“That wasn’t your decision!”
“It was. As a father, I—”
“Fuck you!”
She looked as if she might strike again, and he backed off. “He would do it again, don’t you see, Katrina?”
“That was not for you to say!”
“He would do it! But the next time, he’d harm you. Physically.”
“How do you know?” she spat, like a witch tied to a stake.
“I could not let that happen—”
“You don’t know anything. He loved me!”
His heart nearly broke, because he saw once and for all, through that pitiable declaration, that Katrina would never — could never — be whole. “Yes, he did. Yes, he did. I believe that.”
“You believe, in your arrogance …”
But she was too exhausted to go on. There was no energy left, not even for contempt.
“Those kind of people do not get better, Katrina. That is medical fact.”
Trinnie stood up. He thought his daughter would leave, but instead she sat in the barber’s chair, ready for the final cut.
“You said he hurt someone.”
“He broke her arm. He picked her up on the road. She told the police that he said she was his wife—”
“His wife—” Pierced again.
“—and that he would punish her for sleeping with his best friend.”
“Oh God.”
“When she tried to leave the car, he struck her and she jumped out. She could have been killed, Katrina.”
“What happened then?”
“He was sent to hospital. I made sure the bills were paid — it was a fine hospital, Katrina. He was there eight weeks with no improvement. I was going to move him to a more permanent place, but he escaped. We searched another year but were never able to find him.”
“I’ll go see his parents. Maybe the Weiners will—”
He knew where she was heading. “It’s no use, Trinnie. There’s been no sign. Don’t you think I’ve been in touch with Harry and Ruth?”
“Don’t I think?” she said poisonously. “Does it matter to the grand puppeteer what I think? Of course you’ve been in touch with the Weiners. You’re all probably best of friends!”
“There was always the chance he would contact them. They understood that if he returned, I would help them — help keep him from harm’s way.”
“Keep him from me—”
“Yes! I would not have him coming for you! For you or my grandson …” He swigged another shot, then said, more calmly: “I see this fever of Toulouse’s has been communicated to you … Katrina, it would be a miracle if he were alive.”
“Yes it would,” she said heavy-handedly. “Especially if you already killed him.”
He took her comment with utter seriousness, pausing thoughtfully to demonstrate that such an act had not been entirely outside the realm of feasibility. He let the moment pass.
“Katrina,” he said earnestly. “I have lost both sleep and years over this. I knew how much you loved him — how much it would have meant for you to see him again. And I love you more than life! I would not have been able to live with myself had I … had I done what to you was the ‘right thing.’ But I have suffered—”
“You have suffered!”
“Yes,” he said, like a humble peasant. “And the boy should be able to find what he finds. But it’s all over for me soon, don’t you know, and I will not have regrets! I did what I thought was best for you, and would do it again.”
A bony hand shakily went to the skin already purpling under his jaw.
“I would do it again!”
Joyce bathed her son while Dodd slept in the solarium. He was feeling the spacey effects of Neurontin, its dosage upped to 500 milligrams in the wake of a spate of recently acquired ruins — doctor’s orders.
Tull told Grandpa Lou he wanted to stay at Olde CityWalk awhile. School was almost over, and it was convenient to be on Stradella cramming for finals with the cousins (nightly screenings at the Majestyk didn’t hurt). Carcassone felt wrong of late; the scent of his mother’s aromatherapy and perfumes filled him with dread — the scent of his mother herself. Truth be told, he was spooked. He sensed that Trinnie’s latest visit was drawing to a close, and didn’t want to be there when she pulled up stakes.
He went to the shrink twice a week, refusing to speak of mother or father. The therapist didn’t seem to mind; he had all the time in the world, he said, and at $250 an hour, Tull was sure he was right. The boy did speak of Pullman, who had grown listless, and become chief repository of the analysand’s worst fears. He dwelled morbidly on the topic of longevity and developed a penetrating anxiety that his noble consort, that Apollo of dogs, that “Continental Gentleman,” was in fact on his last legs. (Because of the breed’s short life-span, Trinnie had initially opposed the Dane’s adoption, but Tull fell in love. Mother and son were at a children’s party in Malibu when Greg Louganis, the famed Olympic diver, walked by with three at the reins. Thereafter, Epitacio chauffeured the eight-year-old boy to Mr. Louganis’s hillside home almost daily; when a pup became available, he wouldn’t take no for an answer.) While the therapist thought it a wonderful way to work through abandonment issues, Tull became terrified to the point of sleeplessness of losing his pet — repeated visits to the veterinarian uncovered none of the usual suspects that befell a Dane: no heartworm or Von Willebrand’s or dysplasia of hips. As a preventive tool, a regimen of hedonism was prescribed — his large companion suffered Shiatsu massages three times a week. On Sundays, he took Pullman to a ranch in Carbon Canyon, where a hippie woman practiced “touch therapy”—small circular motions designed to release tension (the “form” Pullman liked most was called Clouded Leopard). The creature visited the chiropractor for adjustments; a crew in a van came to attach magnets and inject B-12 into acupuncture points along chi meridians. He was put on a diet of raw venison, bonemeal and flaxseed oil (when Lucy wasn’t letting him cadge from her brother’s strongbox of marzipan). Tull even brought him to a psychic, who while pronouncing him in the best of health still saw fit to prescribe Bach flower remedies and St.-John’s-wort to her amenable client, and dispense Elavil samplets to “take the edge off an innate sense of sadness.” Like another troubled Dane before him, the dog seemed too aware of his transitoriness on Earth — such fatal, neurotic knowledge, the psychic assured, was in the breed’s collective bones. Major karmic cleansing was in order.
The two took afternoon naps beside the armillary sphere, a dogeared copy of When Elephants Weep: The Emotional Lives of Animals splayed upon Tull’s chest. It was thought that Pullman needed more exercise, so they hired Kali Guzman, the very same who took Diane Keaton’s and Michael Ovitz’s dogs on their morning runs. That was good, because Tull needed to find someone to work with the Dane in the summer while the Four Winds group was traveling. He didn’t feel like going on the supersonic excursion but didn’t really want to stay home, either — he wanted to get away from his mother; he wanted to get away from the ghost of his father; he wanted to get away. Still, Tull worried about leaving Pullman behind.