Once Joan got most of her tears out and Raymond leaked some more as well, he offered her tea — she liked that, he could have said how about a beer or pot of coffee, which would have been fine, actually, any of it would be fine, what was she saying, what did it matter, fuck my endless judging, still, tea was what he suggested, jasmine, saying that his girlfriend I hope he doesn’t have a young girlfriend, she’s probably younger than me oh shut up shut up hadn’t been well, she was “in hospital” (OG Victoriana-sounding phrase) adding with wizened not uncharming sprightly twinkle that his “gal” was “Preg. Nant” oh God she’s probably like 17 that made Joan cry then later laugh at the thought she could or should have blurted out I’m pregnant too! and also how surreal that maybe soon she would have a sister she had always wanted a sister, the tears not as heavy now as when she 1st arrived but still in shock. Watching her cry, for a million reasons Raymond Rausch sweetly seemed to feel bad for her, or with her, bad about that, about everything, and wishing/not knowing how he could help. She thought maybe he thought maybe he’d said too much? or the reference to a baby on the way Baby On Board
was insulting because of the fact she had been a toddler he’d discarded. But how nice that was, really, at his age, that’s what her sunrise smile showed him, all unspoken, how nice though at his age ancient daughter suddenly materialized before him, how nice and mystically twisted the multiplicity of lives, the knot of this life, all life, their life he was trying to remember what he used to call her, what was the nickname and said it had taken him by surprise — the pregnancy — and she wasn’t a young woman — the girlfriend—what does he mean by not young—and that she had to go to hospital and stay put awhile on doctor’s orders.
She asked if there was anything he needed. I guess this is my time. To ask of my parents what is needed. My time to caregive. No, he said, he was going to have a nap (she could see him in his frailty and that her visit had packed a wallop). He thought he would lie down, she knew he meant the bedroom not the easychair, but Joan was welcome to stay and watch television, he made the invitation to be cordial, and that was lovely, truly, it was genuine, she stanched the tears again, saw he was knocked out, her visit knocked him out, knocked both them out. Her father was an old man.
Your route guidance is now complete.
They embraced when she left and she wept again and this time for some reason was embarrassed, Ray sensed it, she took a hard look at him now, all this time not having bothered to age him up in her head the way computers did on CSI, adding 70-odd years to the dad she hardly remembered, no, nothing, she saw nothing, she looked for Chess in his bones as a last resort but no, nothing, she would need to visit Beverlywood, maybe there existed a single photo Marjorie hadn’t sheared but Joan wasn’t sure; she flashed on movies about people who find lost loved ones that turn out to be impostors, arthouse films and even Vertigo (one of Pradeep’s favorites), and in the same instant she thought, Stanford grad-student mode again, it’s the idea of it, Myth of Reintegration, regeneration, that’s what mattered — instinctively Joan thought, No, this isn’t the case, he is no impostor. This is my father, Raymond Rausch — and there would be time to tell him everything that had happened since he left, though she would ask nothing in return, ever, wouldn’t care to hear his explanations (if he had any), both too old for that, the porno cliché that Now was all that mattered was true, if he wanted to share it would be at his pace, the pace of myth, or maybe at the pace of what she, Joan Hennison Herlihy née Rausch could take, that was how to go, how they would do it, slowly but surely they’d turn, no urgency, competition/animosities long past, she had given the Memorial her best shot, the commission awarded to someone else, and now she was building something in her womb that needed no plan, committee, or ruling, no client permission, persuasions, consensus. There was nothing to decide. The site was selected and end-date affixed…
A burden lifted.
She felt even lighter as she swung onto the freeway, and — this time, aural navigation deactivated — wound her way home unguided by voices.
LXX.Ray
MAIL had accumulated since Big Gulp was in hospital.
He anxiously awaited the settlement agreement. Even though the attorneys said it was to be hand-delivered, the old man found himself retrieving mail with a lilt in his gait while the Friar followed, wagging his tail. Monsignor Tuck was in goodly fair shape. Fare thee well. Life was grand.
He opened the letter from an insurance company.
Frankly, Raymond, I’m puzzled…
Our marketing team is often confused over why more people don’t request the facts about long-term care insurance. Knowledge is power!
If you’ve been putting off getting information, Raymond, it’s time to take another look…
In 1999, with the enactment of The Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, our government provided tax incentives for long-term care insurance plans that meet certain standards. Raymond, you should know about these tax incentives.
The way I look at it, Raymond, you have so much to gain and absolutely nothing to lose. Thank you.
There was another:
Dear Raymond Rausch,
My name is Max Kibblerohden. I write the “Equity Builders” column for MoneyInvest magazine and serve as Chief Executive of Kibblerohden Portfolio Investments™. My firm manages over $15 billion for institutions and high-net-worth individuals.
I recognize you may not be considering doing anything differently with your investments right now. Regardless, I’d like to send you a “care package” of useful insights, free and without obligation.
A separate letter contained the “Confidential Request Form for the Kibblerohden Portfolio Care Package™.” It asked for applicants to 
their “level of interest.”Total Investment Size:
O $0—500,000
O $500,000–750,000
O $750,000—1,000,000
O $1,000,000—3,000,000
O $3,000,000—5,000,000
O$5,000,000—10,000,000
O $10,000,000+
Mine’ll be “$0–500,000.”
(Ray wondered what would happen if someone ’d “$0.”)