“Go!” said the expansive Gilles. “You should see it!”
“Oh, the bridge won’t go away! I’m sure Amaryllis has other things to do,” he said guilelessly.
“I’d like to show you,” she volunteered.
He was surprised, because she sounded quite sincere. Only human, Marcus had mistaken a child’s nervousness on seeing a mythical figure from her own Dark Ages as a sign of indifference. He grabbed his coat, and they set off, first passing through the coolness of the house.
Lani stopped him just inside the front door.
“Tell her,” she whispered, “about who you are—if you want to. I mean, she should know. I mean, the hell with it — when she came to stay with us, I said, ‘No secrets!’ But you do what you like.”
They walked through the neighborhood in relative silence, but this time the girl led the way, unlike long-ago peregrinations. Watching her chug along on her own steam as an independent (if still tiny) person, he couldn’t suppress a smile.
After a time, she spoke. “You don’t talk with an accent anymore.”
“Did I have a thick one? I didn’t think it was too bad.”
“It was,” Amaryllis said, and he saw her roll her eyes. “Were you just pretending?”
“I wouldn’t say I was pretending — I really did feel I was someone else.”
“Were you crazy?”
“Did I seem crazy?”
“No.”
“I don’t think so, no. I think that — that I had concerns—preoccupations, if you will … that others — well, most people — don’t have.”
“You were in jail,” she said, not looking back at him.
“I was. A terrible place.”
“The detective thought you killed my mother.”
“Yes.”
“The lawyers came and talked to me.”
“I was grateful for what you told them about the scarf.”
“But you didn’t kill her.” She looked him tentatively in the eye, wanting him to tell her what she already knew.
“No, Amaryllis, I didn’t. To be accused of something like that was the hardest thing. And that it was your mother—”
“But they found the person who did it.”
“Yes.”
“The man who owned Half Dead?”
“Yes.”
“He was your friend?”
“He was.”
“Did you know that he killed her?”
“I did not — and was shocked when they told me. I had no idea he was capable of such a thing. Did you ever meet Mr. Fitzsimmons at the encampment?”
She nodded. Then: “He used to come around with that dog. He tied him up outside when he came to see her. She always made me go leave, but I never played with that dog.”
“I wanted to call you the moment I found out what they were accusing me of. I couldn’t believe it! But they wouldn’t allow me. And then so many things happened … I moved to a hotel — and then to a house on the coast, where I now live. I finally got my wits about me and the energy to come see you. I ask your forgiveness for the delay.”
They had reached the bridge, and sat down on its bulwark.
“Not as big as the one on Fourth Street, is it?” he said.
“I like it better.”
She stared into the canyon. The spirit of the child he knew was hidden by armature grown these past rough seasons. Cars rumbled by, and they watched birds and planes and insects. The world was filled with flying things.
“Do you like living with Gilles and Lani?”
She nodded.
“Marvelous people. Good souls. Have you seen your brother and sister?”
“Uh-huh. They live in Lawndale.”
“Lawndale. Now, where is Lawndale?”
“I don’t know. It takes an hour to get there — no, maybe a half hour. We’re going to California Adventure next month.”
“Very good, very good.”
“Where do you live?”
“Santa Barbara — a place called Montecito, actually.”
“Where’s that?”
“Up north, about ninety minutes.”
“Is it near Tunga?”
“Well, I’m not really sure!”
“Does the man drive you everywhere?”
“Until I get a license.”
“Are you rich?”
“No. But the people taking care of me are.”
“I met some friends when I went AWOL from Mac — MacLaren. They were really rich. I met Boulder Langon, the actress.”
“I see. And how is school for you?”
“Fine.”
“Have you made many friends?”
She nodded.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
She shrugged.
“Is that a yes?”
“Sort of.”
“Does he go to your school?”
“He goes in Santa Monica.”
“You like him.”
She nodded. “He stopped e-mailing me.”
“He did?”
“A week ago — but I think his mom probably made him. He’s one of the friends I had when I went AWOL. She probably thinks I’m bad. They are so rich.”
Marcus heard Lani’s words in his head, then felt the crushing onslaught of unseen forces. “Amaryllis, there’s something I want to tell you.”
She turned to him, unnerved; she thought he might confess to the murder of her mother after all. “About what.”
“There was a boy called Edward … you knew him, no? He was a friend of Toulouse, the one you speak of.”
“Did my — did Lani tell you?” she asked, readying herself to be angry with the woman for having betrayed details of her private life.
“Edward wore a brace and colorful scarves …”
“Edward and Lucy: the cousins!” she said excitedly. “And Lucy’s writing a book—”
“Yes. Well, you see, Amaryllis — it’s just that Edward died last week. And that’s why Toulouse hasn’t written you.”
“Died? But how?”
“He’d been sick most his life, as you know. You remember what a hard time he had just getting—”
“Oh! Oh!”
Amaryllis fidgeted, scanning the horizon as if for an exit so that she could go AWOL from the world. He steadied her, softly placing a paw on her forearm.
He poured everything out, hoping she might grasp it. She made him repeat a few things, and when it seemed she finally understood — or had at least absorbed the fact of his blood connection to Toulouse — well, it was simply too much.
“Oh, Topsy,” she murmured, clinging to him as she used to — he had worried things would never be the same between them. She stroked the stubble of his cheeks as if trying to summon back the beard. “Topsy …”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a Baggie with a treat baked especially for her. Like in old encampment days, the child’s nail-bitten fingers dug greedily into the foggy, nectar’d sack; and after a while her crying ceased and her breathing became measured as she spooned all manna of crumbs to her mouth.
†It would not be fair to pause in our narrative in order to give a lecture on the miraculous and recuperative powers of the human spirit or the unknowable chemical capabilities of the brain. Suffice to say that while Bluey began to shed memory as a feverish person would her clothes, the son-in-law eagerly, and with a growing sense of adventure, gathered up whichever of his own discarded garments could be found.
CHAPTER 47. The Wheel
[Note: for the sake of fluency, the author has taken the liberty to correct certain errors of typography and usage, of which there were a goodly amount; and begs the reader’s indulgence. If the girl at times seems precocious in expression, it can be reminded that she was a seasoned reader of newspapers and magazines, and also possessed a natural abundance of expressive gifts.]