CHAPTER 46. Forgotten Prayers
“This is so strange!”
“Yes.”
“Your letters were nice.”
“It was difficult — to know what to say.”
“It’s difficult now.”
“Yes!”
They sat under a pergola near — appropriately enough — the “Tête-à-Tête” Narcissi.
“So: you were William Morris.”
“Yes.”
“It’s funny — not funny but odd.”
“It is funny.”
“It is. And kind of fascinating.”
“He was an interesting man. He and his circle.”
“You already knew a lot about him.”
“Yes.”
“From when you were at Oxford.”
“Yes indeed.”
“He went to Oxford, too, no?”
“Yes. And I learned a good deal more — I mean, through the years. Firsthand! So to speak.”
“You were always making jokes about ‘the two Williams.’ When you were an agent.”
“The joke was on me, I’m afraid.”
He smiled disarmingly while she laughed. “You’ve got a bit of an accent there.”
“They tell me it’s fading.”
“I like it. I mean, it’s not too bad on you.” She took cigarettes from her purse. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all!”
“Do you know who has a lot of Morris pieces? Andrew Lloyd Webber, the composer. He did Evita and Cats.”
“Oh yes.”
“He’s a tremendous collector of the Pre-Raphaelites.”
“Is he?”
Marcus seemed quite thrilled, which he actually was, but more because this woman was finally in front of his eyes. Though he did not yet know what that meant.
“Oh yes. I did one of his gardens, in London.”
“Really. Whereabouts?”
“Belgravia. He’s got Burne-Jones tapestries—”
“My, my!”
“And portraits of Jane, Morris’s wife—”
“Jane Burden.”
“Well, of course you know who Jane is,” she said, chastising herself. “He’s got a portrait of her by Rossetti.”
“Now, there was a character. A wicked, wonderful character, Rossetti. Loved the low life, that one. Took tremendous walks — like Dickens that way.”
A pause wherein it was tacitly acknowledged that Marcus was a well-known — or at least inveterate — walker himself.
“How do you find Santa Barbara?”
“Very tranquil. The beach is lovely — a tonic. Though part of me misses the city, vile as it’s become.”
“The bustle.”
The bustle, he concurred. They fell silent again.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I can cook something.”
“No thank you. I’m not sure how long I — how long I should stay. The children—”
“Of course.”
“And Joyce isn’t well.”
Pause.
“What a horrible, terrible thing. Someone so gifted and so young.”
“Toulouse said you met him — Edward.”
“He came up with his sister when the boy and I had a swim in the ocean. We all rode back together to the house on Stradella. He was a bit introverted, Edward — I drew him out. And now it feels like he may have had a … foreshadowing. He seemed to be very special that way.”
“He was an extraordinary boy.”
Her voice was beginning to lilt and dip like a bird on wing; it was contagious.
“And how is our — how is Toulouse bearing up?”
“All right, I think. Thank God he and Lucy have each other.”
“A marvelous girl, that. So perspicacious.”
“Neither has experienced a death before. With you … it was different. I told Toulouse from an early age—” She stopped herself, not wishing to repeat what she’d already written in a letter. Besides, it was gauche.
“I’m so sorry about all of it, Trinnie.” He amended himself by saying, “Katrina.” Then: “I’m sorry about it all the time.”
“No, please. I didn’t mean to sound callous.”
“Not at all, not at all.”
“With what happened to their grandmother … well, it’s been a difficult year. And it’s not half over.”
A pause.
“You look well! You look fit.”
“They work me out all right up here. Still a ways to go though, still a ways to go. There’s a marvelous gymnasium on the other side of the property, overlooking the pool. I’ve had my share of time in that body of water. Do you swim?”
“Oh yes.”
“It’s marvelous. I’m dropping stones on a daily basis.” Pause. “I meant to say pounds. How is your father bearing up? I’ve been worried — haven’t seen or spoken to him. He was quite close to the boy, no?”
“It’s a bit of a mess.”
“In what way?”
“He didn’t come.”
“Come?”
“To the funeral.”
“I can’t imagine!—”
“I suppose you haven’t heard.”
“He’s ill?”
“No. There was a bit of controversy — over the placement of the grave, of all things.”
“How strange!”
“It’s one of those awful, ridiculous family things. I’m sure it will make its way to the A&E biography.”
The reference was lost on him, but he let it rest.
There was a long pause.
“Are you certain you wouldn’t like me to cook you something?”
“I really shouldn’t stay.”
“It’d be no trouble.”
“That’s all right.”
“Not even a salad? You’re sure, now?”
“No thanks.”
“Yesterday I made a pot of turkey chowder; don’t know exactly why, but I was very much in the mood. The réchauffé’s always better, no? Wouldn’t take but a minute—”
“I should probably get back.”
“Well — it was good of you to come.”
“Goodness had nothing to do with it. As they say.”
“I’m glad you did anyway.”
“I’m not sure what we do now — where we go from here.”
“As my half-dozen psychiatrists would urge me to say: ‘I think that’s OK.’ ”
They had a laugh. They stood and he awkwardly shook her hand. Not much voltage there — none of the anarchic, voluptuous ardor that a death sometimes confers in its wake. Still, Trinnie felt herself cleave toward family, the sacramental, primal pull of blood.
They walked in silence along the side of the house until reaching her car.
“Did you ever hear that saying about answered prayers?”
“No,” he said, curious.
“I think it was Saint Theresa — according to Truman Capote, anyway.” She groped for the quote. “ ‘More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones.’ Or something like that.”
“Is that what I am, Katrina?” he asked, callow and open-faced. “An answered prayer?”
She smiled, with kindness and sorrow. “More a forgotten one, Marcus. I wonder if anyone ever said anything about tears shed over prayers that were forgotten.”
There may be those who feel the transformation of Marcus Weiner improbably contrived (though it is hoped the cynical reader would have long since abandoned our tale). For the skeptic who has held on, stubborn as he is dubious, the author merely suggests — for nothing is being sold here — that there is ample precedent to Mr. Weiner’s awakening and that the precedent has a name: Mystery.† We will leave it at that.