“Are you aware,” asked Edward, “that we know Amaryllis? Amaryllis Kornfeld?”
Toulouse didn’t seem thrilled to hear her name; he wasn’t sure what might annoy his father (he would soon enough learn that little did) and was wary of upsetting the apple cart, such as it was — a very large cart indeed.
“Oh yes! I had been apprised of that by Mr. Dowling.”
The detective had in fact been the first to enlighten Marcus to that curiously entwined history, even going so far as to suggest that it not be dwelled on in the case of an encounter with the children. Marcus grinned, adding nothing further — which again seemed a fine thing all around.
Candelaria had lunch waiting (a salad with pomegranate dressing, served in his honor), set upon a table smack in the cobblestone middle of the main thoroughfare of Olde CityWalk, and Marcus had a wonderful time with nephew, niece and son. But he could not relax, for his brow impulsively furrowed at the thought of sleeping in a box on a street less luxurious than this. With that spasmodic image came others, like falling dominoes: the orphan girl, and the guard who had come upon them in their hideout, and Janey too — and Fitz and Half Dead, and the kind baker Gilles — then last of all Katy, his Katy hovering for a millisecond before him: I am traveling and shall not be returning letters. It is probably best we break this off. He shook away the faces and felt some comfort that the children were not the wiser.
They popped corn and watched a movie at the Majestyk (Boulder’s latest, yet to be released) but still Marcus couldn’t enjoy himself, having now succumbed to the chaotic melancholy that had visited him earlier. The portraits — and feelings — returned with such force that he thought he might sob and frighten his hosts, ruining everything. So he was relieved when Candelaria half whispered to the boy that his mother had returned from New York and ordered him back to Saint-Cloud, pronto.
Marcus seized the opportunity to stroll into the light, where he took some restorative breaths and crouched beneath the theater’s overhanging marquee.
Toulouse came out moments later. “It’s OK — I don’t have to go home.”
“But your mother asked for you.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to go.”
“You mightn’t be so cavalier, Toulouse — if I may say it respectfully. She’s your mother and has done the best she could. Always has done that very thing: her best. Loves you deeply, boy. Has done much more than I.” The last said without a trace of self-pity.
He was not unaffected by his father’s words, and appeared resigned. Just then Eulogio materialized, jangling his keys at Toulouse and grinning like an ass. Meanwhile, Sling Blade revved up the Mauck for the drive back to Montecito.
“Son — would you say adieu to your cousins for me? They’re fine, fine children. That Edward is a heartbreaker! And Lucille — she’ll make an exceptional authoress, she wilclass="underline" big brain on her. You value them, don’t you, boy? They love you! They love you with everything they have, and that’s rare. But you give it back to them, don’t you? I know you do. You’ve a great gift that way. You’ve your mother’s gift.” He gathered his son to him, and Toulouse tucked his head into the brocaded vest. “I hope to see you again, son. I’m here now — I shan’t leave you.”
“Have you talked to Mother?”
“We’ve corresponded. But we have not seen each other.”
“Is she — was she mad — was she angry with you …”
“She was civil. She was — kind.” He bent on his knee to face the boy. “Thank you, Toulouse. Thank you for your courage, for coming to see me today. I am a very lucky man.”
He kissed him on the cheek, and the child wiped a tear as Marcus climbed into the Mauck. Lucy saw this last bit of business but with uncharacteristic restraint did not rush to her cousin, who watched his father pull away, preferring to step discreetly backward into the fastness of the movie palace instead.
Rather than return to Santa Barbara straightaway, Marcus had a request. He knew (because the old man had told him) of the famed Louis Trotter funerary commission; just as he knew of the parcel in Westwood where his benefactor would eventually make his “digs.” He was also aware that his driver was its general caretaker, and was curious about the place. But there was something more. Since the burial of Jane Scull, he had had a powerful, pointedly unmorbid desire to visit a graveyard, to loiter in a place twice removed from her tragedy, abstract enough to absorb his grief over all those lost to him.
At the moment Sling Blade was revealed by the ascending gull wing, Dot Campbell, in an outfit that worked much too hard to be called a leisure suit, charged at the errant employee, who had not even bothered this time to leave a scrap of paper behind explaining his absence. He took his scolding, then muttered the provenance of their guest; she was miraculously assuaged. The caretaker was then free to give Mr. Weiner a tour of the sanctuary, while his overlord graciously hung back.
Marcus spent a while pacing the grassy roof, so to speak, of the patriarch’s “last house.” When both roof and pacer had enough, Sling Blade vainly suggested that they examine the stones of various celebs; yet even Dorothy Stratten held insufficient allure. As a kind of consolation, his guide walked them to the furthermost real estate Joyce had purchased under Candlelighters’ aegis; then swore his guest to secrecy before divulging Mrs. Trotter’s mission. He held Mr. Weiner in thrall while weaving the peculiar tale of dumpster babies, identities unknown.
Marcus winced at the irony — if he would not come to potter’s field, potter’s field would come to him.
“Did you see your father?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he well?”
“He’s all right.”
“Did he say anything … weird?”
“No,” he said, displeased by her comment.
“Don’t get defensive,” she said, a little ruffled. “I guess it is pretty romantic — having a father return from the urban wild. The mental outback. I can’t compete with that.”
“I didn’t realize there was a competition,” he said frigidly. Silence, then: “Have you talked to him?”
He’d heard his father’s side and now wanted to hear hers.
“He wrote some letters — strange but sweet. I thought it best not to continue. It didn’t seem healthy.”
“He’s trying really hard. The pills seem to be working.”
“Good. Good for him.” She lit a cigarette and took the deepest inhalation he’d ever seen.
“You’re smoking again.”
“Toulouse, I just want you to be careful. You’re a big boy and he is your father … But we’re not talking about someone who has something that’s necessarily curable. I don’t want to see you hurt. Any more than you’ve been already.”
“I’m OK.”
“You’re OK now. The disease that your father has — is not something you can predict. There are relapses. And whatevers. And I just don’t want you to have false hopes. But you do what you like … And I’m not saying seeing him is wrong — I don’t want to give you a double message, which I guess is what I’m doing. It’s just that … we don’t know if he’ll be here when we wake up.”
“Will you?” Her jaw tightened. “You’ve been traveling a lot lately. And you’re smoking again.”
“You’re not my jailer. Look,” she said contritely. “I didn’t even want to talk to you about any of this.” She took another long, fidgety drag. “And that girl is staying with a social worker.”