in the pool and played bare-assed in the sun.

Lola would have loved it. But she didn't see them, no way could she catch sight of them from the middle of the down below.

2.

Stupid Priscilla. She wouldn't shut
up. Stupid woman.

From nowhere she asked in her drivelly way: “But isn't it possible to feel so much love I can love more than just one? Love you, Johnnie, so much. Love Benjie and Dee and Lissa, love him too, my dear good friend?”

This was the moment, the closest he ever came to smashing her across that whiny face—

But her question caught him up, too. Because the answer helped him see everything in the sharpest white on black. No. No you cannot love more than one. For Johnnie, this one was Benjie. Always. And before Benjie was born? Well, Johnnie wasn't a metaphysician but he'd have to say, Yes, before too. Which meant, by clear subtraction, Johnnie could never have loved her. What's never been loved can never be lacking, right? So he didn't slug her, he smiled.

From her face, stupid pulpy tear-driven face, a staggered grin. As if she'd won or something. He said, “No.” What sweet pleasure to see the gloat slide from that face, so much slush. “The one I love,” he said, “you burned him up.”

“I brought him back, Johnnie. To the farm.” She reached her hand to him. “For you.”

“You burned him. Till there was nothing. The one I love.”

She nodded. Nodded? So did she finally understand? She went upstairs, nodding all the time. A revelation. To Johnnie, and surely to her as well, her head bobbing like a couple of neck vertebrae had gone loose or maybe some bouncy pith in her mushy brain. She locked their bedroom door. Deirdre and Melissa in with her? No matter, in Benjie's room all he needed, the small bed. He lay down and slept far away, deep, first time in a long while. A clear answer.

The sun came up too early, right through the window. Johnnie thought he heard a car start. He closed his eyes, turned, slept again. Less deeply. He dreamed he flew on wasp wings high above Terramac to the craggy mountaintop. He stayed for a long time, looking down, seeing everything. He watched everyone drive away. Only he remained. And the rock he sat on. And the spider-free air. Here at the pinnacle of the world, of all history, he felt at peace. He awoke again. The house was silent. He came downstairs. Her note lay on the table:

I've gone, Johnnie. You said it all last night. No. You can't love. I wonder if you ever loved. Even Benjie.

And more: arrangements, Melissa, Deirdre.

He breathed deeply. Cleansed. All that female fear, all gone. Upstairs again he washed his face. He shaved his mustache off. As he would clear away the shadow of his future. His life, scrubbed pure. She was gone.

Deirdre and Melissa? He would give chase! Rescue them— Not physical chase. Legal. He'd call that lawyer, that fellow in Burlington, local lawyer was important. Meanwhile the girls would be okay, sure. Even alone with the mother. As long as he, that one, didn't ill-use them. That would be unbearable. For now it was out of Johnnie's hands.

A new start. A few details to take care of.

She'd left so easily …

Unimportant. He was rid of her. He made his breakfast. His veins and bones felt clean.

Of course he'd loved. And had been loved. For her to doubt his love of Benjie, incredible.

He drove the Rolls to the church. So deliberately. So sweetly, hardly a sound from the engine. So early he sat alone at his desk, feet up, eyes closed, at peace.

3.

The new wheelchair arrived, more
sensitive controls. Milton had asked Ti-Jean to put it together. He agreed. But remained wary. The finished conveyance, dull aluminum and black steel gloss, glowered tough and technological. He let Milton attach the charge for its double batteries. Once juiced, it could be dangerous. The charging took fourteen hours and would provide four hours of driving time. The salespeople had said to boost the batteries every night. And get an extra set.

Theresa had been using the old chair again, her good and steady friend she called it. But despite therapy and acupuncture treatments—stiletto needles lancing her flesh, she'd muttered—her better hand found the controls stiff. Damned weakness this, turning an ally into an adversary.

At four Theresa would try the new chair. They had lunch together, Feasie and Ti-Jean, Milton feeding Theresa as he had after the first stroke, Sarah and Carney, a couple clear to all. After lunch Theresa slept. Carney and Sarah sat in the garden, talking. Theresa woke up giving Milton orders; Carney's sympathy went to Milton. Milton argued with her, gave in to her. Twice her face contorted as if something weird were happening, something she couldn't deal with.

They loaded the new chair into the back of the van, Theresa strapped onto the front seat. Feasie and Ti-Jean followed in their pickup, Sarah and Carney in the Jag.

In a near-empty University of Vermont parking lot Theresa Magnussen tested her chair. Its acceleration and steering were more delicate. She over-compensated, she lurched and jerked. Still, after half an hour, she'd gained some mastery.

Ti-Jean said, “I don't like it.”

Feasie nodded. “A rolling stone can kill two birds in a bush.”

“Let's hope that's all it kills.”

The chair's controls were set on a flat bar in front, not on the arm as before. The wheels wrenched left, and left again. Theresa, taking charge. She pulled in beside them. Feasie lay her hand on Theresa's shoulder. “Doing great.” Milton leaned and kissed her cheek.

Theresa shook her head—twitched it to the right, the only direction her neck went—and powered herself away. She rolled fast, quicker than a woman could run. She slowed, stopped.

Nice chair, Theresa.

Glad you've come by. Hello.

You miss me?

You damn well know it. I keep looking for you.

Lola kissed her on the forehead. Let's see you drive that thing.

It's tricky.

I'll help.

A grin. Okay, let's go. She turned toward Milton, Sarah, and the rest. Lola sat on her lap.

They watched the chair execute a smooth rotation. It began threading its way between the white lines, up one set and down another, gentle arcs. For Milton it was lovely to see, a bulky water bird taking flight, all ease and grace. For Carney she was a cocoon opening, gold-brown wings stretching, drying, the butterfly aloft on the breeze. He grinned. Theresa's disguise?

A final arc and Theresa turned toward them, fast, still faster, then slower, slow, and she drew level. Her lip edge ticked up three-four times.

Milton put his hand on her neck, his eyelids beat quickly. Ti-Jean's head shook, he caught himself, shrugged. Carney wondered, maybe there are good demons too?

Milton and Carney walked behind Theresa, Sarah and Feasie on each side. Before they reached the Jag, Milton held Carney back. “Something I'd like your advice on. You have time?”

“Sure. I'm going to drop Sarah off at the lab. She's on evening shift. I'll come by.”

•

Lola's okay. Except now she's gone again. Why can't I see her like I see the people down there, whenever I want? People don't see her either. No, I don't like the implications of that thought.

On the positive side, the Gods haven't returned.

•

At the Magnussen
house Leonora let him in. “Hi,” he said.

“Oh. Hello.”

“Still want to set up a lunch?”

She looked at him, a squint, as if not understanding.

“To talk about whatever it was you wanted to talk about?”

She raised one eyebrow, Sarah-fashion. “Too late for that, isn't it.”

“For what?”

“Forget it. Look, my next couple of weeks are extremely busy. I'll call you.”

“Okay, good.” Irritated with him? Jealous of Sarah? He sniffed a little laugh.

Milton found him, led him to the living room. “First I want to thank you. About Sarah.”

“What about Sarah?”

“She's here so much more now.”

“She's worried about her mother.”

Milton grasped Carney's elbow. “Then you've changed her.”

“She's been worried. All along.”

“Well you've helped her show it.”

Innocent action interpreted as good deeds. “Hardly me.”

“Oh yes.” He squeezed Carney's forearm. “Thanks.” Then, embarrassed, he reached for a letter. “Look at this.”

From John Cochan to John Milton Magnussen and Theresa Bonneherbe Magnussen, on letterhead proclaiming, in silvery Latin, that Intraterra represented Quality and Quantity, Quantity in Quality. A new offer to buy the Bonneherbe Magnussen land for $5.9 million. Carney said, “He makes an offer sound like a threat. But he can't do anything.”

“Except destroy the land, make it worthless.”

“Or more valuable.”

“But in the wrong way.” Milton folded the letter. “Theresa wants to go there.”

“Don't do it.”

“Leasie thinks it might be good for her. Theresa's got a big fat bumblebee in her bonnet about going. And now Leasie's written a letter over Theresa's name, asking to come out.”

“A really rotten idea, Milton.” Best way for Cochan to send her over the edge.

“Letter got sent before I knew about it.”

“Theresa actually signed?”

“Leasie did, for her. What can we do?”

“When was this sent?”

“Couple of days ago.”

Carney shrugged. “If Cochan says yes you can always refuse.”

“Carney, do you— Would you talk to him again? Cochan?”

He patted Milton's arm. “Let me go say so long to Theresa.”

Milton puffed a hard laugh. “Huh. She's becoming impossible. Said she wants to roar down the sidewalk. Like a kid on a dirt bike. She worries me.”

“I'll go for a walk with her, keep her on a short leash.”

He squeezed a one-sided smile. “I don't want her going batty.”

Carney went up to the bedroom. Carney still needed to listen hard but her slur had decreased and her mouth muscles were tighter. “Look at this.” She showed Carney a long stick.

“What is it?”

“Milton bought it. My foilpole.”

Carney took it. About six feet long, lightweight. One end could grab with the heavy-duty pincers, the other with stiletto prongs. A spring-loaded stiletto point, thin blade, as for skewering. “Dangerous-looking item, that.”

Theresa grinned. “Case I'm mugged.” She reached up with it, it was telescopic too, and the pincers plucked a book off a shelf. She retracted and released the book onto his lap.

“Amazing.”

“I saw a lot of films this week. And I'm reading again.”

“Good. What?”

“Couple of biographies about Lola. You know, the actress. Remarkable life.”

Carney shook his head. “Theresa Magnussen, the eminent moralist, concerned with a glamorous sex-kitten?”

She broke into a guffaw, she rumbled, choked. “A—a—” she wheezed, “a silver tiger!”

“What?”

She shook with laughter. Tears came to her eyes. Slowly she calmed.

“And what was so funny?”

With her right hand she waved Carney off. “No way can you understand.”

Was Milton right, maybe Theresa's mind really was losing a couple of hinges? “Want to go for a roll, Theresa?”

“I'm on a roll!” And more chuckles. “Let's go into town.”

So he loaded the chair once again into the van and drove her to Main Street. They rolled, along the sidewalks of Burlington. Carney started a fishing story but Theresa wasn't interested, she glanced about, accelerated, ripped ahead. Twenty feet away she stopped, stared across a lawn, pointed the stick at a front window. She held her hand in front of her mouth to hide a laugh.

Carney caught up. In silence they returned to Main Street. Theresa paused at a storefront, a dress boutique. She gazed at the display, suddenly raised her foilpole high and sliced the air. She pointed to a white-sheath evening gown, talking but not to Carney, the words gibberish.

“Theresa, we better head back.”

“I'll get back alone. Leave me. I'm in good hands.” She laughed again.

“Impossible, Theresa.”

She glared at Carney. “Bhllarghgh—” She waved her foilpole and turned the chair, breathing a chatter-like nonsense.

Again Carney didn't understand, but he'd never seen her happier. He hoped there wouldn't come yet another fall. He grew stern. “We're going back now, Theresa.”

“This time,” she assented.

4.

Sarah and Carney took off
in a Carney and Co. single-engine float plane from the southern end of Lake Champlain. They flew north, crossing the border, the St. Lawrence River, and over the Laurentians to waters of pike and walleye, doré they're called up there. They'd be away nearly five days, till Tuesday morning.

The plane followed the James Bay power lines, a scraped yellow scar fifty meters wide. Millions of kilowatts streamed down the transmission corridor.