Weeks ago, he spoke of a spastic child — was it Jenny? — a daughter he implied to be his own. Surely she could not have known that because of the receding tide of his delusion, Jenny — William Morris’s Jenny — had already drifted to farther shores. Yet it struck her deeply; this Jane did not wish to burden him with another, a boy or girl not even his!
For it was Jilbo’s: she gagged on his name.
Nearly seven months gone, but no one could tell.
Hand to belly she walked, forlorn and agitated. Distraught and devoted …
The dirty man approached.
“Hey, good-lookin’. Now, why you trippin’?”
She frowned at the gimp.
“Had my eye on you — big girl! Like that. Like a big hug. Lot to hug there.”
She moved away, and Someone-Help-Me trailed after, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, for he had undergone a transformation himself, purely cosmetic, and was now called the same as the plea of his spanking-new signage: Please-Help.-Bless.
“What, too good for me?” he barked, taking care not to get too close. The girl could do him damage. “Watt? You sellin’ it? Fuckin’ cow with dirty titties want fuckin’ heehaw?”
He was in her hair a block or so when Jane wheeled and almost spoke. But she didn’t want to give the pest ammunition.
“Hey shit,” he said, a smile metastasizing on his face. “I like big girls, that’s all. Got a man? Man friend? Everybody need a friend. Everybody need milk! Yer fine. Cain’t talk? Dat — wull, fuck me!” He slapped at his britches and howled through a rotten mouth. “Whoa! Got motors in your ears! Cain’t talk! I knew that. Nuthin’ to say—leas’ tha’s honest! Shit, people talk all shit anyhow.” He guffawed again. “Like a big girl who can’t talk. But kin ya hear? Can ya hear with them motors, big-tittie girl?”
Jane lunged and grunted contemptuously, a forceful combination that took him by surprise. Adding to her unhappiness, she noticed passersby throwing sideshow stares. She strode off, and Please-Help.-Bless could not catch her.
Hobbling in her dust, he shouted, “I seen you on Pico, by Clare — hey! — you smoke?” He pulled a ratty pack of Pall Malls from a shirt pocket and, propelled by his cane, precariously offered it up. “Kin you hear me? Come on, big girl, where you stay at? Where you stay! Aw,” he said, coming to a winded stop. “You cain’t fuckin’ hear shit.” He lit a cigarette. “Gonna fuck ya, big girl. Gonna fuck out yer big cow brains.”
He laughed before darting into traffic, whereupon the shameless minstrel-show mugger courted drivers with his cardboard namesake’s entreaty.
“Is he worse?” Tull asked.
“I don’t know if he’s worse,” said Lucy, mulling it over, “but he isn’t happy.”
“Can’t they give him antibiotics? I mean, tetracycline or whatever?”
“They are—they’re swabbing stuff on him. But he’s still got the intense zits. And he picks. It’s, like, totally volcanic at this point.”
Tull shook his head. “That is so fucked.”
“Evidently, it’s from the Apert’s — I mean, the acne. I went on-line—”
“I wish I could get my hands on Mr. Fucking Apert … how could Edward’s genes be so — shitty? It’s like nothing works.”
“Except his brain.”
“Right. And that works better than anyone’s.”
The Four Winds term had just begun. The cousins, on a long walk from school, were strolling down Montana. Pullman loped behind, drawing the usual stares. They got a Jamba Juice and crossed the street to pick up goodies for Bluey at her favorite new confectionary haunt. Their grandmother had been furious with Gilles Mott when he dared to foist on her a pale substitute for that mouthwatering almond-and-pomegranate delight before informing her (under duress) the originals were no longer available; then one day Tull brought home some high-end morsels from Le Marmiton and, voilà, her faith in sweets and mankind was restored.
Pink pastry box in hand, the trio migrated north toward the Brentwood Country Mart.
Lucy spoke up: “My mom said Trinnie’s seeing that detective. Romantically.”
“Yeah.”
“Is that an old thing?”
“You mean, from before?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“I mean, do you think they porked when they were younger?”
“I hate it when you use that word.”
“Well, did they?”
“I told you, I don’t know.” Then: “My mother has to be with someone or she flips out.”
“That’s harsh,” said Lucy, while agreeing to herself it was probably true. “Have you talked to him?”
“Who.”
“The detective.”
“About what.”
“Your father.”
He shook his head.
“Did she dump that guy Rafe?”
“I don’t know. I guess so.”
“How’d he take it?”
“I have no idea. And it’s Ralph. He calls himself Ralph now.”
“Don’t you think it’s kind of … weird that your mother and that detective — I mean, the guy who was searching for your—”
“Yeah I think it’s weird. I fucking hate it. All these people reuniting after … hiding everything all these years. It makes me sick.”
“It’s actually kind of cool — I mean, about your mom and the cop. Very forties. You know, you shouldn’t be so judgmental, Tull. Trinnie hasn’t had the easiest life. You’re not the only one stuff happened to.”
“You’re so Zen,” he said nastily. “Are you a Buddha-bitch?”
“Fuck you.”
She sulked, slowing her pace as they continued uphill. Pullman sniffed at the elaborately coiffed flower beds along the pricey road.
Tull turned back to make a peace offering. “He ate dinner at the house the other night — Sherlock Dowling — and I could tell Mom wanted us to talk. Wanted me to talk. Creepy! What am I supposed to say? ‘How come you couldn’t find Dad?’ Or, ‘Hey, can I see your gun?’ ”
Lucy laughed. “He’s probably not such a horrible person. Anyway, I’d like to talk to him.”
“For your book?”
“He is a real detective — and I am writing a mystery, you know.”
“Oh, right! You know I am so happy that my personal tragedy is bringing everyone together!”
They both laughed this time.