AS the Town Car ferried her to Van Nuys she put on her warpaint, strategizing how to surf the cauldron of india ink that abutted and slapped the great and perilous cliffs of Losers Coast.
She decided not to refer to the baby unless Lew Freiberg brought it up. She would promise an abortion if that was what he required — a stone lie, yet one that might buy her time. All Joan wanted was a fair shake at winning the Mem: if securing the commission, publicly, came down to an order to scrape the womb, she would give notarized assurance. (In her heart she felt he would never tell her to do such a thing but she had to prepare for the worst). The prime imperative, as they say, was for ARK’s design, her design, to be inseminated into every media outlet that mattered, up, down, and sideways. She wanted to win a prestigious foreign prize. She wanted to be profiled, a smoldering headshot in the sidebars of middlebrow magazines that sit in doctors’ offices: Time, Newsweek, what have you. She wanted the whole international elitist enchilada. She wanted to be recognized then move on. Let Lew Freiberg try to pull the Mem plug late-term — but she wouldn’t, she would have that child. And if Joan Herlihy couldn’t have her commission, why then she’d just build a baby, like her brother said, because time was running out, all around.
What could be a more intelligent design?
LXII.Ray
THE Dog Whisperer came with his camera crew, and went for walks with Nip.
The sorcerer worked his calm-assertive magic: the Friar was easier to live with, and his wounds were healing nicely because he no longer reopened them out of compulsive, neurotic behavior. He didn’t cry or throw up anymore when he heard loud noises in the middle of the night. Once in a while he growled during meals but Ray knew what to do. Having established dominance, the old man could now replenish the bowl during a feed without incident.
Ghulpa was another story. He joked to Señor Millan that his girlfriend (he didn’t say “roommate” anymore) might need a little training on the side. She’d become a handful, even for the cousins. She was nauseous most of the time, and in general discomfort. It wasn’t her fault; being pregnant at that age had to be tough. More than anything, BG hated being confined to bed. The only thing that cheered her was news from the lawyers about the money, the sum of which kept threatening to arrive any day now; Ray knew she’d feel a whole heck of a lot better once she could hold the check in her pretty little hand. He told her that after she dropped the kid (she hated when he used that phrase, and he said it just to get a rise), they’d take a trip somewhere — the Grand Canyon or Yosemite. Big Gulp frowned like an angry god: she would never take her baby camping, nor waste money on “frivolities.” She was a tough nut, and he loved her more each day. She wanted to put money down on a house and leave the rest in the bank, where it could accumulate interest for the baby’s education. All right. Good deal. BG even wanted to buy insurance so “if something happens,” the child’s future would be secure. Everything was pragmatic, and well thought out. Very Indian. She even spent hours budgeting wardrobe, year by year. She was convinced they were going to have a “boychild.”
Yet she was plagued by fears. She didn’t want Nip/Tuck around the baby when it came, she didn’t care what that Dog Whisperer said, and had recurring dreams that she took as bad omens. Her cousins brought sweets and fussed over her, but Ghulpa’s disposition remained fretful, gloomy, intransigent. The doctor said it was hormonal.
A van came and took Ray, Nip, Cesar and his wife and kids, and the camera crew over to that lady Cora’s. Mrs Millan’s name was “Illusion” and the old man had never heard of something like that. He thought it was beautiful.
As they pulled up to a large, well-manicured home in the modestly upscale neighborhood of Beverlywood, Cora’s son and grandchildren stood on the sidewalk.
Cesar led the Friar to the lawn, making sure he was calm-submissive before allowing his own kids to pet him — then invited the grandkids to follow suit. They were eager and affectionate. The dog was on his back now, tongue out, tail wagging, paws up: in the pink and generally pleased as punch. Stein ebulliently wielded a flyweight digicam. He shook the Dog Whisperer’s hand, said he was a “big, big fan,” and told him he had “full run of the house.”
When Cesar asked about Pahrump, Cora, who was the shakiest of the bunch, said he was hiding in the backyard.
“I think he probably sensed you were coming,” she said. “He’s a bit camera-shy.”
Cesar said “No worries” and everyone went inside.
Ray felt a little weak, and stayed behind to catch his breath.
A minute later, Cesar appeared in the front door.
“You OK, my man?”
“Oh fine — don’t worry about me. I’m just an old guy, gettin his bearings. How’s Friar Tuck holding up?”
“Nip? Hasn’t sunk his teeth in anyone yet,” said Cesar, with that winning, savior’s smile. “He’s doing fine. And take your time, Ray. Come whenever you’re ready. But I don’t want to start the show without you.”
The old man could hear the rollicking voices of the children from the backyard. Nice neighborhood. Maybe when he got his settlement, he’d move Big and Little Gulp to a place like this. Then he shook his head, because the amount probably wouldn’t be enough to buy a home. It was too far from the cousins, and besides, Ghulpa would never allow him to squander money on a fancy house. No, the Indians had their way, and were talented when it came to saving and getting deals. He’d follow her lead. She was the Mom, and could wear the pants too. Hell, he’d worn the pants long enough. Maybe he’d have himself fitted for a sari! Indians knew how to make money from money, something Ray never seemed to be able to learn. Not that he was proud of it.
A gaunt-looking woman appeared on the porch next door. She looked about 70 and wore a nicely lived-in, floor-length robe. She peeked around for her paper. He walked toward her, and she didn’t catch his eye until they were 10 feet apart. She seemed startled.
“It got caught in the bush there,” he said, reaching into the bramble. “Your paperboy must have a helluvan arm.”
“Oh! Well, thank you. Thank you very much.”
He saw that it wasn’t a daily, but a neighborhood throwaway, already yellowing.
“Did you want this, or were you looking for your morning paper?”
“Are you an agent?”
He didn’t know what she meant.
“Are you with the fraud people? My daughter told me not to leave the house.”
“No, I’m visiting next door.”
He wondered if she wasn’t all there.
“Oh! You’re a friend of Cora’s!”
“Yes I am, and hope to know her better,” he said cordially. “My dog’s having the real visit. They’re making a little TV show.”