Thirty-four
When I got into the front passenger seat of the limousine and closed the door behind me, Mrs. Fischer grabbed one of my hands in both of hers, pulled me toward her, and kissed me on the cheek.
“Child,” she said, “even the sweetest baby in a cradle isn’t more kissable than you.”
She was a pixie, an inch short of five feet, perched on a pillow to see over the steering wheel. At eighty-six, she had more energy and considerably more gumption than the average thirty-something corporate hotshot.
“I’ve missed you, Mrs. Fischer.”
“And I’ve missed you, too, my dear chauffeur.”
As I’ve detailed in the next-to-last volume of these memoirs, I had been employed as her chauffeur for an event-packed day or so, during which she had done most of the driving.
“But of course,” she continued in her lilting voice and cheery manner, “I’ve been busy helping our little network of like souls to neuter as many rotten scum as we have time to confront. I’m sorry to say, there are so many rotten scum in these perilous times that some days I fear we’re falling behind. But then …” She looked toward the front porch, where the clean-up crew had joined Mr. and Mrs. Bullock and were following them into the house. “But then sometimes the rotten scum come to us, which saves us the trouble of finding them.” She looked at me again and frowned. “What is it, dear? You don’t appear to be having as much fun as you should be having after all your success in Nevada.”
“A lot of people died there, ma’am.”
“Yes, many of those kidnappers and would-be child-killers died, but the children all lived, thanks to you. Don’t mourn the death of monsters, dear. Celebrate the saving of the innocents.”
“You’re right. I know you’re right. I guess what disturbs me isn’t so much killing the killers. It’s the necessity of killing them, that they push us to that.”
“We’re not engaged in police work, child. This is war. A secret war at our level of the action, but a war nonetheless. There are fewer shades of gray in a war than in police work.”
She had one of those faces—fine-boned and symmetrical—that not only weathered the years well but also pushed the GRANDMOTHER LOVE button deep in your psyche, so that you took seriously whatever she said and felt it to be wise. Her soft skin hadn’t wrinkled randomly, hadn’t puckered her face in unflattering ways; every line seemed to have been designed to maintain a gentle and genteel countenance and to have been executed by a seamstress to royalty.
“Ma’am, as totally impressive as your network was when we worked together back in March, I’m only now beginning to realize its true scope. You and Heathcliff must have built quite a fortune.”
Heathcliff, her husband, apparently had been many things, including a magician. No. What she had told me, exactly, was that he could “appear to be a magician,” that he could appear to be anything he wished, and convincingly.
“Oh, dear, don’t give me too much credit. Heathcliff already had a Scrooge McDuck fortune when he met me and saved me from a life as a mediocre actress. Over the years, my little ideas added only a couple of hundred million to the pot. Anyway, I’m not the only one who funds the resistance. Now tell me, what should we be afraid might happen to your darling little Pico Mundo?”
She had left the engine running, so that we could have air-conditioning in the warm desert night. Although the instrument panel in the dashboard had been dialed up to its brightest level, the limo was softly illuminated. I felt cocooned and, as I always did in her company, quite safe in a dangerous world.
I told her about the dream of the flood, about Malo Suerte Dam and the stolen thousand kilos of C-4. “But you see, ma’am, I never know about my dreams. Sometimes they’re literal, other times only symbolic. If I have to live with this gift, I don’t understand why things can’t always be clearer to me.”
Patting my cheek affectionately, she said, “Because, dear boy, then you would be just another silly superhero who’s never really at risk.”
“I could live with that.”
“But you might then grow too certain of yourself, cocksure and arrogant. Even you. And then you might become one of the very people that my network of friends must thwart. Isn’t that a lovely word—thwart?”
“Thwart? I’ve never thought about it, ma’am.”
“Well, do think about it, dear. Please do. It’s a lovely word. Thwart. To obstruct is as noble an act as to facilitate, if what you are obstructing is the facilitation of evil. Anyway, to maintain the right perspective, sweetie, we always should be at risk of failure, the possibility of making wrong choices.”
“Free will, you mean.”
Pinching my cheek this time, Mrs. Fischer said, “Now, there’s the lovely fry cook who could save this town. You’re very nearly fully smooth and blue.”
“Fully smooth and blue. I still don’t know what that means, ma’am.”
“Oh, don’t puzzle yourself. You’ll know what it means when you know. Meanwhile, there isn’t going to be a test about it.”
She was dressed in a pink pantsuit with a frilly white blouse. On the lapel of her jacket glimmered the exclamation point crafted of gold, diamonds, and rubies.
“I don’t know what that means, either. A version of it turns up on the phone you sent me.”
“It’s a kind of logo,” Mrs. Fischer said. “It’s like that Pepsi circle with the red-white-and-blue waves in it. Or the smiling cow on a can of Lucerne whipped cream.”
“Cows and cream. Okay, that I understand.”
“Of course you do. A smiling cow makes everyone feel good. A smiling cow is a delightful thing, and whipped cream is delightful.”
“But the exclamation point …”
“Well, it’s also a promise.”
“A promise of what?”
“And a statement of conviction. It’s many things, dear, just as anything you can point at in this world is many things.”
I pointed at her.
She pointed at me.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I wish Stormy could have known you, ma’am. She’d think you were a hoot.”
“She was a lovely girl. She still used the name Bronwen then, hadn’t quite started calling herself Stormy. We got along famously.”
Mrs. Fischer could draw upon a greater variety of smiles than anyone I’d ever known, perhaps because the life that she’d lived had given her so many different kinds and degrees of happiness. The smile with which she favored me now was one I’d seen several times before: what I might call the Smile of Pleasurable Expectation, with her head cocked to one side and her blue eyes bright with curiosity regarding my response to her revelation, also with an impish pleasure in having astonished me.
“You knew Stormy? How did you? When did you?”
Mrs. Fischer took one of my hands in both of hers again and pressed it firmly. “After she was adopted by that dreadful couple, after that horrible thing happened, our little organization got her out of the situation.”
Stormy was seven years old when her parents died in a plane crash, seven and a half when she was adopted by a wealthy, childless couple in Beverly Hills. During the second week in her magnificent new home, her adoptive father came into her room after midnight, exposed himself to her, and touched her in ways no grown man should ever touch a child.
She had still been intensely grieving for her lost parents. Humiliated, ashamed, frightened, alone, confused, she endured the man’s depraved behavior for three months before desperately seeking help.
“But,” I said, “she reported it to a social worker who was making a house call for the adoption agency.”
“Yes, dear. She did.”
“So she was taken out of that place. And then … then she lived in Saint Bart’s Orphanage till she graduated high school.”
“Yes, but she wasn’t removed for a week. Your lovely girl never realized that the first social worker wasn’t the one who helped her. In fact, never would have helped her.”
Having to discuss this, having to consider again what Stormy had told me about the abuse she suffered, I found that the memory came braided with heartache.
Mrs. Fischer said, “The couple who adopted Stormy—”
“She called them Mr. and Mrs. Hellborn. Not their real names, obviously.”
“But apt,” Mrs. Fischer said. “Mr. and Mrs. Hellborn weren’t just corrupt. They were also corrupting of so many people who came into contact with them. And the first social worker was corruptible. Another caseworker in the same child-welfare agency heard a few things and became suspicious. She was one of us.”
By the gentle tenor of her voice, by the compassion in her eyes, by the hands with which she held my hand, she made it clear that what she had to tell me might leave me shaken, but that she would be my anchor through it all.
“The Hellborns thought of themselves as citizens of the world. Which in their case meant they felt above the laws of any one city or state, or country. They had lived in several exotic places where life is accorded less value than it is here. Tragic places where children of the slums are vulnerable, often regarded as a commodity. The crooked authorities let the Hellborns pursue their desires unobstructed. But they had a reputation among locals.”
Stormy and I had never made love. She wanted to know beyond any doubt that I loved her for herself, not merely for the physical pleasure that she could give me. Considering what happened to her, considering that she had triumphed over what would have destroyed many others, considering that she became such a self-sufficient joyful person, I would have been a world-class jerk if I pressured her. Stormy wanted to wait for marriage; I wanted whatever Stormy wanted.
Mrs. Fischer said, “The Hellborns were making plans to take little Bronwen out of the country aboard their hundred-sixty-foot yacht. The Beverly Hills estate was owned by their corporation in the Cayman Islands. The corporation quietly listed it for sale. Those people would never have brought your girl back. Never. And God knows what might have happened to her.”
At first it seemed to me that there was no good reason for Mrs. Fischer to tell me all of this. Stormy was gone. What might have happened to her didn’t matter. What mattered was only what did happen to her both at the hands of the Hellborns and years later on a day of evil at the Green Moon Mall. Why dwell on horrors that might have occurred?
“She was,” said Mrs. Fischer, “the sweetest child, orphaned and abused and traumatized, but already determined not to be a victim. Not ever again. I spent only two days with her, but they were days I will never forget, Oddie. There she was, this precious little person, forty-some pounds, hardly taller than a lawn gnome, but determined to take on the world and win.”
I said, “Nothing scared her, not really. She was afraid for me sometimes but never for herself.”
Mrs. Fischer squeezed my hand. “The dear girl said her name, Bronwen, sounded like an elf or a fairy, and she wasn’t either one. She decided to find a strong name for herself. The second day we were together, there was a terrible storm. Such bright bolts of lightning. Wind and thunder that shook the building. She stood at the window, watching it all, fazed by none of it, and that’s where she found her new name.”
I realized that I was squeezing one of Mrs. Fischer’s hands so tightly that I must have been hurting her, though she didn’t so much as wince, let alone try to pull away. I relaxed my grip.
“I never … never knew why she chose Stormy. It fit her so well, you know, ’cause she had such power, such a strong presence. But there was no destruction in her, like there can be in a storm, none at all.”
Cocooned in the limo, with the purr of the engine and the soft light and the coolness issuing from the dashboard vents, I almost felt that we weren’t in a mere car. We might instead have been aboard a more significant conveyance, perhaps outbound in space or traveling in time, seeking a world more peaceful than this one or a future when, by some great grace, humanity had recovered its innocence and its birthright.
The exclamation-point brooch on Mrs. Fischer’s lapel sparkled in the dashboard light when I looked at her again. I said, “At first I couldn’t understand why you told me all this. But now I get it.”
“I knew you would, child.”
“Sometimes, when I’m feeling sorry for myself, it seems that I’m made to carry this impossibly heavy weight, the crushing weight of losing her. I have moments of bitterness and doubt. You know? But the weight is a blessing, really, and I shouldn’t be bitter about it. The weight is on my heart because I knew her and loved her. The weight is the accumulation of all we had together, all the hopes and worries, all the laughs, the picnics in Saint Bart’s bell tower, the adventures we shared because of my gift.… If they had taken her away on their yacht, if I had never met her, there would be no weight to carry—and no memories to sustain me.”
Mrs. Fischer smiled at me and nodded. “Fully blue and so very, very near to being fully smooth.”