I’m Losing You (55 page)

When Taj Wiedlin hanged himself, Ursula took it as a sign for her to go. She went to Travel Shoppe and booked a deluxe sleeper—that's what Sara did when she visited her mom. Ursula wouldn't have felt safe on the road. She never got around to fixing the Bonneville, and besides, it was too big a target. They changed trains in Portland and began the journey east.

The cars were uncrowded. Ursula befriended a porter, a kind, fiftyish Captain Kangaroo—looking man. He was married, from Red Wing.

“Chanhassen,” he echoed, a little unsure, then scratched his head. “That's a suburb—boy, I should know that place. Relatives there?”

“Sort of. What's the weather like now?”

“Well, it's going to be a pretty hot Fourth of July, I'll tell you. June, July and August are generally humid.”

“My friend told me Bob Dylan was from Minnesota.”

“Hibbing. Oh, we have many famous people. Loni Anderson, Roger Maris, the rock singer Prince—though my daughter tells me he doesn't call himself that anymore.” Samson shifted in his sleep.
“Lots of writers, too,” said the porter. “Sinclair Lewis—he wrote
Main Street
—and F. Scott Fitzgerald.
The Great Gatsby
.”

“They made a movie out of that.”

“Sure did. That was Mia Farrow. There's a woman who's had nine lives.”

“And nine children, at least.”

The porter thought that was funny. With a glance at the baby, he asked about her husband. Ursula said she was separated. “That's a shame,” he said, tickling Samson's neck with a finger. “
You're
a pretty one, aren't you?”

“He's actually a boy.”

“Oh, I'm sorry—never could tell them apart, even my own. You know, you really ought to go to one of the fairs while you're there. Best in the world. And come the Fourth…”

“County fairs?”

“Granddaddies of 'em all! Oh my, I'd guess St. Paul has the biggest fairgrounds in the whole country. There's Forest Lake, Pine City, the Cokato Corn Carnival. ‘Princess Kay of the Milky Way'—that's a beauty pageant. Win, and they carve your face in butter.”

“I'm not so sure I'd like that.”

“When I was a boy, they had midways: sideshows and tattooed ladies, weird stuff in formaldehyde jars. Things are a bit different now—well, they're a
lot
different. Biggest entertainers in the world come by to sing. Garth Brooks, Tony Bennett. Anyone you can think of.”

“Maybe I'll take my friend's mother. She lives in St. Cloud.”

“Oh, she'll take
you
—we don't like to miss our fairs. She'll have you baking cakes and riding a greased pig.”

“Well,” Ursula said, standing with the sleepy boy in her arms, “I guess we'll be taking a nap.”

“He's got a head start on you.”

“It's contagious.”

The bottle fell from the seat to the ground and the porter retrieved it. “That's a real pretty watch,” he said, noticing it on the thin wrist as he handed the bottle back.

“It was a gift—an unexpected one.”

“Best kind. Anyhow, you go ahead now. I hope I haven't talked your ear off.”

“No, I liked it. Hope you'll talk some more.”

“You just let me know if you need anything,” he said, “with the baby and all. I'll bring you dinner in your berth, if you like.”

Ursula weaved the clacking way back to their compartment. She locked the door behind her, closed the shades and lay down with Samson. They were still in Montana, with Malta, Glasgow and Wolf Point to go—then Williston, Stanley, Minot, Rugby, Devil's Lake, Grand Forks…St. Cloud. Sara's mom's was the third stop into Minnesota. Ursula thought maybe she would just drop the baby off. She'd been so full of hope at the start of the trip, sure that the Mahanta would meet her at the Temple because of her tragedy—then certain he'd lay healing hands on Samson's eyes and help him see. Now, the bottom had dropped out. What arrogance! Hadn't her friend said the Mahanta wasn't well? Who did she think she was with her false charity and selfish expectations, her profane misjudgment of the Light and Sound of God? Sri Harold Klemp was not put on this planet to lay hands on
anyone
, let alone at their convenience. She'd been so controlling; it was time to let go. There was nothing to do but fall asleep and hope the Living ECK Master would guide her.

She dreamed of her daughter. Tiffany waited at the Temple of Golden Wisdom and told her mother to follow. “Once you're here,” she said, “we'll cry a river of tears. And when our tears dry up, we'll come back to Earth to live again.” When Ursula awakened, it was night. She went and found the porter.

“Well, that must have been a good nap.”

“Is it too late for supper?”

“I kept yours warm,” he said, with a wink. “I'll bring it to your room.”

She stood between sleeper cars, and the cold bit the tops of her cheeks. A man passed through and nodded. Ursula thought she saw a vast body of water out there in the dark. She wondered about it—too early for Devil's Lake. She looked at the watch the woman from the mortuary gave her that day in Century City. It was a Tiffany: that's how Ursula knew her daughter was reaching out. They belonged together, and now was the time. If they did return to Earth like she said in the dream (Ursula secretly hoped they would journey to a different plane), her only wish was to be far away from all the people and places that had hurt them. She stuck out her wind-clipped
head and inhaled. How nice it would be to start fresh, to come back as anonymous passengers on a train—or summer cotton-candy eaters at a county fair.

Ursula smiled, raising her leg with its flowery tennis shoe atop the steel half-door. Princess Kay of the Milky Way, ha! hoisting herself up, Mama, come!—

Faces carved in butter.

Perry Needham Howe

It turned out to be old-fashioned appendicitis. When the doctor said there was something else, Perry got the gooseflesh: he didn't want to know. No, listen, said the doc, the nodules shrank, saw it on the pre-op X ray, plain as day. Little buggers were practically gone from the left lung altogether. But what did that
mean
? Naturally, the doc didn't know. Was it a good thing? he asked, animatedly cautious. Yes, said the doc, it was
definitely
a good thing. Then Perry pulled back emotionally because he didn't want to get sucker-punched—that's what cancer liked to do, ambush for a living. He asked what they were supposed to do now, and the doc said nothing, nothing
to
do but “follow it,” eyes peeled, ears to ground. The producer giddily theorized he was making so much money even the cancer was intimidated and the two men shared a nicely cathartic moment of comic relief. Perry asked if he was still going to die, a bullshitty question but he wanted to know. It's a
good
question, said the doc. Then he gave him the trusty Zen of Common Sense standby, the old listen-whatever-you've-been-doing-don't-stop-because-you're-doing-something-right speech. When the doc left, Perry got on the phone to his wife.

Rachel brought mail and a videocassette to the hospital. She looked terrible. When Perry asked what was wrong, she broke down and confessed—she never returned the watch. She gave it away to a homeless person instead. Perry was further confounded when she handed him a personal check for fifteen hundred dollars, less than half the cost of the misappropriated item. She wanted to know if he would be kind enough to deduct the balance from her bi-monthly paychecks—unless, of course, he wished to prosecute. Rachel said
she was prepared for that. When he pressed her to explain, she fled in tears.

Perry popped the “Calibre 89” into the VCR, perusing the cover.

Calibre 89

THE MOST COMPLICATED WATCH IN THE WORLD

Total development time
: 9 years

(Research and development 5 years—manufacture 4 years).

Total diameter
. 88.2 mm.
Total thickness
: 41 mm.

Total weight
: 1100 grams
Case
: 18 ct. gold

Number of components
: 1728, including 184 wheels—61 bridges—

332 screws—415 pins—68 springs

429 mechanical parts—126 jewels—2 main dials

24 hands—8 display dials.

The two-sided Patek denoted the time the sun rose and set; the date of Easter; the season, solstice, zodiac and equinox. There was an alarm too—when the carillon of its “grande sonnerie” sounded, the melody was nothing short of an especially composed theme of some sixteen notes. A pinion drove an astral map with a night sky that, thanks to a “modern method of gold evaporation under vacuum,” was able to show twenty-five hundred stars grouped in eighty-eight constellations. This supreme mechanism (forty-eight thousand man hours in the making) was even a thermometer. The tape showed its works in micro-, fetishized detail; one of the satellite wheels depicted within took four hundred years to make a single revolution.

“Where's Harold Lloyd?”

The sprightly old man from down the hall peeked through the door at the monitor. “Well, hey there. How you doin' today, Severin?” He freeze-framed while his visitor took a closer view of the enlarged cog.

“Where's Harold Lloyd?” he demanded. “Didn't you ever see
Safety Last
?”

“Now, which one is that?”

“Harold Lloyd! Hanging on for dear life from the hands of a big clock.”

“I know the image well, but am embarrassed to say I've never seen the film.”

“A beautiful movie. So when are you checking out? If you'll excuse my use of the term.”

“Tomorrow morning. You know, I'm actually getting a lot of work done. I'm gonna miss the place.”

“‘Please don't talk about me when I'm gone,'” sang the old man. “Heard the one about the guy who married an older woman?” Perry smiled, cocking an ear. “She comes out of the bathroom on their wedding night and Junior jumps her. ‘Hey!' she says. ‘Slow down! I've got acute angina.' And Junior says, ‘I sure hope so because you've got ugly tits.'”

Perry began to snigger—guardedly, because he was already sore from the earlier jag. Then he couldn't help himself and laughed until he almost bust a gut.

Severin Welch

To be his age and so rich, with a cancer: sweet Jesus, but that was the hand you were dealt. The Kid said it was in remission, but that was always a crock—no self-respecting cancer knew from “remission.” The Kid should be free and clear.
Turtletaub
should have it, right in the prostate or deep in the anus better yet, sitting poolside with his purloined scripts and Lady Schick'd legs. The old man prayed the cells were already splitting like sonsabitches, tarring up his stool but good.

Severin liked the Kid. The Kid was hung up on high-dollar watches. People were crazy any kind of way and so what. He could sure as hell afford it. The Kid was a swell connection to make; you never knew how you'd meet people (it helped if you left the house). He'd really opened up to the old man, gotten intimate about his disease and all…He could help him find an attorney, a Kid like that was bound to have them on retainer. Because I will have to deal with Mr. Turtletaub eventually, no way around it. He'd ask about it before he checked out in the morning—much as Severin loved the phone, some things were best done mano a mano. And pronto. No time like the present. Why wait. Kid seemed in pretty good shape. Good mood. Why not? Stroll over and watch some more of that crazy cassette, chat him up. Severin had already given him a little background. Not much, just a taste. The Kid was cordial—a real gentleman.

He turned and walked toward Perry's room, not caring anymore, not really. No expectations. Only wanting justice or a measure thereof—to be acknowledged and credited, partially recompensed. He'd solicit his new friend's help, his new friend who had to have as much money—more!—than any Turtletaub could ever dream. Plus he'd kicked cancer's ass, and how was
that
for clout?