I'll Let You Go (62 page)

She asked why he had put her there, and while Louis remorsefully pondered a reply, Bluey shouted he was trying to kill her and that she'd fix his wagon good. She reached in her diaper, pulled out a hand smeared with feces and gave chase. The dapper old man dodged and parried as nurses in arm-length latex gloves scrambled—Marx Brothers by way of Dante.

The staff was careful around him, because they knew he was a donor and had billions and that his daughter had even designed the wandering garden; but Louis still worried about what they'd do to his
wife when he wasn't there. He would have to hire special people to stand around, like NATO observers; more men in suits. No … best not to meddle. He was horrified to find himself comforted by the fact that Bluey bruised easily—a handy indicator of skulduggeries. Maybe he would install a webcam in her room so that he could watch her from Saint-Cloud. (He thought of a friend whose wife had lost her mind. The suspicious man set up a secret camera to document the abuse—as it had turned out, the one being abused was the nurse.)

He rushed out, unable to bear any more. Passing through the doors, he found Winter on her way in; they could hear Bluey's chilling chorus of “I'm afraid!”s.

“Can't they give her something, Winter? Why don't they give her something to knock her out?”

“I'll go see about it, Mr. Trotter. Don't you worry.”

He sat by himself on a bench. He had yet to share with the old nanny any details relating to the purchase of the “condominium.” He wasn't sure how to bring it up; there was time enough for that. There would be time … But it was real. The condo was very real.

He surveyed his daughter's handiwork. A profusion of honey locust trees with underplantings of fern and Siberian iris abounded, in the intimate style of a sixteenth-century garden; lining the Yorkstone path were bluebells, cosmos and mini-narcissus. Senescent creatures walked this eternal return of heavenly road—more surreal by far than anything made of yellow brick—waxen-skinned foragers on a looped and loopy veldt.

T
he boy waited impatiently in the foyer—Mr. Trotter could not help noticing him from the living room, where he entertained his fiftyish, rumpled guest. About half an hour later, he ushered the visitor to the door, where they exchanged earnest good-byes.

Upon entering the Withdrawing Room, he saw his grandson among the grove of tombstone maquettes. One look told him all he needed. “I see you've spoken to your mother.”

Toulouse nodded glumly. His face was puffy from worry and sleeplessness; a rough night in the doghouse all around.

His grandfather pursed his lips, a habit carried over from business—
a “hardball” rictus unpleasantly familiar to those who had sparred with him on the corporate level. “What would you like me to do?”

“I want to see him.”

“He's not ready for that, Toulouse.”

“Is he sick?”

“That's a complicated question, isn't it?”

“It doesn't
sound
complicated.”

“Let's say he's getting better.”

“What's wrong with him? Is it the schizophrenia?”

His grandfather laughed, then chuffed. “You might put it that way! But he has the best care now and the doctors are seeing to his every need.”

“Was he in jail?”

“He was.”

“For murder?”

“For a crime he did not commit. That is why he was released.”

“What crime?”

“That is irrelevant.”

“Has Mother been to visit him?”

“No. Refuses to—and I'm glad. I don't think he's ready to see
anyone
.” He added, “I don't think
she's
ready.”

“Is it true he weighs four hundred pounds?”

“He's not that heavy.” He laughed, knowing whence the exaggeration came. “A nutritionist has his diet completely under control.”

“Then why can't I see him?” The boy dug in; he had his grandfather's genes after all.

“Because it is not the time,” said the old man insistently.

“If it wasn't for me,” said Toulouse, scowling, “you would never even have
found
him!”

“How's that?”

“
I'm
the one who called Harry and Ruth—”

“I know it. And you shouldn't have imposed on them that way.”

“They were
glad
we went to see them. And
I'm
the one who bought the jellies that reminded her of him!
I'm
the one who wanted to find my father in the
first
place! No one else did—”

“You know that isn't true, Toulouse.”

“But it
is
true! No one wanted to find him
enough
. And
you
didn't
want Mother to marry him in the first place! And
she
didn't care—it was better for her with him gone. That way, she could be happy taking her precious drugs! If he did come back, what would her excuse be
then
?”

Though his words stung, the old man stifled a swell of pride at the boy's sagacity. “That's enough now! You're far too young to sit in judgment of me, let alone your mother. You will see your father
in time
—and that will be soon enough. Do a few months really matter? Do you want to ambush the man before he's ready? Are you that selfish, Toulouse? I don't think so. He
is
your father, regardless of how he behaved in the past. He has been pursued by
Furies
, and now we are trying to chase those demons away. Or as many as we can. He needs
all
his energy for that struggle, do you understand? I don't want him derailed by certain—well, let's just say I want him stronger before he has any more shocks. For you
will
be a shock to him. Now, do we have a deal? You agree that you will see your father when
he's
ready?” He held out his hand, and the boy grudgingly shook it. Toulouse had been persuaded; his grandfather's logic was sound.

“Deal.”

“Good. And not a word of this to anyone—not Lucy or Edward—not
anyone
. And leave your mother alone about it! What you said about her is true; before she sees him, she has to shed lots of dead skin. And it's not an easy thing. But she's holding up. Doing
damn
well, she is.”

He put an arm upon the boy's shoulder while walking him out.

When they reached the door, Toulouse looked into his eyes. “I'm so sorry about Grandma,” he said sweetly. “I'd like to visit her soon.”

“She'd love that.” He was moved by the youngster's politesse, for that was another visit of large proportion that needed the old man's sanction. “Epitacio will take you whenever you like.” He leaned to kiss his head. “You're a wonderful boy, Toulouse. You've a strange lot in life, but you're unforgettable. I am proud you're my grandson, and will do anything I can for you in the years I have left.”

W
hile Toulouse acceded to his grandfather's wishes, his pact did not prevent him from listening in on a visit paid his mother by the lovelorn detective. Though Trinnie remained beguilingly, if morosely, in bed for the occasion, her son's efforts were made easier by an
open door. He assumed Samson had left it that way on purpose, to let his mother know he didn't have any big ideas.

After the usual awkward chitchat of the recently estranged, Trinnie inquired after her husband (she knew Samson had been spending time with him). He affably responded, happy to have alit on familiar ground. It was all very conversational; one would never have suspected the extraordinarily baroque details involved. The detective told her that Marcus had a “pretty good setup over there.” Toulouse hoped “there” would be named, and was not disappointed.

The Hotel Bel-Air wasn't far—the boy felt the flush of the downhill walk, and the flush of illicitness too, not dissimilar from the feeling that had overtaken him when he had first climbed through the broken hedge of La Colonne. He had promised Grandpa Lou not to interfere and would keep that promise; yet, as in the trespass of the forbidding park on Carcassone Way, he seemed powerless to stop his legs from propelling him forward.

He waved to Kevin, who knew him well from two years of Pull-manesque peregrinations. The valet let him park the dog by a sleeping Ferrari while he went in to investigate.

Toulouse struck out over the bridge, glancing down to the postcard pond with its swan fantasia. His plan was to dash through the small lobby and walk to the pool, then back past the bar and restaurant in hopes of “seeing something.” Before he had the chance, he noticed a figure crouching at the edge of the water. It was Sling Blade, who vied for the attentions of the long-neck'd, floating beauties while grinning at some remark a man nearby had tossed off. The man laughed, the laughter itself as full-bodied as the throat from which it poured out—

Toulouse froze. Was it?—it must be—it
was …
it was!—
him
. Him.

He was looking at his father.

Then came a shock from another direction: “Toulouse?”

Boulder fairly tackled him.

“What are
you
doing here?” she asked, her face frozen in a country-club smile that said: Celebrities Only.

He couldn't answer; he couldn't speak.

“Are you
rolling
? Oh my God, you look like you're rolling!”

“What?” he managed.

“Like you took E.”

“E?”

“Ecstasy, stupid. Anyway, I'm just
kidding …
”

“Boulder, I have to—I have to go …”

“
Diane's
here, with Dex. Don't you want to say hello? You
have
to. We're having a brunch—we have the same agent now, isn't it cool? I signed with William Morris!”

A
s recent events were too much to assimilate alone, Toulouse was forced to throw himself on the mercy of the court of Olde CityWalk, his rationale being that Lucy and Edward had been in on the search for his father from the very beginning and that, to this date anyway, the suppression of family secrets had done the Trotter clan no apparent good. Like in the early days, the musketeers convened in Edward's apartments—and that, beginning with Trinnie's boudoir confession, is where he brought them up to speed.

“Oh my God!” cried Lucy. “Why didn't you tell us!”

Toulouse instantly regretted having opened his mouth. “I'm telling you
now
. I just found out! Grandpa would kill—”

“I cannot believe you
saw
him and didn't say anything! Weren't you dying to go up to him?”

“And say what? Hey, how ya doin'? It's me, your son! You know—the one Mom had after you flipped out.”

“But how could you at least not—”

“Lucille Rose,” said her brother. “Please chill.”

The wise guy had spoken. The eyes of Oracle Ed blinked languidly above the veil. “None of this comes as a great surprise,” he continued with studied nonchalance. “I believe I came into that ‘piece of intelligence'—as Grandpa Lou would say—some days ago.”

“Don't tell me you knew all along,” said Toulouse, prepared to be at once astonished and betrayed.

“Edward!” she rebuked. “You knew and didn't tell us?”

“I had all the ingredients but didn't have a recipe—until now. See, for the last week or so, Dad's been acting
very
strange. At first I thought it was fallout from the Alzheimer's. That he was getting 'emotional.' But then I happened to learn from Eulogio (you know how close we've become) that he's been shepherding dear old Pops to—guess where? The Hotel Bel-Air.”

“But Grandpa said no one knew—”

“I assumed he was having a dalliance. I thought,
Good for him
—because he sure doesn't get enough at home!”

“Edward,” said his sister. “That is
so mean
.”

“When I implied as much out loud, Eulogio said he didn't think a woman was involved. So then I thought: it's a man!”

“Ed-ward!”

He squealed with delight. “Now
why
, pray tell, asked I of Eulogio, why would you think a woman was not involved? Getting information from that fellow is like pulling dumpster-baby teeth. (Well, maybe harder.) Because each time he drove him there, Eulogio responded, each time he drove
Señor Dodd
, he would later see him strolling about the pond with a heavyset man whose features were much as you described.”

“Fuck!” spat Toulouse. “The whole
world
knows!”

“The immediate family—and I'm certain Grandpa Lou has taken pains to
keep
it immediate—is hardly the whole world, Toulouse. So chill.”

“We
have
to go there,” said Lucy, fiendishly agog at the plotty new developments. Tonight her Smythson would get a workout.

“I
glossed
it,” said the cousin, kicking himself. “I thought it was just one of Dodd's pasty Seattle friends holed up in Tinseltown incognito to do a little bullshit consulting on the middle-school project—you know, Billionaire-Boys'-Club stuff. But then it came back to me … one night at dinner last week—remember, Lucy?—Father received a phone call. He stepped away from the table, which was rare; had to be Grandpa Lou. He listened for a second, then shot two words back to the phone.” Edward paused dramatically.
“ ‘John Burnham.'
”

“Yes!” said Lucy knowingly, though just then she wasn't sure
what
she knew.

“John Burnham?” Toulouse was lost.

“Then Grandpa said something else, because Father's forehead wrinkled up and he asked: ‘When?' ”

“ ‘When?' ” echoed Toulouse.

“Yes!” cried Lucy. “He said, ‘When?'!”

“—and at
this
point, Joyce was listening
very
carefully. Her ear was moving toward the receiver like it was going to fucking
dock
with it. Then Father says, ‘Did they speak?' ”