Silent running.
Out of the rutting.
Full fathom five thy career lies…
Joan had thought of that, and confessed she was worried. (She felt a percolation of whorishly melodramatic tears.) She told him those very concerns were the reason she’d so urgently shared “Mama’s delicate condition.”
“You mean, you wouldn’t have anyway?”
“Have what.”
“Told me.”
“Of course I would have. But not so soon.”
“Oh. So now I’m your confidant — with qualifications.”
“Remember: it’s all predetermined.”
They laughed — thank God — and drank some more and loosened up, hashing the whole mess over amid the panicked hilarity and absurd rampant impossibility of it all. He said it probably wasn’t Freiberg’s, it was probably Thom Mayne’s, or Rem’s. Or maybe El Zorro’s!
Now she wanted to go to bed and she’d never seen Barbet more turned on. He put it in her rear end, that’s where she wanted it, but missionary style, she knew the fact of her being pregnant, especially by someone other than him, would be arousing, to both of them, and she also knew in his Socratic depths that Barbet thought her indelicate condition might give them the edge in winning the Mem, he was fucking the gift whore, the unTrojan’d arse, the spirited muse-cunt/Mem-brane, storming the cathedral of meadow that stirred that mournful flatbed trough, spading and turning over bread and loaves and loam of fishes and flesh, freshly planted mons, scrubbing Joan’s rough tendril’d scrubs and all the fine young elderberries, Western burningbushes, sharp-toothed and hairless, salt- and brittlebush, skunkbrush and devil’s club, horned milkwort and poisoned oak, venus maidenhairs and licorice ferns, wormwoods and stinging nettles, purple loosestrife, clustered broomrape, lady’s thumb, black-eyed peas and Susans too, blanket flowers and butter-and-eggs, hooker’s evening primrose and sticky cinquefoils, hairy angelicas, gossipy horehounds, queen’s cup, death camas, and ladies’-tresses, Yes, he would spruce up the yew turns and pimpride her processional pyre if that’s what it took whatever it took he would take—and in their stroboscopic, solemnly strident, madly staccato ceremonies of this Temple of the Golden Pavilion, this Notre-Dame-du-Haut, this black and white Taj Mahal, Our Lady of Flowers and Latter Day Full Service Postmodern Postmortem Architectural Churchscrew, in this muskytear’d keen and keening — their nappy, Napa’d, soon-to-be-famous memorial of skin and stone — they duly performed ecclesia, preeclampsia, invocation and offertory, doxology and indulgence, until reaching the vaunted, founted promontory of grace.
LVIII.Ray
GHULPA was spotting and the OB-GYN said that because of her age and cervical configuration, she would have to stay in bed for the remainder of her pregnancy.
Since she announced her condition, the Artesian cousins came and went more often then usual (they arrived in shifts), and frankly, it looked to Ray as if they were planning to stay. That was a good thing, because the old man hadn’t got all his strength back, not by a longshot.
A sidebar dustup was the Friar’s post-op peccadilloes. He lashed out at visitors, puked, whimpered, and barked nonstop. He guarded his bowl as if fiendishly possessed; if you didn’t get your hand out of the way quick enough, you were in danger of getting fanged or defingered. Ray tried to keep the Friar on his lap when the cousins were around, but that was useless, and the muzzle made him even crazier. Ghulpa’s family put up with it, surreptitiously kicking him every now and then. It was clear something would have to be done — they could never have a newborn in the same house with that animal. Nip remained pretty much under bathroom arrest. Ray made a bed for him in the tub.
Since the settlement, the cousins treated the old man with great regard. He’d evolved from being, in his mind anyway, a semi-seedy character to a bonafide breadwinner, and while BG never had such fears, it was obvious that her cousins felt because she was unmarried, her legal grounds for sharing the wealth were shakier than the extended family would have wished. Marriage was hinted at almost daily and while Ray wasn’t opposed, he somehow wanted Ghulpa to suggest it. Hell, he’d already drawn up a will leaving the whole kit and caboodle to her; the ACLU fellow did that for free. (Ghulpa probably hadn’t told her cousins, out of sheer mischievousness.) Ray enjoyed the currying and the curry. It’s good to be King. He began to feel like the dying, debonair toymaker — Amitabh Bachchan — from the Lakewood matinee. Ghulpa’s people were apeshit over “Mr B,” who had now added television to his résumé, having recently become the host of a version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire that was a huge hit in Bangalore. The cousins actually called Ray Mr B (for Bapu) in jest, when they weren’t using Raj or “Sri Ray.”
The shuttle service came for the dog 3 times a week and the old man usually went along. He liked getting out of the house, and not having to drive. The apartment was too crowded with women and their smells. (Ghulpa was already talking about a duplex “investment property” in Cerritos. The stairs would be hell on his legs.) He couldn’t even watch his beloved Twilight Zone, because the cousins played Bollywood movies and pop songs at full volume while giggling and shrieking their gossip. Besides, the Friar got spooked; all the commotion wasn’t great on his nerves, which were shot anyway. He’d become nearly impossible to handle. The ladies made no bones about wanting to “disappear” the dog by the railroad tracks; one of them got so angry with Ray that she smart-talked him and he had to let her know who was boss. She backed down pretty good. The women locked themselves in the bedroom, and at least he had some peace and quiet for a few hours. But the poor mutt frightened people and was in constant pain. Even some of the folks at the Center told him Nip was “unmanageable.” Ray didn’t want to be selfish or cruel, but he loved that guy and couldn’t bear to part with him. Big Gulp was shrewd enough to remain silent. It showed her man respect, and he liked that. She had a soft spot for the Friar as well, but knew Ray would never put their child in harm’s way. He found himself starting to think about the place that Cora woman had mentioned, a rest home for broken creatures, out in the verdant boonies.
The staff at rehab told Ray they were pretty sure Nip’s problems were behavioral, because he seemed physically and neurologically on the mend. Again, they brought up a resource of which he might avail himself. Because the “case” had been relatively high-profile — a police shooting, and all — they had taken the liberty to speak with a famous expert, who was very much in demand. They got lucky: Cesar was amenable to a consultation. Ray was touched they’d made the effort. Everyone was hopeful “the Dog Whisperer” could find the time to work with Nip, and maybe even put him on his TV series.