AT home, she dreamed of the Lost Coast. It was carpeted by a macadamized boulevard that morphed into Eisenman’s Mem to the Murdered Jews of Europe, pillar after pillar, slab after slab, until the touristy petrified forest resembled a jail for villains in a Marvel comic. But the vast necropolis had a teeming underground life — in her netherworld, things went topsy-turvy, the dead lived aboveground and the living, below — as in some bad Czech sci-fi novel, dark figures clambered amid the labyrinth, scavenging among darkly crosshatched monoliths, fudgey tooth-some mugwumps, extraterrestrial carpetbaggers and the like, deaf and dumb silhouettes floating in mimed and weirdly gesticulative dreamworded rotomontade, the whole memorial metastasized in stop-motion, slowly unfurling red-carpet black-tie Gehry gala, a granite, boulder-holed, dwarf-oaked Ajanta unfurling, dripping slate-gray basins and ornamental asphalt bodhisattvas that crushed the populace and drove them to grottoes, besotted dilatory shadowclumps futilely attempting to outrun the cubist tsunami lava that slowly and surely advanced over all the acreage of this gob- and Godsmacked earth until every living-now-dead-
thing was sheathed in stone, hardcloth’d dandified forest curated by Lagerfeld, incapable of nourishment yet paying blackened homage to that which once had nourished and been nourished in return: now everything in static, ecstatic haute couture, a dynamically moribund gorgeously abstract iron maidenhead machine. Somewhere in the nightmare came Rem and Zorro with their shticks and dirty tricks, and somewhere came this baby, their baby, Baby Jane Doe (née Herlihy-Freiberg), and the Faulkner tree-house woman’s — and Larry King, and her mother Marj, and the Taj Mahal and Domino’s elephants, and the city of Madras AKA Chennai where Esther Freiberg was gutted and pilloried by a spirit tree whose roots, having giddily performed their sacred dilatation & curettage, now covered the entire universe itself (Joan would scribble it down best she could upon awakening), the 18-inch-deep inverted sarcophagus of Napa too with its inconceivably expensive, minutely calibrated pumps and drains overseen by mean old Calvinist Thom Mayne, his no-foam latte dispensed from her Impressa at Pritzker High in Diamond Ranch; woven into the somatic tapestry like cheap golden thread were all of Joan’s failures and all of her lusts and all of her loss of desire.
All there:
The Perfect Memorial.
LIV.Ray
THEY took Friar Tuck to a rehab center in Covina.
BG said the place looked like a resort. The woman at check-in was expecting them. Ghulpa confirmed they wouldn’t be “outlaying any monies” and their greeter said yes, she was correct, the City of Industry was taking care of everything. The couple were treated like VIPs.
The Friar snarled at Rahul, the assigned trainer, then spat out a beaded necklace of coughs, in nervous spasm. The unruffled therapist in swim trunks, flip-flops, and medical smock bent down and stroked his new patient, telling him how brave he was. Without taking his eyes off Friar Tuck, he told the owners this wasn’t the 1st dog he’d worked with who had been shot. The old man was surprised yet glad the helper was experienced. Rahul gently drew his hand over the injured hip to assess pain and mobility.
He asked “Mr and Mrs Rausch” if their dog was a “water guy” and Ray said yes, “Nip” liked chasing after waves in the ocean and had been known to jump in a pool now and then. (That’s when he told Rahul the alias — Nip/Tuck — and the therapist had a laugh.) Today’s session would be short. He liked to start his clients out slowly, to acclimate them to their new surroundings.
They watched him lower Nip — now the preferred appellation — into the water, steadying the wounded warrior onto a special, brightly painted treadmill that Rahul called “the yellow submarine.” After a few minutes, he suggested they have a walk around the facility; “overprotective parents” sometimes impeded progress. He said there was a waiting area where they could have snacks and coffee.
A staff member escorted them to a patio café called Starbarks. She got Ghulpa a tea and Ray a soft drink, and the Rausches settled into a gingham-covered picnic table with bowls of carrots, cauliflower, and ranch-dressing dip. Against the old man’s mild protestations, the staffer made him a cappuccino, sprinkling it with cocoa. In the future, she told them a shuttle could pick the Friar up at home, saving them the trip; but of course they were more than welcome to “tag along” whenever they liked. There was a treatment package that included acupuncture and massage. “The meridians are exactly the same as with humans,” she said, when Ghulpa asked about the needles. “We always recommend it whenever there’s been surgery or bone injury. I’m pretty sure the city will pick that up.” She winked, as if it was already a done deal. The Center even had a Saturday yoga class called Upward Dog that was “a hoot.”
“You should see our ‘kids.’ They can hold all the major poses. It’s really a wonderful holistic workout — and great for the owners too. All species are invited!”
“Well, hel-lo,” said a lady, trundling over with a King Charles in her arms. She beamed at Ray and Ghulpa but they didn’t recognize her. “How are you?”
She reintroduced herself as Cora, who they’d met at the hospital on Sepulveda.
“And this, I’m sure you remember, is the famous Mr Pahrump!”
They were happily reunited, marveling not only to find each other again, but in this wonderful place as well. Comrades-in-arms, in the war of recovery.
“It’s our 1st time,” said Ray.
“Isn’t it marvelous?”
“The Friar’s having himself a little ‘submarine’ therapy.”
“He’s on the treadmill?” She put down Pahrump — who was sniffing at BG’s Vans and pant cuffs — and clapped her hands with glee. “Now, isn’t that fabulous? I’m going to get one for the house. My son Stein bought me an ‘ellipis’—I have arthritis — but I never use it. Of course, you can’t just dunk it in the pool! You need a special kind.”
Ray gave Pahrump a caress. You could still see the tumor. The dog had a tremor and Cora said it was from the effects of chemo and the various pills he was taking, all of which were making him stronger each day.
“He’s got something for his heart and for ‘cognitive dysfunction’ as well. Whatever that is! Since his surgery, my Rumper’s been having a little trouble recognizing Stein and the grandkids. They say that’s perfectly normal. There’s a period of readjustment, and it’s longer or shorter, depending on the animal.” Her eyes welled with tears, but just for a moment. “I cannot imagine how he’s suffered…he is a hero. Aren’t you, baby? Aren’t you my hero? They have him on Percorten-V for Addison’s disease, and Eto-Gesic for his osteo. I’m telling you, after all this is over, I’m going to be ready to hang my veterinary shingle!” She boastfully rattled off the inventory of curatives. “There’s a glorious antidepressant, Clomicalm — a miracle drug! He’s practically back to his old sleeping patterns. Which is more than I can say for myself.”
The ordeal had taken its toll. A few days ago a well-meaning staffer suggested that if things got too difficult, there was always a 30 acre avocado ranch up north, “the only retirement home for the white-whiskered set in the entire western U.S.” She cried at the thought of banishing King Charles from his kingdom. (“I might decide to go live there myself!”) Still, the thought of Pahrump living amongst sycamores and rosebushes with a cadre of caregivers and retired show dogs did provide comfort, and warmed her heart during dark nights of the soul. The staffer told her that the upscale “spread” even had its own newspaper, The Muttmatchers Messenger. “Isn’t that darling?”