I'll Let You Go (2 page)

   Coda

T
he boy took long walks in the countryfied Bel-Air hills with Pullman, the stately Dane—ears like membranous tepees, one eye blue, the other a forlorn and bottomless brown, jowls pinkening toward nose, arctic-white coat mottled by “torn” patches characteristic of the harlequin breed, the whole length of him an inkspot archipelago—even though the animal didn't seem particularly fond of such locomotion. Great Danes were majestic that way. They could take their jaunt or leave it.

When people learned what each was named, they usually said the two had it wrong—better the noble, gigantine champion to bear the burden of whimsy (Best of Breed to
Trotter's T. Lautrec
) while his master coupled to Pullman, steady, scholar'd, sleeping car Pullman, nostalgically trestle-trundling under bald hills and starstruck sky, velour shadow of midnight passengers murmuring within. Not that “Pullman” fit so well for the boy, though it might: twelve-year-old Toulouse was thin and dreamy, with the requisite bedroom eyes. His tousled red hair verged on blood-black, and his skin was so clear that the freckles seemed suddenly evicted, their remains the faintest of blurred constellations.

So: Toulouse—etymology unknown. He suspected it had something to do with his dad, as most things cryptic or unspoken usually did. They had christened him Louis, after Grandpa Lou (Mr. Trotter, to the world), and his grandfather was the only one ever to call him that. For all the rest he was Tull. His mother had started it. An abbreviation in his own life, she was a connoisseur of abridgments.
Toulouse:
the boy always used
that
name in his head, the way one thinks in a different language. A father tongue.

There are no sidewalks in Bel-Air to speak of, and though his mother, Trinnie, forbade it, the boy and his dog regularly ventured from Grandpa's estate on Saint-Cloud Road to walk the musky, sinuous asphalt lanes—baked warm as loaves—against traffic, so as not to be run down by neighborhood denizens in careering, souped-up Bentleys and polished, high-end SUVs or by celebrity-hunting tourists, who traveled at less speed but were likelier to remain at the scene of an accident. If Pullman was struck, Tull suavely imagined, there'd be victims galore. Like plowing into a mule deer.

They always found themselves at the strange house down the hill, on Carcassone Way. Well, from the road there was no house at all, no sign of the living, not even a graveled drive; merely a filigreed gate with the obscure and rusted barely discernible motto L
A
C
OLONNE
D
ÉTRUITE
. The entry's metal wings, fastened with a cartoonishly oversize padlock, were under siege by a dusty, haughtily promiscuous creeper, evoking melancholy in the boy—the crass finality of a dream foreclosed. They discovered another way in. He rode the dog's back through a desiccated hedge, the scratchy privet andromeda of a once finely pruned wall, until Pullman reached a clearing—quiddity of lawn smooth as the brim of some kind of wonderland bowler hat.

Inside, the sudden magical oddness of a centuries-old park. The empty, vaulted space, so queerly “public”-feeling, was serenely at odds with the neighborhood's proprietary nature. Intersecting rings of a sundial armillary sphere sat atop a pedestal of English portland stone, and though Pullman drew near, it was not to relieve himself. Rather, he became instantly mindful and mannered; each time they broke in, the animal invariably yawned, downplaying his bold, jungly efforts. Tull Trotter's heart sped, as it did with any adventure to this meadowy place, dipped as it were in trespasser's spice. Mother being a landscape architect of world renown, his catchall mind knew its flora—there, in the green all-aloneness, he communed again with the elegantly attenuated pyramid of the Cryptomerias and pines; the billiardist whimsy of great clipped myrtle balls so carefully, carelessly scattered; a cutting shed made of morning glory; the junipers and wisteria that flanked the still, square ponds; then began his saunter toward the ominous allée of flat-topped Irish yews.

He knew where those ancient columned soldiers led.

As he entered, the air chilled and darkened. Pullman had vanished as surely as a magician's offering. Tull walked through a phalanx of sentries until far enough in to see the wild, weird thing, two hundred yards off, set apart on a hillock … a stout, ruined column, fluted as Doric columns should be, rent with fissures, at least fifty feet in diameter, proportions suggesting it was all that remained of a temple forty stories tall. Whatever peculiar god had made this base had provided it with crazily bejeweled windows too, oval, square and pentagonal, then snapped the tower off five floors up, where tufted weeds sprang from its serrations like hair from an old man's ear. What could he make of it? The boy had never even gotten close enough to peer in. Now he moved inexorably nearer, at once cool and febrile, the capricious breath of open fields rushing at him like a breezy compress on the forehead during a sickbed hallucination.

Now he could see white, tented forms—furniture?—in the rooms within, but was interrupted when a daymare shape came from nowhere shouting, “Little fucker!” Tull was startled enough that he couldn't read any features, though it
was
wearing bib overalls, the perfect parody of a ghoulish Mr. Greenjeans. In a blink, the figure rudely tumbled, care of a certain Dane; the terrified man, having met a fair match for the Olympian pedestal's remains, retreated to the severed column while Tull made a sprinting Hardy Boy getaway. Regal and unruffled, Pullman strutted a beat in his master's direction, then paused, slyly turning with calm eye and tarry muzzle to fire a last warning shot toward the groundskeeper—the astonished head of whom already appeared in an upper portal of the cylindrical mirage. Then, like a Saturday-morning-television creation, the aristocratic beast leapt toward his charge, through the chilly gantlet of yews, past the huge myrtle balls leading to the brambled entry that would carry them back to Carcassone Way and the homely, reassuring traffic of the world.

S
ince this is a book of houses—shelters for the living and the dead—it should not be unusual that our narrative approach the boulevards of Westwood and Wilshire, epicenter of what is still nostalgically called the Village; an unlikely place for a cemetery. Yet there it exists, sewn behind the back alley of Avco's smoky glass façade like a spare black button beneath a lapel, a stone's throw from Qwikcopiers and cineplexes, barbers and Borders, middling lunch crowd sushi bars, oversize pet boutiques and the smug bone-white ridges of formidable crosswalks linking high-tower marble REIT palaces. Strolling the memorial's smallish grounds, one notes a rustic, dignified intimacy, unexpected considering the outlandishness of its bright, blandly civic context. Though the parkland's beginnings are for some other history, we will soon become familiar with its laconic caretaker—the one with the JESUS IS COMING! LOOK BUSY bumper sticker on his sun-warped maroon Marquis; the one unmaliciously called Sling Blade, because of a casual resemblance to the sentimental creation of a well-known Hollywood hyphenate. We will learn to embrace him, as he does so honorably his extended family of dead.

At dusk, at least three times a week, he watches the arrival of an impeccably dressed old man. The car rolls to its same position and a chauffeur midwifes its passenger's entry to the world, albeit a sunny netherworld; Mr. Louis Trotter then stands before a pricey five-hundred-square-foot patch, the largest family plot in the yard, spotted hands clasped at small of back, pensive captain on a ghost ship prow, well-oiled skin the color of ivory, visionary orbs the singular, crustacean blue of
the epic self-made. Hairless, save for bushy tangle of eyebrow, charcoal thicket of inner ear and friar's whitish fringe peeking from collar like a threadbare angora wrap. The enormous gnomish space between nose and upper lip has the piquantly poignant effect of making him soft and beasty, fragile yet full of hope, imperious and obeisant. Like Monet's haystacks (one of which hangs on the wall at Saint-Cloud), his cunning face, open to the endless translations of moving sunlight upon still life, invites scrutiny; one could make a vocation of its study, as of a rock or an illuminated text. Perhaps the answer to the riddle of its magnetism is that it provokes something exquisitely, abominably parental—you focus on its moods, growths and grandeur as a precocious child madly, futilely attempting to learn the catechism of his father.

Mr. Trotter is an animal who speaks—no,
chuffs
, literally, the way a dog does—Tull sometimes observed him and Pullman greet each other that way, muzzle to muzzle, a fraternal clearing of throats by the amicably encaged. But the old man holds dominion and, like the wild place of his sovereignty, is primordial as well. Nothing governs him: he chuffs when and where he pleases. The despotism of such a quality is, for most of his subjects, irresistibly charismatic. In his presence one feels like a strop, a worn leathery thing waiting to be rubbed against, the more for Mr. Trotter to hone or drop his quills. His ability to enlist fascination continually surprises—he mesmerizes, for while changing constantly, he remains unchanged. Paid underlings and blood relatives alike journey roughly through the seasons, hanging on for their lives, for
his
life, renewing themselves each day so that
he
might be renewed, willing the old man to be cozily predictable, as one wills the same of all one's fellow men. (He nearly gives them what they want, and in so doing binds and grafts those close, addicts them, even minor players—and sometimes, too, by another eccentricity: he is a perversely lavish tipper.) The minions swig morning lattes, already beginning their time-clock day by dreamily nudging him toward Good Boss and Benefactor, Good Father and Mentor, but it is
their
dream and theirs alone, dreamers trying to undream something that they, with inferior twitching animal noses—why, they can't even properly chuff!—sense is not quite right. All efforts come to naught and the strop gets its workaday workout; he will not be tamed. To make things worse, he's something of a dandy. His bald-faced buck-toothed mien, hovering above faintly absurd ascots and greatcoats, could not be more touching and inscrutable.

Mr. Trotter likes it here. Nothing showy: no Gardens of Ascension or Harmony Hills, Whispering Glades or Resurrection Slopes, no Babylands or Vales of Memory. He sees someone looking but takes no mind. Sling Blade and Dot, the park's chatty, efficient manager, have watched him pace his plot for almost two years, himself a movable monument, pharaonically obsessed by a single thought: who would build his tomb?