“Ain’t Culver City good enough?” he used to say. His English was perfectly fine but he liked to goad her by talking like a yokel. “No,” she would answer. “It isn’t.”
She was surprised when the Mexican shouted at her. She thought the cashier was being rude but instead she gave Marj 4 quarters. The girl must have felt bad about how she had treated her, and the old woman thought, See that? Everyone has a conscience. Maybe the man who shot poor Riki dead was in a motel room somewhere, a tormented soul thinking about turning himself in. She thanked her then made the mistake of asking where the phones were and the cashier got surly again, pointing outside with disdain. Marj cursed herself—of course they were outside. She already knew that. She hated being the helpless old lady. The girl probably thought she was a refugee from the expensive new Assisting Living condos that had recently gone up around the corner. She probably resented her because here she was working for minimum wage and this wizened crone, this witch who lived in luxury and came and went as she pleased, was pestering her for coins. Still, the cashier showed she had a heart.
The pack of ice cream kids had migrated outside (they all looked Persian) and were being so noisy that Marj had trouble concentrating on dialing. Their cars were just sitting in the lot with the doors open and music blaring. She called the toll free hotline and left her name.
Then she found Bonita’s number and listened to the strange message: Thank you for calling. Unfortunately, the person who gave you this number does not want to talk to you or speak to you — ever again. We would like to take this opportunity to officially reject you. If you would like to order personalized rejection cards with this number printed on them, please visit our website at www.rejectworld.com. Our certified rejection specialists are standing by to serve you in this time of need.
She winced in confusion. Some sort of joke? Bonita did have a quirky sense of humor. She tried the number again, and got the same recording. (Now her coins were all used up.)
She took a few steps and threw up. Like everyone her age, she had been trained to ask, “Am I having a heart attack?” but decided it was only the wine and her nerves. (“High Hopes” and “The Days of Wine and Roses” were catfighting in her head. She missed Jack Lemmon.) Joanie said, If you think you’re having a heart attack, breathe deep and force a deep cough. Keep doing that, then call 911. The music from the cars drowned out “High Hopes” and one of the rowdy kids yelped, alerting his friends to the old woman who puked. “That’s disgusting!” said a girl. Another girl said, “It’s sad. Maybe we should help.” Another wandered closer and said, “Lady?” Marj didn’t have the strength to respond. Another said, “Just call 911,” then boisterously broke into peals of laughter. Marj kept seeing the face of Jack Lemmon in his little hat; he would see her through. A boy said, “Call the pound!” A girl said, “That is so mean.” A boy said, “She just threw up. She ain’t dyin.” “Maybe she’s been partying.” “She looks really rich.” “It’s a Senior Moment.” “Is she a junior or a Senior?” “Hope she’s wearing her Pampers!”
The pack moved toward the alley, laughing and smoking and remonstrating, then disappeared.
SUDDENLY Marj was driving south on Robertson, without any memory of having gotten in the car. She was lightheaded but seemed to have her wits about her. She resolved to call Joanie in the morning; her daughter would help sort things out. She felt something was “off” but wouldn’t allow herself to believe she’d been done wrong. No, that could not be. She would get to the bottom of it in the morning but for now it was important to just get home and get to the bathroom (she was cramping badly from holding it in), take a tub, and climb into bed. She’d just leave her luggage in the trunk, where the valets had transferred it, and snatch back the note from Cora’s mailbox. Maybe there were messages from Lucas on her answering machine or cell. She didn’t know how to retrieve messages from the cell.
When she turned the corner onto her block, a car with dimly flashing white lights was parked in front of the house.
She pulled into the drive and got out.
A man approached.
“Mrs Herlihy?”
“Yes. What is it? What’s happened?”
“I’m Federal Agent Marone, from the antifraud division. I’d like to speak with you about a person who goes by the name of Lucas Weyerhauser. I know it’s a late hour, Mrs Herlihy, but — may I come in?”
LVII.Joan
THEY made love and he cooked for them, but Joan didn’t think she’d stay over. She was worried about Mom. Maybe she would “camp” with her a few days, at the house in Beverlywood.
She told Pradeep she wasn’t sure if it was age or loneliness, but there was something she couldn’t put her finger on, a difference in the way her mother had been acting. She mentioned Marj wanting to take her to see the Taj Mahal (Pradeep enthused, “You should go! You should do it!” just like she thought he would), adding with a smile that Mom was more interested, “to put it mildly,” in the Taj Mahal hotel than the monument in Agra. Pradeep laughed, informing that the Tata family — who owned the Taj Mahal Palace and Towers in Mumbai — were in talks to take over the management and renovation of the Pierre in New York. He was a fount of that sort of trivia. It was kind of his job.
Then a strange thing happened.
“You’re a Rausch, right? Isn’t that your birth name?”
“Why?”
“Before you were adopted.” She nodded, perplexed. “And isn’t your biological father’s name Raymond?”
Pradeep knew all about Joan’s family tree; perhaps it was his diplomatic nature, or a lover’s genuine interest, that made him inquisitive of personal histories, which he was, to a fault. He retained names and dates as well, also part of his well-honed professional acumen, no doubt. From her end, she never asked about Manonamani and the kids — it didn’t feel appropriate, and the truth of it was she hadn’t much interest. But Pradeep was solicitous when it came to her own family members, listening with charmed, rapt attention, as if she were reading tales aloud from a storybook. Something about his earnest, guileless curiosity actually moved her to share things she wouldn’t have with anyone else.