Whatever Lola Wants (43 page)

A cognac in the dark on the enclosed rear deck, and stars.

“The alcohol's not bad for the baby?”

“He loves it.”

“He?”

“A way of speaking.”

He sipped. “It feels okay?”

“Everything's great. Rachel says I'm perfect.”

Once, had he thought so too? Then a distance came. Now, better. Though not as it was. Could it be again? “I'm glad.” After the baby. “Listen, I was thinking, shouldn't you have a doctor here too? I mean, if something goes wrong.”

“Oh no, Rachel's so good and what is it to Burlington, forty minutes? No problem.”

“Still, in November, if it arrives during a storm …”

Why did he have to keep saying “it”? “If anything happens there's the County Hospital. Rachel would come. She'll deliver.”

“The road might be icy.”

Priscilla laughed, and hid a shudder. “I couldn't have this baby without Rachel.” Not go to Burlington? Burlington wasn't much but Johnnie had taken her away from Boston. From friends, from shops to buy pretty things for the girls. From restaurants, and people. She could never give that up. “I need Rachel.”

An answer for everything. The perfect wife, the perfect mother. Well why not, what else for her to think about.

She sat back, felt her belly, that bit of a bulge? She looked forward to Wednesday. Tonight could be okay too. Everything might work. He used to be so gentle. Still was. Less recently. Tonight they'd make love. Maybe it would be good tonight.

The cognac was excellent. He had a second glass. He followed her upstairs, early.

It didn't work. It wasn't good.

•

I've been thinking while recording. Didn't I swear to tell this story only for Lola? Then what am I doing, noting all I see? Do I expect her back? I guess I must. Record for Lola!

•

3.

Carney, delighted with his idea,
explained it to Milton. Milton wanted to believe Carney, that Theresa had tried to laugh. He needed to see Theresa laughing. It took them much of Sunday first to find Theresa's doctor, then to convince him. Okay, the doctor acceded, non-orthodox techniques did interest him. So long as the movies didn't interfere with hospital procedure they could try it. But the technician they needed for this wouldn't be in till Monday morning.

Milton shared the doctor's prognosis with Carney: “They talk like they did last time.”

Carney nodded. “What do they say, exactly?”

“Paralysis of the left side, face, shoulder, arm. And great weakness on the right, still unclear how much of that'll stay paralyzed.”

“What can they do?”

“With therapy, maybe give her some mobility.” He scowled. “But she'll get better than that, you'll see. She will laugh.” He grimaced. “And another letter from John Cochan.”

“Saying?”

“An offer again. But going the other way. Lots more money. It's $12 million now.”

Carney raised his eyebrows. A new form of harassment?

Milton spoke as if Carney had always been there. The easy intimacy felt okay to Carney. It seemed like a good time, so Carney told Milton what he and Bobbie learned yesterday. “He's building under the ground. There're caves down there, caverns maybe. Maybe under your land.”

Milton's face went tight. “It's true, then.” He shuddered. “I didn't want to guess out loud, especially not in front of Tessa.” He glanced her way. “Glad she doesn't know.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Get legal advice, first off. Can we enjoin Cochan on building? Under his own property? Poking around under Grange land? We signed that damn agreement, but is this included?”

“It's possible.”

“Leasie's coming down tonight. I'll hear what she's learned. We'll figure something.”

Among Carney's phone
messages back at the farm, one from Leonora. Was he free for supper? He told her answering machine he wouldn't be in Burlington till tomorrow. What did she want?

Theresa could tell:
Carney had arrived early. He was doing something. Fussing. Too much bustle. She wanted to get angry. But no energy for anger. She had to tear loose. Tubes, chemical malleable—

How, old woman.

Old? Who? Me?

Has the stroke made you crazy?

Looser. Loose. Hey! Look at that! Two of me. Two Theresas.

What?

No. Impossible. Two souls in the body maybe, but no two bodies for one soul.

One Theresa, old woman.

Two Theresas. Me, Theresa old dry skin tired tubed struck—

Not so tired.

And you, Theresa down from the photo. Silver. Lithe. Laughing. Bright. Wondering. Clear. Theresa herself. Firm. Silver glowing. You. Theresa, forty years ago.

•

Lola, tangibly interfering! Talking to Theresa! Don't! But I could see everything, and hear Theresa speaking, silently:

•

Do I sleep,
an old woman needing her beauty sleep? A joke, two Theresas. Big joke, too funny.

Nope, sorry, Theresa, no joke.

No? Maybe not. Get angry? No general anger. Anger is specific. Anger as category but no such thing as general anger. Do-no-let-this-stroke-blur-your-thinking!

Do you really want to let go, Theresa? To let it all be past?

No! The rot of the heart. How much putrescence and silken mendacity will I tolerate? Before a tiny rebellion can begin.

Why rebellion?

•

She's as clear as if she were up here: Lola, red lips pouting. Merry eyes. In the room. With the technician, the nurse, Carney. Who couldn't see her. “Lola, for heavensake, get out of there!”

She didn't hear. Or pretended not to.

“Lola! You're breaking every rule!”

A wicked grin. I'm sure she hears me. But, and this horrified me, Theresa could see Lola.

•

Her. Theresa. From—long
ago. White-gold hair, shining in the dark. Very—beautiful.

Lola grinned. So you can still judge beauty, old woman?

Not the same. Not young Theresa. But—how not? Almost Theresa? Theresa, the white dress. Laughing. Dancing. Used to dance but who can dance beside the rivers of bile. Theresa, how can you— My goddamn voice!

Don't try so hard, Theresa. I hear you.

What—

I hear everything. Lie still.

What else to do.

Lots, lots of wonderful things.

Yeah, except, see, there're complications.

Theresa, I want to be your friend.

Friend. Hell, that's too simple.

And more. You'll see. But first, friends?

After so many years—

It's a long road. Twisting. Want to try it, Theresa? Want to come?

Look. You can tolerate only so much. Beyond, it makes no sense.

Nonsense. I just heard the better you.

You heard what?

Your little rant on tolerance. I agree. Want to come with me?

Where?

To find a joke to laugh about.

Ha!

That's a good start.

With sinew like mine one doesn't go damn anywhere.

Okay. Bye.

You don't have to leave. Please.

That's better. Think about me. Okay?

Sure. Why not. Uh—who are you, anyway?

You can call me Lola. See ya.

Uh, you coming back?

Maybe. After you've thought. You need to think a lot.

About?

A wonderful joke, a huge joke. The best of jokes.

A joke?

A last chance. To bring such healing laughter to the world, why it could prove the physic 'gainst the shocks and traumas of our time.

Who said that?

I did. And maybe so did you.

Me?

Bye, Theresa.

Listen, when— Blast! Where— Sure, go behind the bed. Where I can't see. Coward!

•

My heart surged, my hands shook. My foolish meddling Lola.

•

4.

John Cochan rose early, before
the girls woke. Priscilla had coffee ready for him in the kitchen. Yes, she was a good woman. But times like now he'd have preferred the pleasure of the start of day alone. They spoke a few morning words. He kissed her lightly, said he'd be back late Wednesday afternoon. They'd have supper. A small supper, he needed to be at Terramac later in the evening.

A bit of a lie. His appointment with Hank, at the cemetery.

He drove the Saab from Richmond to the Burlington airport. No way would he leave the Rolls in a parking lot for three days.

5.

Milton sat with Theresa. He
tried to remember funny stories. Ti-Jean and Feasie arrived. This Monday morning they couldn't come up with a single joke between them.

Carney, carrying a cloth bag, came back with Theresa's nurse and a man.

What's Carney doing now? Milton! No—don't do that!

The nurse held Theresa by her arms and pulled her up to sitting. “Okay, good.”

Not sit, no!

The nurse said, “There. How's that?”

The other man, the technician, moved the large
TV
screen closer to the end of the bed. Theresa stared at it, as if hypnotized. Carney said, “Get used to it slowly, Theresa. The nurse'll put it on a few minutes at a time. They're bringing a
DVD
player in, we'll put on some movies.”

Colors. No! Colors bounce shine jump. Ache. Eyes. Noise, whir, rising— No-o-o!

Carney pulled a half-dozen
DVD
s from the bag. “Great old comedies.”

The screen seemed to overwhelm Theresa. Milton found her glasses and set them on her face. The
DVD
player arrived. They watched a Keaton two-reeler. From Theresa, no visible reaction. But during the early Chaplin, a twitch at Theresa's lip edge! Milton took Theresa's hand. It was cool, not cold. His eyelids were batting hard.

Out in the hall Ti-Jean and Feasie questioned Carney again. Cochan had conceded part of Terramac was, yes, being built under the ground.

Ti-Jean said, “Like to come up to the Grange for the evening, spend the night? The water in the creek's running clear again. Just as low. Maybe lower.”

What else to do? “Sure.”

Mid-afternoon Sarah came to sit with Theresa. Ti-Jean, Feasie, Milton, Carney, Theresa, an off-duty nurse, and two hospital volunteers were watching
City Lights
. Sarah said, “Movies?”

Milton said, “Look. She smiles sometimes, and twice she's laughed. It was Carney's idea.”

She looked at Carney. “Clever.”

Ti-Jean said to her, “Carney's coming to dinner and some fishing. Want to come by?”

“More fishing?”

Carney said, “If you and your slingshot aren't around.”

“The fish are dead anyway. No thanks.” To Carney she added, “Staying the night?”

“Sure,” said Ti-Jean, and to Carney, “She does not enjoy my tourtière.”

“Come out to the cabin in the morning. I'll show you what's happened to the pond. It's your kind of thing. Professionally.”

In the evening
Carney tested Gambade Brook. Three heavy strikes, all missed. He took time to sit statue-still, watching shadows in the water. No sign of small fish. He tried some lowly worms. To a purist this was a base kind of angling, but for Carney the best way to teach kids. Let a six-year-old feel the insistent tug of a perch or blue-gill and fourteen chances out of nineteen the kid will be hooked for life. That statistic came from a study conducted, over many years, by Carney. The study had brought him fourteen first-rate young fishing partners across the continent, best hedge against old age. Over future years they would take him fishing in return, carry outboard motors, handle the boat while he'd sit back and cast. And, he suspected, each would consider it the very least she (five of them) or he (nine) could do for Carney. But it would be the most.

Worms on barbless hooks were the best way to test unknown water. A little one would tap at a worm even if it wasn't hungry, giving away its presence without getting caught. From the nibble Carney could get an initial sense of fish activity in the water.

Or so theory had it. Tonight his worms produced nothing. While not conclusive about the lack of small trout, it was an indicator. He took a water sample to drop off at a Burlington lab.

The tourtière—ground beef, veal, and pork, onions, garlic, and spices Carney didn't recognize—tasted delicious. “Feasie's never learned to cook our way,” Ti-Jean said. When Ti-Jean wanted to eat the dishes of his first twenty-five years, he did his own cooking.

They ate and Ti-Jean talked, his say-more side. Family history, they'd married when Feasie was eighteen, she fell in love with him because he was the only man she'd ever met who made her feel, well, dainty. “Oh, for other reasons too.” Feodora giggled.

They sipped wine. They'd lived here only a few months. Before then their home was Chiptree, where Ti-Jean ran the garage. Now he did fix-up construction. Four months back when Ginette turned eighteen they'd made her full partner in the business, signing power and all; she had a real head for it, and the hands too. Another part-time carpenter worked for them. Ti-Jean got to take days off, he loved the Grange as much as Feasie did. “When the girl hits twenty-one we'll let her buy us out. She wants to.” He grinned. “We'll grow more vegetables here, get some more cows, a lot of chickens. If Cochan's underground city doesn't suck us all into the pit.”

Ginette too had been one of twins, Feasie told Carney. The other, a boy, didn't come out right; he strangled when the doctor reached in to turn him. A disappointment to Ti-Jean, he'd been one of eight. He'd grown up here just south of the border, after his first wife died went back to school,
UVM
, met Feasie.

“I figured you for English with a name like Seymour.”

“French on both sides, three generations back. Before that I don't know, has to be English or Scots somewhere, lots of French Seymours, all those Catholics intermarrying, French O'Donells and Flynns and MacDuffs.”