He passed the Polo Lounge and took the long, wending path to the bungalows. Hotel staff stepped aside and bowed heads, as if he were royalty. Maybe Joan and his mother had returned from chores or wherever, or he’d bump into them in the midst of Marj’s daily constitutional with one of her 7 fucking caregivers. He still couldn’t figure out where the money was coming from. Maybe Ham left her more bread than he thought. Or maybe the fire insurance had come in and his sister was drawing on that, with plans to downscale Mom into a care home.
The more he thought about it the better the idea of his having stumbled into a prestigious, paying gig seemed in terms of something to tell Joan and his
LXXXIV.Marjorie
nattily dressed woman who after 2 hours asked where they were and the kind fat black female driver said, “Long Beach. End of the line,” asking if she needed any help but the old lady smiled and said she’d be fine, and God Bless.
Marj felt buoyant and alive.
Unencumbered.
She intuited the presence of Hamilton — as if somehow guided by him, her actions sanctioned.
It was dark and as she walked she caught her reflection in the windows of closed shops. Long Beach was such an empty, pretty place. Occasionally the quiet cool of the night was interrupted by stinging sounds or shouts. Someone in a passing car yelled, “Raggedyass bitch!” and threw empty cans out the car. Probably just kids. Marjorie smiled — there was nothing anyone could do to dampen her spirits. She was in upbeat missionary mode, and it was about time! — back to the girlish days when she dreamed of spiritual repatriation, an Indian pilgrimage to give succor (and red peonies) to the destitute and dying (and be succored by them as well), to be lifted up and ennobled, oh she had loved Mother Teresa so, heart filled with respect and admiration for this frail giant of incalculable courage and resolve who sought out the poorest of the poor, to love their very diseases and rotting limbs, a saint who wished only to feed them and touch them and wash their wounds. In other words, a true Christian. Was there such a thing as a true Christian anymore? In these, the last years of her life, she was finally ready. She would work from the Taj Mahal Palace, in nurse’s whites, rent an entire floor for homebase, she would use the monies from the fire sale of her land, the Travel Gals could arrange it, Joanie too, she said she would come if her pregnancy didn’t interfere but Marj still wasn’t certain she was pregnant, maybe it was a ruse, another excuse to back out, but no, she didn’t think so, her daughter really did want to come this time, it didn’t matter if she did, Marj was doing this for herself, and in a strange way for Ham and her father, she wanted to be a true Christian, this was the time of life such plans came to fruition — just like that socialite from Beverly Hills who went to live in a jail in Tijuana, Marj Herlihy could make a difference, but without fanfare, no books written about her, this was her time to give, and give back, so many moribund beggars and stunted needy children all within a stone’s throw of the Gate of India — she’d seen them again in that marvelous Judy Davis movie—that was where she was needed, not some fancy Sunset Boulevard hotel. Had not the burning of her beloved home been a sign? In the middle of the night, she’d been pulled from the flames by a mother of mercy, angel in white, the flames hadn’t frightened but instead filled her with longing for the great Indian festival of lights, Diwali, the one she’d been so privileged to see with her father, millions of lanterns and butterlamps, was it not the good Lord’s way of showing that her time as missionary had arrived? The Beverlywood conflagration was like that which surrounded Kali in her picturebooks and the articles in the Britannica as well. There was nothing left, her children were grown, they were independent people leading independent lives. They didn’t share much with her and that was all right, they were basically damn good kids, even if Marj didn’t approve of everything she knew (and didn’t know) about them, that’s how it was supposed to be, they’d left the nest long ago and now stood on their own 2 feet. Her parents and husband and children were gone and it was time. Even poor Riki’s death — wasn’t he from Calcutta, like dear Mother Teresa? no, maybe Mumbai — even his brutal murder had illumined her path.
Suddenly came a stabbing pain and she had to use a powderroom. The streets looked desolate. The old woman grimaced as she looked in all directions. She saw something distant, a brightly lit intersection, and made her way. Her angular, half-dancing gait was comical and she knew it and tried to laugh at herself — how I must look! — the only way she could walk to hold it in. Marj realized she’d been riding around all that time without “going,” unusual for her, she’d been lost in thought, she distracted herself with images of the journey, as she got closer to the bright Conoco lights she conjured the Taj Mahal Palace and Towers, how soon she would be going, with Joan, it seemed like her daughter talked about it every day! they even sat in the hotel watching the DVD Nigel gave her (Marj felt bad for not having yet returned it) and she wondered again if Joanie was telling the truth about that baby (if she wasn’t, why on earth had she lied?), the insistent story of impregnation by a rich man, she had watched her belly with discreet diligence but it never seemed to get any rounder, when Joan pulled up her blouse to show, sometimes it was distended but that was probably just the food she was packing away, every time you turned around hordes of room service brought pancakes, club sandwiches, Waldorf salads, banana split sundaes, and what have you, Marj winced again at what it must be costing, still, she didn’t think her little girl would actually invent something like that, so drastic, just to cover up a weight gain, not unless she was planning on going to hell in a handbasket and putting on 50 pounds, no, that wasn’t her, Joan wasn’t crazy (not like her brother), she was a professional woman, with a respectable architectural practice, she was vain, and didn’t tell lies all the time like Chesapeake did, not that a falsely claimed pregnancy was a badge of honor, but if Joan was going to gain a few pounds it was more in her character to let it all hang out, that’s how she was, not one to conceal such a thing, especially some extra padding, she was almost 40 years old, common enough for a gal her age, you start to thicken up at 40 and there isn’t much you can do about it, those silly diet books don’t work, you could run on a treadmill to your heart’s content just like Mr Pahrump did before he died but at that age no matter what they say it doesn’t help one iota, anything you do only works a few months then you bounce right back to whatever weight you were struggling not to be. (Even those surgeries didn’t help, where they stapled your tummy, and besides, before you went that route you had to be truly obese, even afterward the people who had it done still looked fat.) But maybe her daughter was pregnant and that’d be divine—wouldn’t it? — in which case the trip to India would have to be postponed, at least on Joanie’s end (if they didn’t leave right away), but Marjorie dug in her heels, she would not be derailed, she’d take steps if Joan tried to prevent her — the way everyone had been treating her like a child lately anything was possible — get a lawyer involved if need be, she would have her freedom, she’d call Ham’s old friend, the one who had helped with the term life policy, but was certain that wouldn’t be necessary, no no, closer now to the Conocolights the old woman would just go straight ahead without Joan, Joanie couldn’t stop her, she wouldn’t dare, like it or not, Marj Herlihy was going straight ahead with her missionary work full-steam and Joan could catch up when the baby was old enough to travel, the work was too important, yes of course she wanted a grandchild, but the work was the thing, at this stage of her life, and she would use the Taj Mahal Palace as homebase. Once her “offices” were set up she’d send for them — Joan and the baby — not that India was the best place for an infant, that would be up to Mommy, but plenty had done it, plenty of wealthy, intrepid folks had raised their kids in all kinds of places, my God, Africa or even remote parts of America, if Joan didn’t like the idea than Marj would tell her to just stay put—in Beverly Hills—but Joanie was headstrong…like someone else she knew! Once her daughter set her mind to something she was hard to sway. So if she wanted to come, that would be that. Plenty of room for everyone. The Taj Mahal Palace and Towers could handle just about anything! You could see that from the DVD, if they could handle President Clinton after heart surgery they could certainly handle Joan Hennison Herlihy (who’d informed in an aside that she was keeping the Herlihy name, married or not) with a newborn. The hospitals were marvelous — she’d watched the 60 Minutes rerun with Mike Wallace and oh! that young man Nigel had been so right, even Cora saw the segment about the woman who went to Delhi for a hip replacement and stayed at a special post-op spa. It was paradise. In fact, she wouldn’t be surprised if the Taj was included in one of those surgical packages…you had your operation, then recuperated by the pool. And not at “pink bungalow” prices!