He got depressed and went back to bed.
He was running low on cash. Remar said that once the settlement was agreed on, it would take “around 2 weeks to cut a check.” Before that happened, Chess would have to sign a release. Maybe he’d call the firm and ask the secretary if he could come in and take care of that early, to save time. She probably wouldn’t know anything about it and would put him through to Remar. He doubted if the guy’d even take his call, unless it was explicitly about reversing engines and going ahead full steam with the suit. He thought about asking for an advance but remembered the lawyer saying he would only do that if his client promised to go all the way. That was out of the question now. Still, Chess was convinced he was doing the right thing.
He decided to go visit his mom again.
LXVIII.Marjorie
AT home, Joan tried getting into the bathroom but it was locked.
“Estrella?”
“Si,” came the shyly muffled voice.
“Jesus,” said Joan audibly. She stripped off her clothes right then and there. “I really need to get in, Estrella.”
After a minute came a flush. The maid emerged with a tight smile. There was a stench.
“I’ve told you,” said Joan. “If you have to use the shitcan — which you always seem to—don’t do it in the master bath. Is that so difficult to comprehend? Is that asking too much? Because you can find another job. I can find you a job where all you do is clean huge office building lavatories, so that when nature calls — and nature seems to call a lot! — you can go do your business without disrupting your workday. OK, Estrella? Comprende? Comprende? Bueno.”
She was taken aback by her own fury.
She drove to her mother’s, on the phone with Barbet most of the way. He was tender and supportive, pissed at Freiberg for stringing them along. Her partner swore (not that she needed reassurance) the Calatrava thing wouldn’t happen because Lew was a mercurial Perelmanian headcase. Then he actually said she should “have the kid” (not that she needed his advice), but Joan didn’t want to get into any kind of a thing about it, not on that level, and not now. She didn’t want this sacred being tainted by his throwaway spite. She knew where Barbet was going next: she’d better have the lawyers put something on paper guaranteeing the child’s future, something exceedingly in her favor. Joan wasn’t worried — she would have the baby, and it never had anything to do with getting or not getting the Mem (Barbet informed her he was having a tattoo inked on his left shoulder, the traditional heart-pierced-by-arrow, only with MEM instead of MOM inside), it had to do with the fact she was almost 40 fucking years old and this was how God happened to have said Ha. Still, she let him rail on. She knew he was hurt and only masking his disappointment.
They wound up talking about another job coming down the pike, a Demeulemeester boutique in Belgium. When Barbet said he’d make sure Fathom was on its way back safe and sound, Joan told him Lew loved the model so much that he wanted it “on permanent exhibition” in the gallery Richard Gluckman was building in Mendocino. Barbet laughed out loud.
“Let him have it! For a hundred-and-50,000. It’s no longer a maquette, now it’s art, right? Keep it, baby! But send the check! We’ll invoice Guerdon.”
WHEN she got to Marj’s, the old Imperial was in front, the window on the driver’s side wavily broken.
It looked like there was blood.
Joan ashened.
Cora approached, holding the King Charles in her arms. It yapped and she shushed, nuzzling its half-shaved crown. Shocky and breathless, Joan asked what happened and the neighbor said Marj was at the hospital.
Which hospital.
“Midway.”
When.
“Last night.”
Is she—
“I talked to her on the phone this morning.”
That was the extent of it.
Joan got back in the Range Rover. Cora ran after to exclaim through the passenger side that she had been the one to find her mother, right here in the driveway. What happened. She said Pahrump was “acting funny” and she was going to get Marj’s opinion about whether to call Stein or just take him to the vet but no one answered the door, and on her way home she saw, or thought she did, someone sitting in the car like a mannequin — it was Marj. She’d been assaulted. What do you mean. Cora said she was careful not to “disturb” anything before running to the house to dial 911. Then she returned with a damp towel, but didn’t know what to do with it, and suddenly thought that the people who were responsible for this unspeakable act might still be “lurking.”
She jerked the car into the street and headed up Robertson, speeddialing Barbet to tell him what was going on — he didn’t answer and she left a message — then started to call Chess, before pressing END. Why bother?
The usual mindlessly galling, passive-aggressive encounters with testily indifferent functionaries and grinning eunuchized volunteers ensued, a tangle of nerves, short circuits, and wrong information, before mother and daughter reunited. Marj looked so awful. She smiled valiantly then collapsed in tears; the women held each other and Mom whispered, “I was so afraid they had hurt you!” Joan, uncomprehending, said she was fine and stroked the old woman’s hair as they wept. An RN came to check vitals. She casually said that whoever had done this had broken the jaw and it would need to be “wired.” Marj was half-naked. Joan reworked the cheap gown to cover her. She said she wanted to be alone with her mother and when the nurse ignored her, Joan insisted on speaking to a doctor. The Angel of Mercy, suddenly churlish, said she “would have one paged but they’re very busy.” Joan noticed wet bedsheets and the nurse assured her she was aware of it and would have them changed as soon as an orderly was free. Joan said if she would bring linen, or show her the linen closet, she would change them herself. The RN said she would have to wait and Joan said, Do not fuck with me, I want those sheets changed, do you understand? At that moment the nurse didn’t have what it took to go up against her.
She was trying to digest it all. She sat holding her mother’s hand. The orderly came with fresh sheets. He spoke to Marjorie as if she were a child, and it was tender and comforting to behold. Joan helped him put Mom in a chair. She told Marj she was going to make a few phone calls but the helper gently cautioned not to leave her because she might fall. The orderly said he could “loosely” tie her to the chair but Joan said no, she’d wait till the sheets were changed, and they could put her back in bed, with the rails up. At least he was a human being.
When it was done, she caught her breath outside the room. Who to contact 1st? She found the number of the FBI agent but it had been disconnected. (Joan didn’t have the chance or even the inclination to check in from Mendocino. She’d been so blackjacked.) That gave her a funny feeling. She was digging in her wallet for that lady Cynthia’s Wells Fargo card when a different nurse came in and handed her the name and number of a cop. Joan dialed and got right through — a direct line. Short introductions were made. The detective said he had just been heading to the hospital for a chat with Mrs Herlihy. He asked how her mother was doing (shorthand for Do you think she’s up for an interview?) and Joan said not too well. He said that was understandable and wanted to know if Joan would be there when he arrived — that would be helpful — she said of course. The detective told her it would be 45 minutes or so depending on traffic. Joan wondered if it’d be OK to go to the house and pick up some things for her mom, and he said that was a great idea. See you soon.