I'll Let You Go (79 page)

“There's something ineffable in that,” he said softly. “It pierces my heart.”

She held him, kissing the tears. Then his body awakened, and he trembled with desire. He lifted her blouse and kissed her there.

“But”—she felt so lurid to be bringing it up!—“have you … have you been tested?”

He didn't know what she meant. “What I mean is, well—you've been—you were on the streets for so many years … have you been tested? At one of the clinics?”

“Do you mean, for a disease?”

“Well—yes. For AIDS, mostly … for
anything
. I don't have any
condoms.” She cringed, but soldiered on. “Have—have you—did the doctors—did the doctors give you a test? I mean, at the jail. Or Father must have had them—”

“I have not been with any woman since you, Katy.”

She had not expected that response in a million years.

“But how?”

“That part of me closed down.”

“But that woman … the one you visited at the cemetery—”

“Jane Scull? I wasn't with her that way. I loved her dearly, but was not with her like that at all.”

“Oh!”

“What is it?” he asked tenderly.

“But I
have
, Marcus.”

“Have?”

“Other men! I
have
—”

She sobbed in his arms, feeling very Mary Magdalene—then grew ravenous.

“M
arcus, there's something I want to talk to you about.”

“Anything, sir!”

The former colleagues had been rehashing the good old days at Morris. It wasn't John Burnham's first time chez Weiner; just last week, Marcus and his wife had invited the agent for dinner with Diane Keaton and Gus Van Sant (another Burnham client). The group had salivated over their host's seared Kobe rib eye, DHL'd the day before from Japan.

“This might sound a little
unusual
, but—what you've been through—your
life
—is really kind of … amazing. Have you thought of doing anything with it?”

“Doing anything?”

“Writing it down.”

“The baker said I should try that very thing!”

“The baker?”

“Gilles Mott. Said I'd win an Oscar—some such claptrap. One of my therapists encouraged me to keep a journal. Used to do just that. Afraid I haven't been very religious about it lately.”

“You wrote?”

“Oh yes, kept a book for years.”

“While you were out there?”

“Yes.”

“A journal …”

“Called
News from Nowhere
.”

“I
love
that. Would I be able to see it? ‘For my eyes only.' Or, if it's too personal—”

“Not at all. I have it somewhere, hidden in the house. Give me a day to find it! Become somewhat of a rabbit warren here, I'm afraid.”

“You know, Gus really loved meeting you. He mentioned something to me that might be kind of an amazing opportunity. I think he's interested in doing a film about you.”

“A film?”

“Did you have a chance to see
Good Will Hunting
?”

“Not since you spoke of it. Been a bit derelict. Toulouse and I were going to rent it.”

“You really should look at it.”

“Katy said it's quite marvelous.”

“It's a wonderful film—
aside
from the fact that it's Gus.
Good Will
took a lot of people by surprise, because it was mainstream without really
being
mainstream. And this from the man who made
Drugstore Cowboy
and
My Own Private Idaho
. Not exactly Middle America! Gus can do it all.”

He screwed up his eyes and said, “Now, what do you mean, John, when you say he wants to make a film about me?”

“Gus was incredibly moved by your story—your journey. He's looking for something to do next. He wants to do something ‘smaller,' and I think this could be it—though this might be a little ‘bigger' than what he's looking for … but I think it could
totally
work. There's a book called
A Beautiful Mind
, have you heard of it? At one point, Gus was interested in developing it—it's a pretty amazing story. Ron Howard did it. Russell Crowe. It's about a professor at Princeton—a true story—who kind of dropped out for twenty years because of his schizophrenia. They let him roam the campus, that sort of thing. He wasn't
violent
or anything—is it weird for me to be talking about this?”

“Not at all, John! Talk away!”

“Then he had this incredible recovery and they wound up giving him the Nobel Prize in economics.”

“I don't think there's a likely chance of such a thing happening in
my case,” said Marcus sardonically. “Though if they gave a prize for walking, I might get one.”

“I mention it because I think that while Gus is
drawn
to that kind of screenplay or book—stories with certain ‘elements'—the fact that this one, your story, is so personable … and I don't think he wants to do the whole campus thing again, which he's done and which
A Beautiful Mind
kind of heavily gets into. He wants to go more the Charlie Kaufman route. But what I needed to know, what I wanted to ask was, would you be interested in him pursuing that? Because Gus was very specific about not wanting to offend or intrude. And
I
, certainly, as your friend—and possible agent!—wouldn't want you to become involved in anything that's going to make you uncomfortable. I wouldn't even bring something like this to the table if it was anyone but Gus. He expressed the interest; I didn't pitch him. Gus is a genius. He gets it. He's an artist. And
Good Will
made about $250 million! I asked if you'd written anything for two reasons. One, because that's something I would be interested in reading personally and possibly passing to someone in New York if we felt there was a book there, or if you felt a book could be something that might help you or be valuable in your recovery or journey or process. Or even if you just wanted to do a book to see what it felt like to be an author who suddenly has a book on the shelves. Because—bam!—you're a bestselling author. The agency could do that. And, two, because Gus would be totally open to you writing the screenplay.”

“Me? John, you're kidding!”

“There's a tremendous ‘independent' focus, and we are
very
strong in that area. Gus bridges both worlds. Do I think that with his help you could write a great script? Absolutely. The old rules don't apply. And, Marcus: if you write the same way you talk, the potential is amazing.”

“Well, I'm flattered, John—I think.” He chuckled. “And if you'd like me to meet with Gus, I'd be more than happy to. A very interesting man, very humble. I like that.”

Marcus walked Burnham to his scintillating Facel-Vega. They chatted about their kids, and the agent asked after his father-in-law.

“Marcus,” said Burnham. “Would you
please
come by?”

“Come by?”

“The agency—whenever it feels right. I think it'd be great, or
interesting
anyway, for you to see the changes that have happened since you were away.”

“You're not going to offer me a job, are you, John?”

“It crossed my mind.” They had a laugh. “Seriously, though, lots of people you knew are still doin' their thing. Doing very well, too. Let me throw you a little coming-out.”

“Ah. The medicated debutante.”

Burnham smiled as he switched on the engine. “Gus called me four times the day after our dinner. He was really moved—that story you told about the dream you had … about the ‘disembodied'—”

“The Chairman of the Disembodied.”

“The Chairman of the Disembodied! G
reat
title, don't you think? You could call the book or the movie that—
The Chairman of the Disembodied
. I
love
that. Anyway, it really blew Gus's mind.”

“Well, it surely blew mine,” he said. Burnham waved good-bye, then mischievously peeled some rubber.

Marcus repeated the words sotto voce: “it surely blew mine.”

T
oulouse and Amaryllis returned to the maze to complete the tour interrupted months ago. They strolled within its tall borders, and had no fear of becoming lost. Pullman lay at the entrance, supremely bored.

He confessed his indiscretion with Lucille Rose on the eve of her crossing “the Pond” (as his cousin liked to put it), and Amaryllis didn't seem to mind; she had won the war, so it was easy to concede a battle or two. She kissed him deeply, in front of the inset Rodin, to show her willingness to forgive and forget.

“I've been thinking about something,” she said. “And I don't want you to make fun of me.”

“I wouldn't.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“I've been thinking about John Paul.”

“John Paul George and Ringo?”

“I
told
you not to make fun of me.”

“Sorry.”

“I was talking about the pope. I used to do a lot of thinking about John Paul, and I had this idea … you promise you won't make fun?”

“I won't. I swear.”

“Well for a long time—a
long
time—I wanted to be a saint. I wanted him to
make
me a saint. But I thought only Catholic people could be made into saints and they had to have lived a long time ago. Like centuries. Then I found out it wasn't true and John Paul wanted to make as
many saints as he could, so he changed all the rules. Now you only need
one
miracle for beatification, and one for canonization—that's when he makes you a saint.”

“You don't have to be dead?”

“I
thought
you did, but John Paul says no. John Paul is rad! He even made eighty-seven
Chinese
people saints. And he canonized a society lady from Philadelphia—someone just like Joyce.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I bet your grandfather would be able to meet John Paul. He could fly to the Vatican on his plane. If the pope was too busy or sick or
whatever
—then your grandfather could give the Vatican money or build an orphanage. Something to get his attention. Then John Paul would
have
to meet with him.”

“Meet with him? For what?”

“For Edward.”

Toulouse just looked at her.

“Edward was a martyr to the Apert—martyrs don't even
need
miracles to get beatified. Then John Paul could put him on a fast track.”

“Amaryllis, are you kidding?”

“I told you not to laugh!”

“I'm not. But a saint …”

“Edward
was
a saint.”

“But you said you needed a miracle to be ‘canon—' ”

“There
is
a miracle—it came to me when I was with my brother and sister at California Adventure. I think Edward was put here for a reason, and no one knew it but him. He was put here for Joyce so she would take care of those babies! The ones people throw in the trash. Otherwise, why would she have done that, Toulouse? Why would she have even
started
to do it? It was because of
him
, because of
Edward
, and I think he must have known all along. Remember how you said at the funeral she was crying because she never named him? That's the proof! He had no name because he was pure. It's like he was ‘of God'—how do you give God a name? And don't make fun of me! And
now
Joyce names those poor little babies, Toulouse, that's her life's work! She made a potter's field in a rich man's graveyard. For a woman like that—and I don't even know her that well, but I
do
know what you and Lucy and Edward always said about her—for a rich lady who doesn't care about anyone and who just gets face-lifts, for a rich lady like that to bury those dumpster babies and
give them names, to make
that
her life's work, well, that
is
a miracle, isn't it, Toulouse? Isn't it? Isn't that a miracle?”

M
arcus met with Van Sant, and with a writer from
Vanity Fair
. But one had nothing to do with the other.

The meetings took place at the William Morris Agency on El Camino Drive. This time, he stared at the oil paintings of the founders to his heart's content.

He was greeted warmly, if as a kind of charismatic curio, by the many to whom he was introduced. He was frankly startled that he ever had a passion for anything that went on in this cold brick building; though appreciative of Burnham's intentions, he would soon put an end to the misguided efforts of his gemütlich old friend. Marcus found it amusing that the agent actually harbored the fantasy that he might wish to return, in whatever capacity, to the world of “talent”—as what? Mental-Health liaison? The Van Sant business he didn't particularly mind; Gus was the real article, and he'd let that play itself out, to be sociable. He
would
say no to
Vanity Fair;
when he told Burnham—“
Say no to
Vanity Fair”
—
the unintentioned hilarity of the command made them split a gut. But a line had been drawn in the sand and Burnham understood. Trinnie couldn't have been happier; his behavior in the matter was the ultimate proof of sanity.

O
n Christmas morning, he arranged to meet Trinnie, Toulouse and his father-in-law at Saint-Cloud. It was a joyous surprise when he rolled up in a pristine aqua-blue Chevy convertible (a Bel-Air, fittingly), having passed his driver's exam a mere three days before. Mr. Trotter declined, so he took his wife and son for a spin to the beach. They drove all the way to Palos Verdes, then around the peacock-infested peninsula to Portuguese Bend. They ate hamburgers and watched surfers.