SISTER BARBARA

Published by

SOMEONE PLEASE PUBLISH ME Publishing Company

Website: www.Sister-Barbara-Book.com

Email: barbarabarett@gmail.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/Barbara Barett

Twitter: @Sister_Barbara

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Cover and Book Design by

Square Foot Studio

SquareFootStudio.com

Austin, TX

A Boutique Digital Design, Interactive & Marketing Studio in the Silicon Hill Country.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publications Data

Barett, Barbara. Sister Barbara: a novel/Barbara Barett

ISBN 978-0-9860232-0-0

Copyright © 2013 by Barbara Barett

All Rights Reserved.

Printed in the United States of America

May, 2013

First Edition

a novel by

BARBARA BARETT

FOR TRISH AND CHADNA

WHO WRITE WITH ME

FROM ANOTHER DIMENSION

Thank you from the bottom of my heart Brett Rosenthal, Patricia Martin, Lorin Berland, and Sharee’ Allison.

Love is all there is.

– John Lennon

Table of Contents

Part I - The Beginning of the End

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Part II - The End

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Part III - The Beginning

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Part III - The Beginning Again

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Part IV - The Worst Day of My Life

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Part V - The End Almost

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Part VI - The Resurrection

Chapter I

Chapter II

The Beginning of the Sequel

Learn About the Author & Join the Discussion

PART ONE

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

I

By six o’clock that morning the meatloaf had taken on an interesting chartreuse glow, but the peas still looked pretty good.

Startled by a sudden shuffling sound, I turned to see Jessica, my eighteen-month-old daughter, dragging her favorite pink blanket and sucking her thumb. With bright flushed cheeks and peach fuzz hair, she looked angelic wearing baggy yellow flannel pajamas with plastic feet.

After our usual holding, rocking, diaper-changing ritual, I returned to the kitchen and scraped the remains of the meatloaf into the poodle’s dish. I watched the fat little dog gobble up the food, lick the bowl, and waddle away. That moment I made the decision that Foofie had eaten her last meatloaf.

I pulled a Louis Vuitton knockoff suitcase from the closet and began filling it with my future-former husband’s socks and underwear. In minutes the case was too full to close, so I took a moment to appraise the contents of the immense closet. It was a sea of zooty car dealer suits, splashy ties, tasseled shoes, cashmere overcoats, flashy jackets, and the sombrero from our honeymoon in Mexico, impossible to be packed into luggage.

The baby stared quizzically, and Foofie barked as I ran for genuine garbage bags. After frantically filling several lawn-and-leaf size bags, I dragged them to the front porch, determined not to unleash uncontrolled wrath. I explained calmly, “I’m going to throw Daddy out if he ever comes home.”

Foofie seemed to be relieved by this explanation and took a cosmic pee on Rick’s stack of Field and Stream magazines and favored, worn Playboy issues. Jessica toddled into the pantry and threw grocery and cleaning items into the kitchen. She opened a Cheerios box and intermittently ate cereal, then sprinkled some over the stuff that she had thrown on the floor. It was quite a mess. She is just like me, everyone says.

“Oh my God, what am I teaching her now?” The thought crossed my mind to stab his new lambskin jacket with the scissors I had just seized from the kitchen drawer, but I dropped them. And I won’t trounce his briefcase again either—no violence this time.

The front door creaked open, which sent Rick’s skis crashing and shattered his bottle of antihistamines.

“Hi,” Rick said, feigning bewilderment, cautiously making a path through the heap.

“Your headlights are still on,” I said to my husband of ten years. Although disheveled at the moment, he was as handsome as the day I met him in college: tall and barrel-chested with thick, dark ash-blonde hair, a strong square jaw, dimples like craters, and turquoise eyes, smart, charming, and funny. Everything about him was sublime. I had loved him so much, too much. I would have given him my organs. He thought my love could never stop.

“Thanks,” he mumbled as he stumbled back to his brand-new, black Mercedes sedan to turn off the headlights. He was obviously disoriented.

He returned, forgetting to close the door, and removed his sunglasses, revealing glazed, guilty eyes. “There was a card game at Buzzy’s. Sorry I’m late. What’s for dinner?” He had been coming in later and later for so long that he really thought dinner would be waiting. Through the open doorway over his shoulder, I saw the beginnings of a beautiful sunrise.

“What do you smell?”

He inhaled once, twice, and finally decided, “Nothing”.

“That’s exactly what you’re having because Foofie ate your dinner.”

“Why is all this stuff out here?” He was agitated and ran his fingers through his damp hair.

“Since you’re always at Buzzy’s, I thought it would be convenient for you to take your things over there. No need to stop by here.”

“Even my trumpet?” He picked it up from under the picture of his parents.

“Yes, everything but your shoe trees and your C.D.’s. You can’t have them. You never used them after we got married anyway.”

He reddened, and the familiar veins protruded from his neck as he bellowed, “I mean, why is my shit out here? Have you lost your fucking mind?”

Stay calm; stay calm, I told myself. To him I said, “You only used them as a dating device to impersonate a responsible romantic person in order to trap me, since I would never have fallen in love with the real you. I fell in love with your shoetrees and your C.D.’s, and I’m keeping them.”

I turned my back and walked into the kitchen, and he followed. Jessica had managed to open a jar of peanut butter and was sharing it with Foofie. Both were sitting on the floor, eating, eyes transfixed, mesmerized by the final explosive act of their parents’ marriage. He followed me back into the hallway.

“Well, because most nights you either work late, entertain clients, or go over to Buzzy’s, but you always come home smelling like Passion perfume.” Buzzy smokes cigars. I walked over and gave him a fierce exaggerated sniff. No cigars. “Passion!” I snarled. “I hate Passion! I’ve had it!”

I opened the front door and pointed the way. “Out!”

White mucous appeared in the corners of his mouth and stretched between his lips. As he angered, drunkenness thickened his tongue, slurring his speech. His lips quivered. He glanced at the baby, lowered his voice and glowered, “Why are you so insecure? I haven’t done anything but play cards with my friends. Isn’t it really all about your father, Barbara? He was the cheat and the drunk, Barbara. Not me. I have given you things you never had, but you still make me pay for your father’s sins.”

Rick used this against me time and again. He had come from a great family; his parents had been married for over thirty-five years and they still spoke to one another.

“A marriage should be based on trust. You’ll never be right, Barbara. Never! You will never trust anyone. You make things up. No one could ever be married to you. And who would want to? You’re thirty-two years old. You’re showing your age, Barbara. You’ve gained some weight. You have a kid. You’re getting old and you’re a psycho, Barbara.”

His breath was foul from alcohol, cigarettes, and God knows what else. He continued, “Do you have any idea how much money you spend every month? Any idea at all? How are you going to pay the bills? Do you think anyone will ever buy that goofy art of yours?”

Sometimes when he came home late, I didn’t say a word, just put dinner up, went to bed, and pretended that I didn’t know what time he had come in. Other times I confronted him; we argued; Jessica and I cried. This time there were just no more words. I had said them, screamed them, and written them all. I picked up the baby, went to my bedroom, and locked the door. Then he pounded his fist on the door and shouted, “You’ll wish you had never done this, you lunatic. You’ll find out what it’s like in the real world, and you’ll be begging me to come back!”

“I’m done with this. Take your things, and don’t ever come back!” I shrieked.

I heard bags being dragged across the floor and things being moved. The front door slammed a final time, and his car screeched away. It had happened before, but this time was different. I could endure no more, and I was afraid of the consequences. I couldn’t imagine life without him; I couldn’t imagine living with him.

“Bye bye,” Jessica said and waved.

While the baby was taking her morning nap, Sharon, my neighbor, stopped by as usual for morning coffee instead of running. She wore a jog bra, running shorts, step counter, and iPod, with Evian in hand. She was ever trying to impress the neighbors or paparazzi that never cared. No one knew the real her—my one, true, forever friend. “Do you really think it’s another woman?” she asked, as she exchanged her Evian for a cup of steaming coffee. “Do you have any Bailey’s?”

“No.”

“Well, you will take every penny. You will get everything from that dog.”

“I don’t know if there’s another woman, and by now I don’t even care, Sharon. I can be miserable without him. Do you have any Valium with you?”

“No. Do you think that he’ll try to come back?”

“He always has before, but I don’t know about this time. He’s not going to change, and all of our arguments upset Jessica and exhaust me, and Foofie has been peeing all over the house. We all have diarrhea. I can’t live with his constant disappearances, or even the few nights when he does come home. The only reason he sleeps here on a Saturday night is because he gets up early to go golfing.”

“I hate golfing.”

“He’s intolerable! The nights he’s here, he doesn’t really sleep. He tosses and turns and blames his insomnia on allergies. I’ll have to find a smaller place and sell some of my artwork.” I could not reveal my greatest fears about our serious financial problems and even possibilities of foreclosure on the house. My words were rhetorical, aloof. Sharon is married to one of the top plastic surgeons in Beverly Hills and, as the years have passed, I had created and worn a veneer for her. She had never known everything about Rick and me. Only recently had I intimated that there were marital problems. I surely couldn’t tell her that everything Rick and I own was mortgaged or financed and payments were late. I endeavored to be bright and sunny, as Sharon would never abide a dour friend.

We walked through the granite and stainless steel appointed kitchen into the adjoining sunroom, my favorite place to create and display my artwork. A spiral staircase leads from there to my studio where I meditate, study, and develop ideas and artistic concepts.

We paused before a human-sized form that loomed ghostlike under a white cloth. I pulled the cloth away, like Michelangelo presenting David to the Pope, and slapped the deformed mound of clay soundly. This work in progress had been a bust of my mother-in-law earlier that morning. I had been trying again to please her, although the whole time Rick and I were married, she never liked me, despite years of giving her original artwork that she discarded.

“What is it?” Sharon asked just like my mother-in-law would have. “As a matter of fact, I just renamed this one Therapy.”

“Why does it have all those darts sticking out of it?” She reached to touch it.

I did not divulge what had transpired between the clay and me an hour or so ago, and changed the subject. “Mom was right about art school, I guess. I would be better off if I had taken accounting, but I couldn’t even make the right change when we played Monopoly when we were kids. Remember how you would never let me be banker?”

“Oh, that’s just because I was cheating.”

Sharon hadn’t seen some of my latest work, so I acquainted her with the newest inhabitants of the sun-filled room, namely the series of artwork, My Anatomy. The first piece of two, encased in a beveled glass box was The Finger. She evaluated the sculpture, which I had created from porcelain, precise in detail including fingerprints and wrinkles on the knuckle, differing from Michelangelo’s masterpiece with finer bones, manicured cuticle, and red-painted fingernail.

“This is reminiscent of Michelangelo’s famous masterpiece in the Sistine Chapel.” I folded my arms, stepped back, and admired it once more.

“Oh, the one where the two fingers are touching.”

“Ahh. Remember our trip to Rome?”

“Ahh.”

“Yes, I can see that now. Hmm—unique.”

Occupying the most visible place in the collection, on a clear acrylic pedestal, was my most prized work. “And here’s My Lobotomy,” I explained like an art museum docent. “Do you remember? You saw me working on it a few months ago. Now it’s finished. See how I embellished it?”

“Yeah, it’s different.”

“I attached sculptors’ tools, with ornaments and decorations from seasons past, to that spiraling, slinky-like metal form.”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Right there you can see our Eiffel Tower Christmas tree ornament. See? Well, that’s not all. Look how I topped the clay brain with a blond human hair wig. The brain lights up and the wig alone would bring a hefty sum.”

“Didn’t you borrow that wig from me?”

“No, I got it on eBay.”

“Oh yeah. Mine was shorter. I wonder what I did with that wig.”

“Do you think I should change the wig style? Should I dye it blue? How about Kate Winslet’s style in The Titanic? I should probably change all of my artwork to a more commercial genre,” I considered aloud, while I gazed lovingly at my early work, Dante’s View of Los Angeles, hanging from the ceiling in clay and neon. “That’s what Chagall had to do.”

“Change his wig style?” Sharon quipped.

“You know, art has been my strength and solace. When you produce artwork, you can put it on a pedestal, or hang it on the wall or on an easel and say, ‘I made you. If you’re bad, I’ll put you under the bed for awhile. You were only art supplies, but then you were born from my imagination, and now you exist on your own over there. I’m so proud of you, and you can never leave me.’ It’s an inanimate child that will never defy me, borrow the car, or call Child Protective Services. Look at all of this,” I continued, wildly waving my arms. “My art supplies and creative energies have combined. They surround me like children that I never have to feed. And I never get lonely, either.”

I believed the character I had invented here was one that Sharon would like: artistic, cavalier, and glib, although a tad maniacal only because of the recent unfortunate marital situation.

“How much were the art supplies?” asked my friend, the Monopoly banker.

“Uh oh, baby’s up.”

Sharon followed me into Jessica’s room. Obviously considering her words carefully, she said in a most reflective manner, “So you’re talking to your artwork? Woo—yeah—let me tell you. I think you might be channeling Georgia O’Keeffe, and you know what? She made monotonous junk, and I could puke better colors.”

“Georgia O’Keeffe? What do you have against Georgia O’Keeffe? She studied at the Art Institute of Chicago where I got my Masters. Her work is brilliant—full of sexual innuendo.”

“She never sold anything either, until a couple years before she died. And she was bitter.”

“That’s not true! She survived typhoid fever. Her Calla Lily sold for $25,000 in New York in the twenties. She is a pioneer of Modernism.”

Sharon countered, “I’m being perfectly honest with you. It’s time to get down off that cloud of yours and into the real world, Barbara. I think you have a problem facing reality. You’ll never be able to support yourself and Jessica as an artist.”

“No, Sharon, I perfectly understand reality. I’m going to be divorced. I have a child. I am an artist, and there will be difficulties, but I believe in myself. This is the way it’s playing out for me. I have very few alternatives.”

“You and Rick should just forget about all this and make up. I really think you should try to stick it out at least until you sell some pieces.”

“No.”

“You should see a therapist.”

“Probably.”

“Well, if you go through with it, you should find the best divorce lawyer. You should get a fair property settlement and make sure Rick provides medical care, schooling, and music lessons for Jessica.” She thought for a second. “And nannies.”

I have deceived Sharon for a long time. The house and gardens were just re-mortgaged, and our cars were on lease. Our furniture and clothes were all on maxed-out, high-interest credit cards. Everything we showed to our Beverly Hills neighbors was a façade. There was no property.

Hiding tears, I picked up Jessica and turned away to look through the window at a young mother jogging along the sidewalk behind her baby stroller. I pointed. “Oh look at her. She’s on her way to a neighbor’s for a cigarette and a Bloody Mary.” Sharon put her arm around my shoulder.

I continued to look out the window. “My marriage has failed, but I will be a responsible loving mother to Jessica. You may think my art is a farce or a hobby, but Jessica and art are all I have. I would love to teach, but the good teaching jobs around here are already taken. I know. I’ve already applied.” I couldn’t hide the tears this time, and they began flowing down my cheeks.

“I never said that your art is a farce. It’s creative, it’s energetic, it’s–uhhh. I just think you, like lots of great artists, could have a very hard time, that’s all. Besides, until today, you never mentioned that you would even consider selling one of your pieces.”

“I have tried to sell them, Sharon,” I said, shuddering, feeling exposed. “The mortgage is due!” I blurted like a damsel in distress wailing to some sneering villain twirling his black moustache in an old-time picture show. I began to utter tearful, heaving, sniveling, squeaking, snorting sounds that are impossible to spell.

Back in the kitchen I regained control of myself. I fixed bagels, pulled a chair from the table, and put Jessica on my lap. I feared that the last revelation would be too much for Sharon and that she would run out of the house screeching with her hands over her ears like Munch’s Screamer. But she just sat, contemplative. This was all new for her—a friend with problems. It was much worse than running out of caviar, even the cheap kind.

She tore her bagel in half and offered a piece to the baby. Jessica considered the bagel for a moment, but dropped it from her mouth to listen as Sharon narrowed her large, almond-shaped brown eyes. She looked wise, cleared her throat, and declared, “Well, I think you’re just going through a transition.”

“Oh, really, Nostradamus?”

“And I guess you’ll just have to take it a day at a time.”

Encouraged that she hadn’t run away screaming, I moved closer to Sharon. She was credible; I should listen. She was living a wonderful life, in love with her adoring husband and children, enjoying the limelight as the wife of a well-acclaimed Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. My way had not been working, obviously.

“What would you do, Sharon?”

She tensed, stood motionless, like a doe before a rifle, seemingly ceased breathing, and searched her mind. She finally exhaled, clearly spent, and revealed her plan.

“You should begin again. I’ll throw a party for you. A coming-out party. It will cheer you up. You’ll be kind of like a recycled debutante. We’ll invite all of the neighbors, some of your friends, and I’ll invite some people, too. I’ll see if Hunt can get some stars to come. You’ll start dating.”

“I can’t even remotely think about dating. No, Sharon. I want to hide. I’m so sad. I feel like I have rocks in my heart. I can barely hold down a cup of tea, much less a conversation.”

“You have to move on. You have no choice. Put your big girl panties on.”

I cringed. Funny she should say that. All I have is big girl panties. Haven’t bought anything new since before Jessica. No wonder Rick left me.

“He’s gone, and you’ll start a new life. You’re so young and beautiful, and I haven’t a doubt that you’ll find someone who will love you for who you are forever.” She leaned forward, reached across the table for my hand, and looked into my eyes.

“But—” I wished I had some of her confidence. And what was that ‘for who I am’ bullshit?

“Do you remember that darling Doctor Horowitz, the cosmetic dentist? He’s still single and was crazy about you. He told me after I tried to hook him up with my niece, Rachel, that he was looking for someone more like you. We’ll invite him, of course.”

“Yes, of course I remember him, and I haven’t had any kind of social life for months. Maybe it would be good just to have a few friends over.”

“I’ll help you with the food and the invitations.”

“What? You never cook.”

“I meant I’d hire people.”

“If we had it here, people would see my work. I could give a little art show. I would really like that.”

“Hmm. Yes. I can see the possibilities. You should show your art, and you have that great backyard and pool. We should invite Hunt’s cousin, the realtor, who just sold Demi Moore’s place.”

“Well, I think—” Hunt’s cousin, the realtor? It won’t be long until the house is in foreclosure.

“Yes. That would be fabulous, but let’s do it in a few weeks, Sweetie. Yes, I need at least that much time to get the invitations ready, and that will give you time to lose a little weight.” She gestured toward a magazine on the kitchen counter. “Look at some of those girls. That’s what you want to work toward.”

I gasped.

“I’m sorry, and you know I love you, even if you have put on a few pounds.”

“What?” Does my best friend think I need to be a foot taller, twenty pounds lighter, and ten years younger?

“Don’t worry. I know Hunt would do the liposuction for you for nothing, but you should pay the anesthesiologist.”

“So you think I’m fat?” I exclaimed. “You just told me a minute ago how young and beautiful I am.”

“Oh, no! No, not fat, but Sweetie, you’re going to be on the market. It’s tough out there. You should be in shape like a prizefighter. Hunt can sculpt you.”

“I already feel terrible. My husband told me that I’m a fat lunatic, and he left me. My best friend told me that I’m unrealistic, inferred that my art will most likely never sell until I’m dead, and now—guess what—to top it all off, you agree with Rick. I’m fat. Sharon, I know you are probably just trying to help, but I need some time alone now.”

“No, I won’t leave you.” She sat back and crossed her arms in front of her chest, affirming that she wouldn’t budge.

“I want to go to bed.” I needed to be alone and time to think.

“I’ll stay here and play with Jessica.”

“You don’t have to. She’ll take her nap pretty soon. Please, Sharon. I know you’re just trying to help. I’ll be okay. I’ll call you later.”

“I don’t think you should be alone.”

“Geez, would you go home? I’m beginning to think you’re the one who can’t be alone.”

“You’re not going to do anything crazy, are you?”

“Truth? I didn’t get much sleep last night. I just want to crawl under my blanket in my bed and pull out my secret weapon.”

“Oh no!”

“I can curl up, nobody can get me, and sweet dreams will come. I love Jessica, my mom, you and my art so much. I am rich. Just give me a little time and something for diarrhea.”

“Hunt will call something in, and I’ll bring it over later tonight. Okay, Canary.” That’s what everyone called me in college because of my bird legs. “I guess you should have some rest.”

She slid her chair from the table, kissed Jessica on the head, hugged me tight, heart-to-heart, and closed the front door softly behind her.

Jessica turned her sweet face from her place on my lap to look at me. I kissed her soft hot cheek, put her in her highchair, and gave her pieces of bagel, cream cheese, melon and blueberries.

Sharon was right by L.A. standards. At 5’4” with small bones, I should weigh 100 pounds, not 120. I had gained weight since the baby. I should move to Nebraska, where my stock would be more valuable.

The baby was finger painting the tray of her high chair with the remains of the cream cheese and fruit. Although sickened with anxiety, I began to clean up the same kitchen and the same plates at the same time as I had in mornings past, marveling at how quickly my life changed and would never be the same.

“Want a hot fudge sundae? Mommy does. With nuts, whipped cream, bananas, the works!” Just a little morning snack. Sharon was gone anyway.

I savored every bite, having a slice of banana with hot fudge and cold ice cream. Sharon doesn’t think I have talent, I thought. Spoonfuls of ice cream melted delightfully with whipped cream and a few nuts. They both said that I’m fat. It’s great when the ice cream starts to melt, swirling around with the chocolate. Oh the combinations.

My agony and ecstasy were interrupted when the telephone rang. I jumped to answer.

“Hello, may I please speak to Mr. Barett?” asked the caller.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barett isn’t in right now.” An understatement. “May I take a message?”

“Are you Mrs. Barett?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Mrs. Barett, This is Robert McMahan here at Mid Pacific Electric Company. I am calling about your electric bill, which is past due in the amount of twelve hundred dollars. Can you send that payment today?”

Silence.

“Mrs. Barett? Are you there?”

“Oh. Uhhh. I’m sure it has been paid, or if not, it will be. I’ll ask my husband—but—uhhh….” Long pause.

“Hello?”

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Barett, could you please check your records, because you are scheduled for disconnect on Monday.”

“Mr. Barett is out of town.” Silence.

“Hello? Mrs. Barett?”

“Oh, yes, I’m here. I’ll check my records. The check is probably in the mail,” I managed to squeak.

“Thank you, Mrs. Barett. I’m sure it’s just an oversight, but to avoid disconnection we must receive payment by Friday.”

I returned the phone to the receiver. Jessica vomited.

II

When I washed Jessica’s face, I discovered that she was burning with fever and her diaper was soaked. Her round cheeks were crimson and her big blue eyes were glassy. The one white curl on the top of her head was pasted to her scalp with sweat.

“Oh poor, sweet baby. Mommy is so sorry. Come on. Let’s change your clothes.” I bathed, diapered, and dressed her in her soft pink nightgown and matching bunny slippers, a Christmas gift from Rick’s sister.

“This was a present from Auntie Becky,” I recalled as I pulled the nightie quickly and gently over her head, being careful about her ears. All babies get a little panicky when their faces are covered for that moment. I spoke softly. “I wonder if we’ll see Auntie Becky much any more. I love her, and so do you, and we won’t stop no matter what.”

With Jessica on my hip, I went to the medicine cabinet and got the thermometer and baby Motrin. Then I saw his toothbrush. I had forgotten to pack it.

I suddenly saw him standing there vividly in my mind’s eye, right at that spot, so handsome, shaving or getting ready for bed or ready for work. I knew that he would never be there again and wondered what it would be like. And I saw myself. It was once a pretty face, oval with large wide-set blue eyes and a small nose. My hair was okay, I guess. It was light ash blonde, wispy and shoulder length. My skin was very white, soft and smooth, but Rick was right. There were wrinkles in the outer corners of my puffy eyes. Some people loved the lines on their partner’s face, kissed them, and remembered all the times that they had shared. But he was right again–I had gained weight and just wasn’t young any more. I was thirty-two. Even if he wants to come home and even though I love him, I couldn’t let him. He hurts me. I felt as if Sasquatch were stepping on my chest.

All of my senses were skewed. There on the glass shelf above the sink was his cologne. I had chosen that scent for him years ago. I picked it up. That’s what love smells like. It makes me want to kiss and touch and have sex. Love has a look, a feel, a sound, and a smell that I won’t forget. I threw the cologne in the wastebasket. Why was I torturing myself this way?

Jessica coughed from deep within her chest, wrapped her arms around my neck, and nestled her feverish head on my shoulder. I rubbed her back as we walked through the house. It was full of memories, past sad and happy times, and difficult and uncomplicated times, and full of life. But it was empty now. Jessica and I sat in our favorite chair in the family room. ‘Family room?’ I reached for the television remote, and searched through the channels until I found Sesame Street. Jessica laid her face against my heart, curled up on my lap, and watched her favorite show through half-closed eyes. I began to rock her and stroke her hair.

Rocking slowly, back and forth—rocking slowly. This is the chair Rick and I bought just before Jessica was born. That had been a wonderful day. We had lunch, and then we bought this rocker, imagining our newborn baby and how excited we were to finally hold her. I remembered the day she came home from the hospital. I rocked her in this chair for the first time and Rick took a video. We pinched her toes and bounced her until finally her head bobbed up and her tiny grey eyes opened. “This is Jessica,” Rick announced. “She weighs seven pounds and six ounces, and looks just like her momma.”

“No, she looks just like you,” I gleamed. Jessica had made a crooked, probably gas-induced smile, and fell asleep for an hour or two. Then she cried all night long. I had never been so happy in my whole life. Would I mourn over every memory and stick of furniture? Our dishes? Our stuff?

Rocking slowly and stroking her hair, I looked down at my precious daughter. The cold cloth I had placed on her forehead had slipped a little. I adjusted it. She seemed a little cooler, and had fallen asleep. Rocking her slowly, slowly.

I could cry now.

It was impossible to sleep that night. Morning was a relief. I thought that Rick would call, if only to check on Jessica, but he didn’t. He didn’t even know that she had been sick. I had been up and down all night, stricken by diarrhea and a heavy heart.

I began to regret what I had done, and it was impossible to focus on any other thought. I had no actual proof that Rick had someone else. He did work hard and was under pressure. People all need time to blow off steam. Perhaps he was telling the truth. I had no problem with him playing cards with his buddies. In fact, they played here sometimes, and I know that they had good clean man fun, and it was also true that entertaining clients was important for business.

The car business was intensely competitive, especially in Beverly Hills. The majority of his customers were in the entertainment industry, and he would take them to fine dinners or to fabulous shows or sporting events or golfing, even deep-sea fishing and scuba diving. Sometimes I went with them. We had been invited to their lavish parties, swank restaurant openings, charity galas, premiers, and the like. Maybe I had overreacted. Any one of the girls who worked for him would love to take my place, or so he always reminded me.

They all seemed to be cut from the same cloth: beautiful, personable, possibly over-friendly, young childless women with hard bodies who yearned to be actresses. Yes, any one of them would have loved him. But he hired great-looking men, too, Barbara. Rick often rationalized that fine cars warm the blood for sex, power, and money. Average guys don’t drive Ferraris. Great cars are trappings, lucre, sex magnets, driving mortal sin, and come on, this is Hollywood. The fact is, everyone, except Rick, of course, is screwing everyone else to get to the top, and those people require a great fucking car, and thank God, because that’s how Rick pays the bills, Barbara, and that’s life in this business in Los Angeles.

III

My family consisted of Mom. She was tiny and thin, had thick, shining, black shoulder-length hair, eyes that changed color depending on what she was wearing, and the softest, silkiest porcelain white skin. To me she looked like Snow White in a picture book. She was good. ‘Good’ is such a simple word, but it’s just how Mom was. She loved her family, her home, and her garden. She knew the species of a bird just from hearing its song and knew the flowers and trees on a personal level. She could find a beautiful secret path through the woods where we could pick wildflowers and blueberries. She found contentment and wonder in the changing seasons, a violent thunderstorm, a full moon, and in the stars—that one’s Mars, it twinkles red, that one is Venus—she would whisper with her sweet breath. She could cook and sew clothes for my doll and me and make matching tiny yarn dolls to hold my little, curly, white pigtails.

Dad was movie star handsome, had green eyes like a cat, and was the life of the party, I hear. He danced like Fred Astaire on paydays when he had a job, except he wouldn’t come home until he was broke, smelly, and bleary-eyed. Then he’d call Mom names and get violent, hitting us, throwing things and punching walls, until thankfully he’d finally pass out. When he couldn’t be roused in the morning, she’d call him in sick from work. Eventually he’d get fired. I was old enough to know that the neighbors must hear the fights. We never had enough to pay the bills, and I knew that our poverty showed in our clothes and in the shame on our faces. Mom finally divorced him when I was seven, and funny thing is, I knew they loved each other.

We moved into a tiny row house. Although Mom went to work, we still couldn’t afford store-bought clothes or ballet lessons like the other girls had. She worked night and day and hung a red ribbon around my neck with our house key. I missed her being at home, and she gave me a parakeet as a consolation prize, which went blind, lingered a while, then died.

Back then, school let out at three-fifteen, but there was no one at home, and the library stayed open until six. Pretty Miss Goodlander, the librarian, liked me, so I could check out four books although two was the ordinary limit. The time I spent in the library was my favorite time, even though it would be dark when I walked home. Every night I used the key around my neck to let myself into a dark house where there was no mother waiting to kiss me hello and no dinner cooking in the kitchen. I read the books where I found friendship, faraway places, and even the ballet les-sons that we couldn’t afford, but they could not fill the empty seats at my Christmas pageant or take me to the circus. I promised on the stars that when I had a daughter, she would have white picket fences with parents, books, ballet lessons, and a healthy parakeet.

Then Rick used that all against me. I couldn’t trust, he claimed. I needed too much, he said. But all people are insecure; I tried to explain once to Rick, who was always so sure of himself. From the President of the United States to the rock star, doctors, lawyers, and tradesmen, artists, writers and everyone, everyone. We are all human and live in the same world, and we all have fears and weaknesses. I could never get through to him.

No matter what Rick’s real success, he spent more than he earned, claimed more to his credit than he had accomplished, and projected an image that he invented to impress his present audience. If he would only be the real Rick. The Rick I loved. He never had an interest in the simple person or the underdog. In fact, he would seem to be in contempt of them.

“Everyone has value,” I told him. “Everyone has a gift from God and dreams of the chance to use it. Or maybe, they hold the gift secretly, unwilling to risk failure and with it the loss of their dreams.”

High school was bad. We moved around and I attended different schools. I was the classic kid standing in the cafeteria holding my tray trying to find somewhere to sit. High honor roll students had study hall last period of the day in the cafeteria without supervision. That seemed stupid to me. Every day I crawled out the window and walked home. Mom never found out. She was busy.

I went off to college, worked odd jobs and earned my MFA in five years. My friends at Chicago’s Art Institute admired my talent and determination. Although I never felt as gifted as others, I loved the opportunity and worked hard. We worked on projects together, often not sleeping for days, all the while drinking, smoking, and sometimes taking pills. I knew about their backgrounds and aspirations, and they knew mine. No perfect childhoods in this world. No perfect people. That’s why we have churches and art.

Rick would argue that my view of life had been tainted by what had happened at home and distorted by my crazy artist friends. Jealous, irrational, cynical, broken, he called me. It seemed impossible to please him, and then the suspicions came.

I remember the first incident. Mom had called and mentioned that she had been returning from the grocery store early one summer evening and saw Rick driving a red convertible sports car with a blond woman. Mom said she was a car behind them for about a mile or so, nowhere near Rick’s dealership. They were talking and laughing. The woman’s hair was long, blowing wildly in the wind.

“It’s probably nothing, Honey, but I just wanted to tell you,” she had said.

That night Rick didn’t come home until three A.M. I told Rick about what Mom had seen and asked why he was so late. He said that he had been to dinner with his salesmen and had earlier been taking a client on a test drive when Mom saw him, that’s all.

“But don’t the clients drive on a test drive?” I had asked, “or were you test driving the woman?” Then he seemed angry and disappointed in me and made disparaging remarks about my mother, the gist being that her distrust of my father and resulting failed marriage gave her reason to abandon me, which became our marital carcinogen.

There were many occasions when he came home late and didn’t call. I would worry terribly that he had been hurt in an accident at first, even called hospitals a few times, but eventually I resigned myself to things like that. It was part of the territory of being a wife.

Then there was the time when we were supposed to take Jessica to a car dealers’ convention at Disney World in Florida for some quality family time. He told me at the last minute that he had a special tent sale that weekend and that Jessica and I should go without him. He had to get his ‘numbers’ up. I couldn’t argue. We had just re-mortgaged the house to pay off the taxes. We couldn’t fall into debt again.

The baby enjoyed the petting zoo and the ducks in the fake lagoon more than Mickey and Minnie, whom she perceived to be scary monsters. I was lonely and anxious, envious of all the happy young families. Forget carrying our baby in a backpack, pushing the stroller or holding my hand or standing in line for the merry-go-round–Rick wouldn’t even come. He was embarrassed to be with us. He would have flirted with that young girl selling ice cream, anyway. Would he really be flirting, or was I just insufferably jealous? He was so handsome and gregarious.

If I overreacted, then I was wrong to throw him out. Perhaps I was just afraid to be alone. Maybe we could have gone to therapy together. Maybe he would call me or I should have called him. I won’t call him at work though. The girl who answers the switchboard always giggled when I called and put me on hold forever or disconnected me altogether. She was probably just young and intimidated. I didn’t know her. I always avoided going to the dealership. Was she the one? He was too busy to be with us now. He really used to love me. What had I done wrong? Was I losing my mind? Was he an adulterer? I realized that I could not go on without knowing the truth. I must find out.

IV

Buzzy—short for buzzard—Dedman’s family had been embalming, coiffing, cosmetically beautifying, stuffing, dressing, interring, eulogizing, memorializing, disposing of the remains, and consoling the families and friends of Tinseltown’s most celebrated stars for nearly one hundred years. Buzzy’s grandfather, Buzzy the First, a former circus ringmaster and film director wannabe, began a second career in the embalming business, targeting silent film actors and actresses, his favorite being Gloria Swanson. As the story goes, after arduous preparation, Gloria was displayed majestically in the superior, guaranteed-to-last-for-eternity, 10K golden-gilded casket laid upon a monumental white faux marble pedestal carved in the shape of a swan and surrounded floor-to-ceiling by heavy red-velvet, gold-tasseled draperies. When the ancient black oak grandfather clock with its carved cherubim and immense brass weights chimed seven, the organist began to play, the curtains opened, and Buzzy the First announced in his resounding circus voice, “She is ready for her close up!”

When the curtain opened, Gloria was exhibited gloriously and appeared to look as glamorous as she had twenty years earlier, although dead. Some claim that it wasn’t really Gloria at all, but a desperate-for-work stand-in instead, who later, in rumor, went to the press with her bizarre story which is still under investigation. The doubters speculated that Gloria wasn’t really dead at all, but had escaped from the public eye in the dead of night with her young Latin lover to Tahiti.

In any event, someone got buried and the funeral received rave reviews from the critics and the press and forever endeared the Hollywood elite to Buzzy Dedman and his funeral arrangements. Buzzy One had found his niche. For generations to come, the Gloria Swanson Salon had been the most popular, hard-to-book viewing room in all of Los Angeles, accommodating and comforting those who qualified for and aspired to the grandest final curtain.

In keeping with the family tradition, Buzzy the Third, our Buzzy—Rick’s best friend since high school in Malibu—had tales to tell. He embalmed Bela Lugosi. He hosted Johnny Depp’s mother’s wake. He sold Gloria Swanson’s faux marble swan pedestal on eBay for a small fortune. He was so progressive that he was the first to go green in the funeral business. Recognizing that silicone breast implants and false teeth cause toxic fumes in cremation, he required Igor, his cremation specialist, to wear a protective gas mask. For every ten pair of cremated implants, breast or dental, he planted a tree in Hollywood cemetery. Others followed.

As it happened, it was Janet, estranged wife of Buzzy, that I called to help me find the truth. The phone rang a final time and went to voicemail. I was relieved. “Hi. This is Janet. I’m tied up right now. Leave a message.” I redialed.

Best friends, Rick and Buzzy the Third, told dark stories about high school, college, and recent parties in the parlor. Rick said he would still be in high school algebra if Buzzy hadn’t allowed him to cheat from his test papers. Buzzy was also a drummer in a local band, The Deadbeats, and had a CD that was just released. He was quite a guy.

Phone ringing. Two years prior, Buzzy III, the funeral producer, met Janet who was a couturier for the dead. She designed fine fashions that button in back for the stars to wear to their last performance, forevermore dressed to the nines for that big gig in the sky. She was young, spunky, five-foot-ten, one hundred twenty pounds, had thick, shoulder-length, raven black hair and had the largest breasts of any woman that I had ever seen. She had allegedly stolen Morticia’s look, and there was a big unsettled lawsuit.

Buzzy and Janet had lots in common. They drank beer, and wrote obituaries, eulogies, and epitaphs together. He drummed, she fiddled, and they both enjoyed the morbid thrill of sex in caskets. Buzzy fell totally head over heels in love with Janet’s spectacular mammaries and married Janet six months later. Janet and I became friends, and it gave me assurance to think that at least one threesome in Hollywood would stay together always, Buzzy and Janet’s Tits. But Janet’s mammaries became only memories the night Buzzy played drums with the band for a wedding and met Marilyn, the mud wrestler with a fine ass. Buzzy and Janet’s breasts are now estranged.

Finally my call was answered. It was Janet’s housekeeper, Annabel.

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Barett. Mrs. Dedman is here, but she is just finishing up with her personal trainer. Hold on for a moment, please. I’ll tell her that you are calling.” I heard footsteps, a door opening, and some muffled conversation. Footsteps again.

“Hey, girl.” She sounded breathless from exertion, yet happy to hear from me.

“Janet, how are you doing?”

“I’m doing alright. It’s good to hear from you. We haven’t talked in a long time. I called you a couple of times, but you didn’t call back. Were you and Rick out of town?”

“No, we weren’t.” I took a few moments and prepared myself to say it for the first time. “I—well—I—Rick and I have separated.”

“I didn’t know that. I’m sorry, but I must admit I saw that coming. When? Why didn’t you call me? What happened?”

There was no going back now. I had to tell her. “It just happened yesterday, but we’ve been having problems for a long time. He was gone so much—working long stressful hours.”

“Yeah, I know how lonely that is. The funeral business demanded most of Buzzy’s time, and when we didn’t have a guest or two in the parlour, Buzzy said he was out soliciting funeral business or playing with the band or hanging out with Rick, but I figured it out faster than you did. Buzzy was acting all crazy, picking fights with me over nothing, and leaving for days. We hadn’t slept together for a month. I knew he must have a girlfriend even before he served me with the papers for legal separation. Did you hear?”

“I heard about the mud wrestler, but not about the legal separation.”

“Yeah, a mud wrestler. Can you believe that? He was always intimidated by intelligent women. I hear she’s dumb as a stump. Guess he showed me. I wish we would just divorce.”

“You do?”

“It’s isolating living in the funeral home and sleeping by myself. Most of my friends avoid this place and don’t want to come over. He’s got his girlfriend, and I just want to move on. I am dog sick of smelling floral arrangements and formaldehyde, and Igor has been hitting on me nonstop.”

“Geez.”

“I’m stuck here. Marilyn is afraid of dead people, so Buzzy is selling out. I’m living here, running the business to protect my settlement until he finds a buyer. I deserve something final from Buzzy, you know?”

“Don’t say you want ‘something final’ from Buzzy. You know what business he’s in.”

She chuckled. “You’re right, it’s closure that I want.”

I faced the fear and blurted, “I know what you’re feeling. I can’t take it any more either.” I took a deep breath and continued, “Janet, what did you mean when you said you saw the breakup between Rick and me coming?”

Silence, a sigh, and then she said, “We should talk in person.”

“What did you mean that you figured it out faster than I did?”

“I thought about calling you, but I didn’t want to cause a shit storm.”

The shimmer of hope that my marriage could survive was dying. Oh, God, how I had hoped to hear that Rick and Buzzy were innocent when they were together. Men! And what good wives must put up with. Sure, they smoked cigars and talked a big game. How silly I was to even have called Janet. A wave of nausea engulfed me. I wanted Janet to tell me that our husbands barely spoke to those debauched women who follow Buzzy’s band. If they had spoken to them, it would only have been about business or polite conversation. Those women bought cars and had funerals too. Buzzy finally lost control and went with Marilyn, but Rick didn’t do that. I’m still his girl.

“Can’t we talk about this face-to-face?” She asked. “I would like to see you. Can you come over here?”

“Well, sure I will. I’ll go there. I’m going there right now. Okay? Can I come over right now?”

“Right now?”

“Yes, please, Janet.”

“Yeah, Honey, come on. You sound really upset. Be careful.”

I couldn’t wait another second. I had to face the nightmare.

V

I grabbed a sweater and a few other things and shoved them into a bag for Jessica, whisked her into her car seat, and we took off for Janet’s. Jessica had recovered from the virus that had kept her in the house for the past couple of days, and she was excited to go bye-bye.

It was a grey, drizzly Sunday morning, traffic was light, and I could not stop from driving my marriage straight into the jaws of death.

“Whassat?” Jessica asked, playing our new game as we passed a fountain.

“Fountain.”

“Tantan.”

“Yes, fountain.”

“Whassat?” She pointed.

“You know. What is it?”

“Baby,” she said, and covered her mouth to hide her giggle. She already was developing quite a sense of humor.

“Baby?”

She couldn’t hide her delight. She shook her head from side to side and laughed at her joke. “House,” she said, and nodded her head affirmatively. I laughed with her. She made my life worth living.

In no time we drove up and up the long winding drive lined with tall, red ever-blooming bougainvilleas to the majestic white-columned funeral home on the top of the hill. We parked in front under the green awning, the portico, which usually protected the hearse, the family and the mourners from the rain and sometimes from the cameras of helicopters above that hounded deceased, bereaved or relieved celebrities.

I unbuckled Jessica’s seat belt, and she crawled down and held my hand as we walked. Even in our rush, it was impossible not to stop for a moment to appreciate the magnificence of the place once more.

Originally, it was one of the first homesteads built on the coast of Southern California, the estate of Oliver Oostenheim, renowned railroad pioneer, businessman, and philanthropist. The property was situated on a high cliff off the Pacific Coast Highway overlooking the ocean, touting a view rivaled only by the Ronald Reagan Memorial. The grounds of the Greek-influenced, columned, ivy-covered, three story, stone mansion were protected by a high, elaborate, forbidding, black iron fence, and shaded by acres of trees that provided fruit for people who lived here generations ago, and a forest of giant red oaks and sycamores whispering their stories with the little animal and bird inhabitants. Within were hidden gardens with ponds, statuary, and luscious ferns, fragrant flowering red rose bushes, pink and white lilies, blue acanthus, daisies, forget-me-nots, and sweet William. On a lush, peaceful, breezy knoll near the mansion was the small, quiet, shaded cemetery where Buzzy’s family and their loved ones rested. I watched a big black crow enjoy a bath in the water fountain near Buzzy One’s seraphim and gargoyle-guarded tomb.

The top floor was circular, encased by a series of floor-to-ceiling leaded glass windows, and wrapped with exterior balconies which enveloped the modern posh residence of Janet and, erstwhile, Buzzy. A sparkling clean long, white, Rolls Royce limousine hearse was parked under the portico, ready.

Jessica held my index finger as we climbed the old mossy stone steps. A lazy, fat black cat soaking up the morning sun upon the windowsill awoke, startled, and darted across our path into the bushes. How predictable.

The baby’s eyes were wide, and she took giant steps in order to ascend the stairs. At the top, before the imposing heavy, double, black oak doors, she saw the doorbell and said, “Me ding”. Buttons were fun and new. I lifted her so that she could ring the bell.

We looked through the clear leaded glass panel on the side of the door. No one came down the winding mahogany, blood-red-carpeted staircase. We waited a moment more and rang again and again until Janet finally appeared. Her golden eyes shone brightly, and she smiled, fresh, unreserved, tall, dark, thin, and outrageously buxom, Janet. She threw the door open.

“Welcome! It’s so nice to see you. Oh, look at Jessica. She’s getting so big. Come in, come in.” She flung her long straight black hair over one shoulder and pulled a few wisps from her eyes. A tall muscular, young, blonde man in work out clothes, carrying a gym bag exited as we entered.

“See you tomorrow. Be ready. You did real good today,” he said.

“Thanks, Dorian. Sorry, Barbara,” she said, turning back to me.

“It’s great to see you, too—and the property. It’s even more beautiful than I remember. Thanks for letting us come over.” I scooped Jessica up and we walked in. “Jessica, do you remember Mommy’s friend, Janet? Gee, I think last time we saw you was before Christmas.”

“Christmas? Wow! And this year there were so many suicides. I think the busiest we’ve ever been. Come on up. You haven’t seen the new elevator. We put this in after Buzzy broke his leg playing flag football out on the lawn. Remember?”

“How could I forget? Rick and Buzzy and the other guys got drunk, and they began tackling.”

“Guess they’ll never grow up.” We both chuckled.

“I asked Annabel to make lunch,” Janet said as we loaded into the elevator, which was cleverly concealed behind the staircase.

“You didn’t need to go to all that trouble, Janet.”

Janet closed the accordion steel door behind us with an echoing, chilling clang.

“Can Jessica push the button?”

“Oh, please, Jessica, would you push the button for us?”

I held Jessica’s pointer finger and directed her to push three. Lower basement, basement, floor one and two were—shall we say—business floors. The hydraulic lift gave a soft jolt, a momentary whir, and we began to elevate. The lift stopped, and Janet opened the metal gate.

The memories all came back involuntarily like a flash. This was Buzzy’s pad after college, before he met Janet, when Rick and I were dating. I remembered the parties, the loud music, the smoking, the cold beer, the pizza; disturbing games of hide and seek downstairs, and the disrespectful jokes about the dead.

Now I smelled the familiar scent of potpourri and musky candles inadequately masking the faint aroma of embalming fluid and funeral flowers. I remembered this room full of unfeeling, role-playing, soul-selling zombies looking for a director. They were raucous, pretentious denouncers of mortality, living in hollow shells dripping with the finest jewelry and clothing, smiling impeccable toothy false smiles to false friends, drinking the drinks, dancing the dance to the music of ice clinking in their glasses or to the drugs on the table. They pumped, pulsed, watched and waited for something, some break, some happiness, which was just around the corner.

The cold, still ones downstairs in the caskets, on the slabs or in the drawers in the freezer would be shrouded in the finest funeral dress, their raucousness, their pretensions, their dreams and suffering finished, their mortality revealed at last, awaiting the last call.

Janet had been talking, I realized. I snapped back. Her smile was wide and she wore dark, red, glossy lipstick. I knew her when she had a tooth missing in the back. Perfect teeth now. Had she said something funny? I smiled back.

“Come over here,” she repeated, beckoning from the gargantuan game room with a beautiful ocean view, decorated with oriental rugs, Remington bronzes, original fine oil paintings in golden frames, European tapestries, and Chinese urns. Janet took a seat on the stiff antique white and gold silk French provincial sofa and I sat across from her on the matching loveseat.

“Would you like an iced tea or a mimosa? Annabel will bring lunch in a few minutes. Does Jessica need a special chair?”

“Thanks. An iced tea would be great. I have apple juice in my bag for Jessica. She’ll just sit on my lap. We’re not really very hungry, though.”

Annabel appeared with a silver tray of tiny sandwiches, fruits, cheeses and a sparkling cut crystal pitcher of iced tea. I selected a pomegranate. Jessica happily drank her apple juice from her Cinderella sippy cup.

“You look beautiful,” Janet said while savoring a pear with gorgonzola. “So blonde.”

I bit into the pomegranate. “Thanks, but I don’t feel like I look very beautiful. Janet, let me just go for it. This is really difficult, but you know why I’m here.”

“Yes.”

“Rick doesn’t spend much time at home. Not much at all. When he’s not working, he usually says he’s been with Buzzy. He comes home around six or seven in the morning, just in time to shower and leave for work. What did you mean a while ago when we talked on the phone? What did you want to say to me in person?”

“Buzzy and Marilyn have been living on his yacht in the Caribbean for the past six weeks. Rick hasn’t been with Buzzy.”

I absorbed this information as she searched for words.

She continued, “I’m sorry. I thought you knew. I thought you just wanted to keep your material life style, or had changed your personal life style the way I have.”

“Change my life style?”

“Yes, as I have.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am gay, Barbara,” she responded triumphantly.

“Oh, I didn’t know that. No, you’re not.”

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

“After Buzzy left. I was bi before.”

“Did everyone know that, too?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t know.”

“Gay is okay. Is Buzzy bi? Are Rick and Buzzy gay?”

“No.”

“Phew.”

Jessica squirmed a bit and I found a toy in her bag for her to hold. It gave me a moment to think before I spoke, and then I said it. “So, did Buzzy ever say what Rick’s been up to?”

“Buzzy told me that Rick doesn’t live with you any more. He lives in your beach house.” She rose from her chair, sat next to me on the love seat and tugged me toward her giant breasts. “I’m really sorry to be the one to tell you. Everyone knew. I just assumed—”

I was stunned, sickened. It was beyond what I had feared. I extricated myself from Janet and finally managed to speak. I thrust my chin in the air and said, “I needed to know this. Thank you for telling me.”

While driving home, I stopped at a red light and noticed a young couple in a tired, dented, old car next to mine. Their windows were down, and she was cuddled up close to him with his arm around her. They eyed my loaded, red BMW convertible longingly and studied me enviously. I can’t remember anything else and found myself somehow at home feeling like a battered moth careening against a porch light. I had discovered the truth. It was a Pyrrhic victory.

PART TWO

THE END

I

The next morning, I pulled on a sweatshirt and sweatpants and a pair of cowboy boots. I put my hair back into a ponytail and glossed two layers of Chapstick across my lips. Not going to a Hollywood gala this time. Thank God, Lupe, our housekeeper was back from her trip to Mexico. I caught her surreptitious glance at my attire.

“I’m going out for awhile, Loop. Would you please make a lunch for Jessica and Foofie and take them to the park?”

“Yes, Meessus Barbara. Anything more?”

“If you could, go by the market and pick up some milk and Mighty Dog. We’re out.”

“Okay. Adios.”

“Gracias, Lupe. Adios.”

I stooped down and kissed Jessica. “Bye-bye, baby. I won’t be gone long. I love you.”

“Byios,” she said in Spanglish. I chuckled and kissed her again.

Speeding through Beverly Hills with the convertible top down and my ponytail flying, I recall now that I was in utter shock. Rick told Buzzy that he lives in our beach house? How could I have been so stupid? He told me a couple of months ago that he wanted to remodel the place and that he would like to rebuild the kitchen cabinets, and I noticed that he had bought a do-it-yourself book. He said I should stay away from there while the work was being done. I had envisioned the cozy beach bungalow with a new kitchen full of flowers, balloons and candles on my birthday. This would be my magnificent surprise from my charming husband, the love of my life.

Or perhaps ‘everyone who knew’ was really wrong, and it was a meeting place for those who prevent wildfires or for the ‘Save the Whale’ people. Endangered marine life had always been a concern of Rick’s. Oh, Ranger Rick, what an ecologist.

I turned onto the familiar narrow rutted private road that twists and bends steeply downward through a shady wild forest of oaks, palms, sweet olive trees, orange trees, wisteria vines, wild roses, ferns, and mosses to the ocean. I wondered what that flower was and longed for my mother. I passed no one on the way down, nor were there any people anywhere to be seen on the property. I parked in the circular drive right in front of the two-bedroom grey stone and stucco house, which resembled a Cotswold cottage in front, with floor to ceiling windows on the seaside. A grey, weathered, well-built deck wrapped around the sides and the back of the place, boasting spectacular ocean views. Stepping from the car, the heavenly fragrances of the earth, the dense flora, and the sea were so rich and sweet that I could taste them. The palms rustled softly in the strong breeze off the water in perfect harmony with the crashing surf and crying gulls.

Rick and I had bought the house a few years ago, and had been able to spend intimate quiet weekends there when tenants didn’t occupy it. Rick told me that the house would be rented to a nice little family after the renovation, and again we couldn’t go there. We needed the money.

As I walked up the stone steps, I noticed to my dismay that the usually lush fuchsia and bougainvillea plants were dry, brown, and leaning on the ground, as were the Birds of Paradise, lilies of the Nile and ferns that I myself had so delicately and painstakingly planted.

I knocked on the door, waited, and knocked again. No one answered. Detecting no movement, I walked the outside perimeter, looking in the windows. Obviously it was inhabited and the residents were quite messy. I didn’t need a key. I knew that the door to the kitchen never locked quite right and that I could just open it by pushing my shoulder against it.

I forced the door open and found no remodeled kitchen, no balloons, and no nice family. Instead I found the kitchen a mess with spilling garbage, a sink full of dishes, filthy floor, and food-smeared countertops. The living room carpet was muddy and the dusty furniture was littered with cardboard pizza boxes and empty beer bottles, and the place reeked of cigarette stench.

Stepping through the debris, I walked up the creaky wooden staircase past the room where Jessica’s crib had been and opened the door to the master bedroom. I flipped the light on and found the same state of squalor. My heart pounded. With knees of rubber, I walked around the unmade bed to look closer at what was on the night table: several small empty plastic bags and a razorblade on a mirror covered with white film.

I opened the closet door and with trembling hands pulled the cord to turn on the light and found my answer. Hanging in the closet filled with someone’s dresses, jeans, and blouses were two of Rick’s hand tailored Italian suits. There was no mistake. I had chosen them.

A dresser drawer was left open. Inside was another woman’s dingy lingerie. I chose a pair of red thong panties with broken elastic and a matching frayed bra for souvenirs. She wore a 32AA. Horrors! Was she prepubescent?

I entered the sour-smelling bathroom to see the antique white porcelain sink and claw-footed bathtub ringed with grime. Yellowish napless towels were strewn around the floor and flung over the shower door. I opened the door of the mirrored, toothpaste-streaked medicine chest above the sink. Inside I found the usual: Q-tips, Tylenol, cough syrup and vitamins, but there was more. Prescription bottles and lots of them. Glancing around to make sure no one was there, I took one from the glass shelf—a large, white plastic bottle, dated a few weeks ago. Debra Burning was her name. My husband’s mistress was a sick flat-chested bitch at least in junior high, one would hope, with a gerund for a last name.

I took another prescription bottle and another until my purse was filled. Then I saw it, next to the sink on the counter behind the shave cream. Passion perfume. I felt hot and faint and could not disregard an overwhelming wave of nausea. I leaned over the toilet, and my Power Bar breakfast erupted. I wiped my mouth on a Kleenex from my pocket, turned to leave, but recoiled when I saw two damp, white terry cloth bathrobes hanging like ghosts behind the bathroom door.

With my bag full of prescriptions and the handful of tatty underwear as spoils, I walked back down the stairs slowly and looked around the place once again, determined not to overlook anything. It was all there, just the same. This was not a nightmare.

The telephone rang and I jumped. “Hello?” I answered on the first ring, hoping it would be Rick.

“Hello,” said a youthful female voice, “is Debbie there?”

“No, she’s not. May I take a message?”

“This is Suzi, who’s this?”

“This is Persephone,” I answered stoically.

“Oh, hi. Do you know where Debbie went?”

“She got sick and went to the hospital.”

“She got sick again? What happened? Oh God.”

“Bad yeast infection.”

“Oh God, no. I’ll try her mom. Thanks.”

I left the house, closed the door, and walked slowly down the twenty narrow weathered wooden steps to take one last look at our beach. It occurred to me that Debbie or Rick may return to discover me, and Chapstick, Sweatpants, Boots and I were in no hurry to leave.

The sun was high in a cloudless sky and the waves spilled one upon the other, stirring sand and small shells, and depositing one unfortunate eyeless fish, some seaweed, and a piece of rotten fishing net upon the white sand shore. A lost beach ball floated forward and back and twirled in the white foam. A dog barked off in the distance. The world, surprisingly, had not changed.

I took Boots and Socks off and spotted a broken surfboard, floating in knee-deep water. I waded in to catch it, but it slipped away. I waded deeper. If the tide had carried me away and drowned me, I wouldn’t have cared at all, except I had Jessica, and the next wave sent the board my way, and I dragged it onto the beach, wiped it dry with my sweatshirt sleeve, and used it as a seat to watch a group of dot-sized surfers falling in and out of view with the surging waves.

Sitting with my arms crossed upon my knees, I thought of the day that we closed the mortgage for this place. Rick and I brought a blanket down on the sand that night and celebrated with caviar and champagne. We lay together and loved each other while listening to the surf and watching the stars. I wondered if Rick was seeing Debbie Burning when his father was sick and wondered if she, too, had held Rick while he wept the day his dad had died. I imagined how beautiful she must be to so easily captivate my husband and weighed my deficiencies against her winning qualities.

Perhaps I had become over-devoted to our home. Everything had to sparkle. Between each set of six hundred thread count linens was tucked a different floral sachet. I was overprotective of our baby, not wanting to go far from home, perhaps overly cautious. Perhaps I smothered Rick and begged for affection like an old collie. He couldn’t stand it any more. I harped on him about spending more time at home, and that had driven him away. Debbie Burning was fun, carefree, composed, natural, confident, perhaps a fine artist or an opera singer. I envisioned a 32AA high soprano hopefully over twelve years old. I would go back up to the house, find them together and command, “Sing for me, sing!” I would hear her angelic voice hit high C and then I would smile and kill her, bludgeoning her over the head with a rolling pin many times until I felt better.

Possibly she was a ballerina with bulging calves, or a wide-eyed television anchorwoman, or a circus performer wearing plumes, who hummed The Entertainer through Kleenex and comb. I confronted and killed them all in various awful, clever, and cathartic ways. The anchorwoman while on camera in a dangerous location was riddled by a sniper, me. During the evening performance in the center circus ring, the magician (me) really cut his assistant in half and then in quarters. As for the ballerina, while flying through the air as the Sugar Plum Fairy, she careened headlong into the upper balcony due to a crazed harness operator, decapitating her lithe, leotard clad body. The head fell into the orchestra box and ruined the show; however, it was acclaimed as a smash on Broadway, both literally and idiomatically.

Damp, coated with sand and shuddering, I walked back up the twenty steps to the house just to meet her, the opera singer, the ballerina, the circus performer, the toothless drug-addicted whore. Just to meet her.

I had to see for myself the woman who mesmerized him so that he deserted his wife and baby daughter. My teeth chattered and my breathing quickened as I searched through the kitchen drawers. By the time I found the butcher knife, my hand trembled so wildly that I almost dropped it. I ran to the closet where Rick keeps his baseball bat, closed the door, and hid in the darkness, waiting just to see her. This was my house, and she had no right here. She was the intruder, not I. My entire body trembled and shivered convulsively, and my head nodded from side to side, up and down like a bobble doll. I was cold, so cold, as I lurked in the back of the dark closet, gripping the bat and the knife. My heart rate and breathing accelerated while I waited to meet Debbie Burning. Each moment filled an eternity, but I resolved to lay in wait.

Finally I heard a car move down the drive and stop. The car door opened and closed, and I heard footsteps of a single person approaching. A key turned the lock, and the front door opened. A slight momentary shuffling noise, perhaps putting packages or mail down on the table. I knew she was alone and standing before my closet door. I raised the butcher knife above my head and prepared to strike. But she passed by the door, perhaps turning on lights. Yes, I could see light creeping beneath the closet door. She walked toward the closet again, her body shadowing the light as she passed by. Now I hear her closing the draperies. Walking my way again, she stopped before the door, her body totally blocking the light. I heard her hand on the doorknob and saw the knob turn. She opened it, and I moved forward and raised the knife once more. She shrieked a screeching bloody-murder scream that would rival any scene in any horror movie and gave me some satisfaction. She froze. She attempted another scream, but was paralyzed with fright.

“Do you know who I am?” I demanded.

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Rick showed me a picture.”

“Do you know that we have a baby? Jessica is her name.”

“I’m sorry,” she pled.

“You’re sorry? You?” I didn’t want her sympathy. I dropped the knife and raised the bat, stood sideways and raised it like a baseball player. I loved controlling her and felt an amazing, exhilarating rush of supremacy when she shrank and cowered away. I stepped forward again and took a mighty swing that caught her on the side of her neck. There was a loud cracking sound from her spine, and she fell to the floor, silent. Blood spilled from her mouth and nose, and suddenly all of the anger, all of it, was gone. I would be acquitted, of course. It was a crime of passion.

While waiting in that closet, I enacted all of the murders that my imagination could create, until my heart rate returned to normal and my breath became controlled, and I realized that no one would be murdered that day. My car was parked right in front of the house and if Debbie Burning had returned, she cerainly would have seen it and would have driven past. She would not be walking through that door. Lucky for Debra Burning and for me, I had a baby who needed me. I went home to search for a different way to release the pain.

II

Back home, Jessica was playing happily in her protected world of Mommy, Lupe, Foofie, stuffed toys, Disney movies, and soft food. Thank God that my little daughter had no idea of cheating daddies, friends turned gay, and electricity bills. I was in a daze, but I continued to take care of Jessica as always and for her sake pretended that everything was all right. I took care of myself by beginning an all-dessert diet. While Jessica napped, I allowed myself to curse or cry to my heart’s content, bellowing over this Twinkie or that Moon Pie. How could I have been so stupid?

Strangely, however, I felt relief in knowing that I had not been the psycho Rick had accused me of being. At least I was now a different kind of psycho.

Life went on this way, I don’t know how long, but the nights were worse than the days. It became impossible to sleep, even with pills. Songs on the radio could send me spiraling further downward. It was way past time to go to the beauty salon, but I couldn’t bear it and couldn’t afford it anyway. I didn’t leave the house except to play with the baby in the back yard on occasion or to venture out to the grocery when Moon Pies ran low.

Mom came to the rescue, digging into her meager savings to pay the overdue electric bill to keep the lights on for another month. The other utilities, the mortgage company, the yardman, and the credit card companies were all calling for payment.

I explained the circumstances to Lupe, and she agreed to stay on and take a substantial cut in pay. She loved us like her own family and didn’t have another place to live anyway. I needed her to take care of Jessica when I returned to work. She had also been looking after me sometimes when I left the teapot boiling over on the stove or forgot to lock the doors or couldn’t seem to find the television remote.

I avoided the mailbox. The letters and cards all wore red stickers or were printed on red paper. Thank God I had the Twinkies, Mom, and a little money that I had stashed in my panty drawer. Rick did not call, and I didn’t call him. I wondered if he somehow knew that I had been to the beach house.

It took little detective work on my part to find out on the Internet that Debbie Burning was an actress and had played some bit parts in films that were unknown to me. While waiting for her big break, she operated an office cleaning service. A bit more searching online revealed that the prescription drugs that I had confiscated were those typically prescribed for patients recovering from miscarriage or abortion. Ironically, I was relieved, fearing that she had HIV.

I noticed on caller ID that Sharon had called a few times. I would call her back, but just not yet. If she thought I was not marketable before, she sure couldn’t see me now. I had put on another few pounds and didn’t feel like combing my hair.

One afternoon I was in my bathrobe polishing off a bag of chips, a tub of French onion dip, and a bottle of merlot, watching the shopping channel when the doorbell rang.

Probably the Jehovah’s Witnesses again, I thought to myself, cheered by the prospect.

Through the peephole, I saw a young man with a huge, cut glass vase overflowing with fresh roses, ferns, and lilies. The arrangement was so large that the young man was struggling to reach around them to ring the bell again.

I tucked my hair behind my ears, checked my pale, splotchy chubby face in the hall mirror, opened the door, and peeked out.

“Yes?”

“Good afternoon. Are you Mrs. Barett?”

“Anyone’s game.”

“Huh?”

“I’m Mrs. Barett for now.”

“Well, I have some flowers for you, Ma’am, if you will just sign right here.” He thrust a clipboard at me while juggling the vase.

“Who are they from?” I snarled.

“Well, the card’s over there on that side if you want to open it.”

I searched within the ferns, found the card, and opened the envelope. The card read, “I will always love you. Rick.”

“I don’t want these flowers,” I said to the delivery boy, probably just a college kid, maybe twenty or so. He looked miserable. He had no idea what to do in this situation. He struggled to see me from around the flowers. He was perspiring.

“Oh, come on, lady, take the flowers.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Is something wrong with them? Please take them.”

“Absolutely not.”

“They’re fresh and beautiful, and they’re addressed to you. Please take them.”

I snatched the clipboard from his hand and signed wildly.

“Thanks, I really appreciate it,” he flushed. He passed the huge vase to me. After he walked halfway down the steps, I hurled the flowers and vase with all of my might into the grass, which had not been mowed for three weeks.

The kid spun around, traumatized. “What a psycho!” he shouted as he ran back to his delivery truck.

I slammed the door, flopped back onto the sofa, and turned back to the television. My luck, on the shopping channel they had sold the item that I had my eye on, that compact treadmill that slides under the desk for those office workers who don’t have time to go to the gym.

Channel surfing, I quickly passed the news—too depressing. Beautiful tan girls in bikinis working out on the beach—too depressing. Jerry Springer—now that show always lifts my self-esteem. No, back to the shopping channel—I could get skin cream. But, I was out of merlot. I could watch fishing. Nothing is more boring than watching fishing, but I was out of sleeping pills.

I tuned in to a commercial. The camera closed in on a man sitting alone in a dimly lit, messy room with the draperies closed. His face was a long thin, pale death mask. String instruments played slowly and sweetly. His irises resembled black hollow holes and his eyeballs were yellow and bloodshot. He ran trembling hands through sparse limp hair and his blue lips quivered. High definition television rocks.

“Do you have anxiety? Depression? Trouble sleeping? Eating disorders? Repressed anger? Problems with drugs or alcohol?” the announcer asked piercingly over the music as the camera moved deeper into the eyes of the living dead man.

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. I was six for six. A perfect score. I could be their poster girl.

I reached for the telephone and called Sharon.

“Hello?”

“Hi. It’s me finally.”

“Hello? Hey. Why haven’t you been answering the telephone? I stopped by to see you yesterday, but Lupe said you were in the shower. I’ve been really worried about you.”

“I’m sorry I worried you, but I just wanted to be alone again. I don’t want to bother you, but I—I’m not doing so well.”

I told Sharon about the beach house, and the medicine that I found and the flowers that I ‘sent’ back, but not that I had gained another five pounds or my murderous fantasies.

“Sharon, what’s Hunt’s cousin’s name? The one who is psychiatrist to the stars?”

III

The next day, I was early for my appointment at Century City in L.A. with Hunt’s first cousin, the esteemed Martin Glass, M.D., PhD., psychiatrist and mentor to the rich, famous and infamous, author of a series of self-help books, and motivational speaker. I had met him a few years back at Hunt’s niece’s Bat Mitzvah, and we had danced the Frog together. He was a good dancer, had a deep one-side dimple, and referred to his wife, a gynecologist, as Mommy.

It was refreshing to be out, if even to the psychiatrist’s office. About the waiting room were potted cactus plants, which proved to be plastic and dusty on close inspection. Between Miesian-style chairs were contemporary metal and glass end tables with boxes of tissues and assorted magazines: People, Psychology Today, Money, and Highlights for Children among others.

The receptionist gave me a stack of new patient forms to fill out. I saw her up close and jumped back. I knew this person. She was Bryan! He used to work for Rick in the office. Now he was a she and was black, with a shoulder-length blonde wig, pumped up red lips, and stood about six-foot-four, including four-inch ankle-strap heels. Well, he/she had always been black anyway.

I filled out the forms. No allergies. No recent surgery. Not pregnant. No medications other than ineffective sleeping pills. What a physical specimen. Unremarkable history other than the passing away of the marriage, which had been moribund anyway. Was I a danger to myself or others? Tough one. I didn’t mention that I had done a recent Google search for hemlock, just out of curiosity. I returned the forms to the receptionist who had been a man who worked for my husband and found a seat.

There were two other people waiting, leaving four chairs available. I chose the one near a sport-coat-wearing big handsome man, absorbed in the National Enquirer, rather than the chair beside the pallid catatonic gentleman in the wheelchair. I picked up an issue of Highlights for Children and opened it to my favorite page, where one finds hidden objects within a large picture. In all of my childhood, I had never had a new one of these magazines. The concealed items had always been already discovered and circled, and today was no exception. I placed it back on the table and caught another glance at the man behind the tabloid.

The second look affirmed my quick physical first impression of the man, and I thought I recognized him. I was curious. He was muscular, six-foot-four, two hundred twenty-five pounds, maybe, hair/eyes brown.

I reached into my handbag for lipstick. Slid some on. Mauve, which matched the wallpaper. He turned the page of the Enquirer and caught me looking. I smiled. He smiled. I picked up a Condé Nast Traveler and thumbed through the pages to impress him. He replaced the Enquirer, slumped in his chair, crossed his arms, and looked my way. He caught me watching him again.

“Hi,” I said, embarrassed. “I think I know you from somewhere. I’m trying to place your face.”

He shrugged. “I’ve never seen you here before. Two o’clock on Tuesday. You took Winona’s place. What are you in for?”

“No, it’s killing me. Where do I know you from?”

“Dunno.”

“I know! You’re my insurance man! You’re Bradley Stanford, and I’m in your good hands.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Oh. Well then, let’s see. From the park?”

“I’m Alan Mercer. I was the quarterback for the Oakland Raiders.”

That’s how I knew him. We had him, life-size in color on cardboard, at our Super Bowl party a couple of years ago.

The door opened, and a nurse wheeled the catatonic person away.

“That’s a shame,” said Alan, indicating the catatonic.

I watched, wide-eyed, questioning.

“Know who that was?” he asked.

“No. Who?”

“That was Mel Douglas, or what’s left of him anyway. The last three movies that he produced were total flops. Box office disasters. Critics made a laughing stock of him. He’s lost everything, including his wife. Hasn’t been able to speak a word for months.”

“Oh, my gosh.”

“I know. I feel the same way. I’m a great fan. Saw all of his movies. I didn’t think the last ones were so bad. It’s a damn shame.”

“Terrible.”

“Yeah, I admired the guy. I even had a cardboard Mel Douglas at my party after I got my Super Bowl ring.”

A revelation: cardboard people possess cardboard people.

“So, come on, what are you in for?” Alan asked.

“Oh, just broken psyche. Cheating husband. Mundane.” I was acting cool. A person with a cardboard likeness was talking to me, and we both had psychological problems. I was ecstatic. I had met someone.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“My problem is about being out of football, long story short.”

“You were a great player. I miss watching you on TV. I love football.”

“Football. It’s great when you’re at the top of your game, but after every season you’re beat up, and new younger guys come in.”

“I can imagine that. It’s a tough, tough game.”

“I wasn’t ever very good, I guess. Not really.”

“Oh, shut up! You are one of the greats!”

“Nah, I really only played because my dad wanted me to. I just tried to please him. He went to all of my games until I got sidelined after a back injury. My dad left the stadium. He didn’t go to any of my last games when I sat the bench. Following season they dropped me from the team.” Alan obviously needed to confide.

“You seem to be okay talking about it. That’s supposed to be a healthy sign.”

“Right. I have to be. I have a book coming out in a couple of weeks, and need to feel comfortable in interviews. Guess I was practicing on you.”

“I don’t mind.”

He lowered his head and continued. “I was everybody’s hero—a Heisman Trophy winner. Next thing I know, I’m useless. I guess from now on my only game will be Play Station football and watching my old team videos.”

“It seems to me that a father who assumes his son’s vicarious victory must someday endure his vicarious failures.”

“Everybody forgot about me right away: the cheerleaders, coaches, the autograph hunters, the press, and even my hometown. But Dad being ashamed was the worst. And what am I if I’m not a football player?”

The receptionist called his name.

“I remember you,” I said, “and your book will bring you new success and happiness, I know.” I had never before met a real cardboard person.

Then it was my turn.

“Hello. I’m Marty.”

I wanted him to be my mentor. “Hi. Remember me? I’m Sharon and Hunt’s friend.” I wanted him to lead me. “No, I was never sexually abused, sorry. Some of my friends were. I was just ignored by my father.” I noticed there was no window in his office. “No, sorry. I was just ignored.”

“So can you remember anything in your childhood that you would like to talk about?”

“This is a reach, but it’s kind of interesting, I guess.”

“Yes, what is it?” He looked at the clock again.

I talked faster. “After Mom’s divorce, my cousin lived with us. He rented a room and was supposed to be my babysitter, kind of. Larry was his name. I was ten.”

“Okay. How old was Larry? Did he have a job?”

“He was ummmm–he came to live with us when he was maybe twenty-five. He was an accountant.”

“Yes. Go on.”

“He always tried to strangle me, but Mom didn’t believe me.”

“Really? Why did he try to strangle you?”

“Oh, different reasons. We only had one TV, so he wanted to watch his shows. Also, over Oreo cookies. Stuff like that. Actually he only tried to strangle me half a dozen times, so it wasn’t that bad.”

“Strangle you? Did you go to the hospital? Did you pass out? What did your mother do about it?”

“No, nothing like that ever happened. I just couldn’t breathe and turned beat red. He never left a bruise even. Maybe I should say that he would just put his hands around my throat, squeeze, and shake my head. And like I said, Mom didn’t believe me.” I was trying to communicate and to find answers and be normal.

“I see.”

“But the worst time was when I was a freshman in high school when I came home with my friend, the smartest and cutest boy in the class, to do homework together.”

“Ummmhmmmm.” He suppressed a yawn. “Please continue.”

“We got to my house, and I poured Cokes for Tom and me. We only had two Cokes. Larry, my cousin, the strangler, was there, and he was mad because he didn’t get a Coke. Our house was really small, and Tom and I were drinking our Cokes in the living room and Larry sat down in a chair across from us and crossed his legs. He was wearing his red silk bathrobe and slippers and just stared at us while he blew smoke rings with his cigarette and swung his skinny chapped white leg with long black hair.”

“Yes. Bleh. I get the picture.”

“He just stared at us, smoking and swinging his leg. I knew he wanted to strangle me again, but Tom was there.”

“Choke. I think choke would be a better term.”

“Okay. Choke. Tom and I finished our Cokes, went into the kitchen and started to do our homework at the table. Larry went into his bedroom and slammed the door. Then we heard a noise, like a whirring noise. Kind of like a tiny lawn mower.”

“Yes?”

“I knew Tom heard it too, but we ignored it. He was my first boyfriend, and we were thinking about kissing.”

“What happened next?” He finally showed some interest.

“Larry came out of his bedroom wearing just an animal print silk kimono thing. He sat down at the table with Tom and me and crossed his chapped skinny bald blue-white legs and smoked another cigarette.”

“Bald?”

“Yes. He had shaved them bald. His legs, I mean. Then he said, ‘I got this robe in Paris,’ and he blew smoke rings on me and his big yuddy yuddy went up and down.”

“Yuddy yuddy?”

“That’s right.”

“What’s that?”

“This thing.” I indicated where my yuddy yuddy would be if I were a man, in the middle of my throat, beneath my chin. I had to teach him anatomy—hadn’t he gone to medical school?

“I understand. Then what happened?”

“Tom forgot all about kissing me and went home. He never called again. That night when Larry tried to strangle—sorry, choke me, I punched him in the nuts. He told my mother. My adolescence was ruined.”

“Hmmmmmm. Interesting.” I could tell that my history had had an effect on Marty like Sominex. “How is your relationship with your mother?” He probed.

“Wonderful. She’s my mother.”

“So, your parents were divorced when you were ten?”

“Seven.”

“How did you feel?”

“I was okay. It didn’t bother me when they got divorced.”

“Did you miss your father?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I was glad. My parents fought all the time. It was ummmm—uhhhh—I would prefer not to talk about that right now.” Bad memories flooded my mind.

“So, then you lived with your mother and Terry?”

“No, Larry.”

“And your mother was a working mom?”

“Yes.” I was beginning to fight tears.

“Did she ever remarry?”

“No.”

“Did you do well in school?”

“Yes. I got top grades.” I reached for a tissue.

“What was home like apart from you and your cousin, Larry? Tell me about it.”

“It was quiet, at least. Mom had to work really late a lot.” He was getting into painful territory.

“How did you feel?”

I began to cry.

“It’s okay. Tell me.”

“We moved and I didn’t have any friends. Mom liked her new job a lot and met people at work. She had some boyfriends.”

“So were you jealous of Mom’s new job and her male friends?”

“I really don’t want to talk about that. If you have gathered enough information about my childhood, I really would like to talk about what’s going on right now. The hour is almost over and I’m only seven. I need your advice.” I was sobbing. Damned Freudians!

Marty allowed me to tell him about my suspicions, the debt, the discoveries at the beach house and my overwhelming grief and murderous proclivity. He told me that half of all marriages end in divorce. This is part of life. I must go on. Get a job. Survive. The timer let out a long startling ring.

Even Marty, the psychiatrist to the—well, you know–couldn’t help me much in an entire hour. Worse, I was sure that he hadn’t remembered that we had danced the Frog or that I was best friends with his cousin. I wrote him a two hundred dollar hot check and he went home to Mommy, I guess.

While driving home, I searched my inner being for comfort and thought of Jessica’s favorite cartoon character, Sponge Bob, who wakes each morning singing, ‘Wonderful things will happen today’. I resolved to consult my inner Sponge Bob in future times of trouble.

PART THREE

THE BEGINNING

I

It was just like any other day at the grocery store, except the cucumbers looked particularly nice. A frail, balding, crooked woman was blocking the aisle, hunkered over the cat food. That will be me some day, I said to myself, feeling glum. She didn’t move for a long time and I couldn’t pass with my cart.

“Excuse me, please”. Deaf or dead, she didn’t move, so I maneuvered the shopping basket into a u-turn. A family of six was fighting over breakfast cereal on aisle two as I wheeled my way to produce, searching for fresh thyme for my Italian chicken recipe. I was delighted that I felt like cooking today. After several passes, I could not find the herb, so I asked the Asian produce manager, “Do you have any thyme?”

He was carrying a heavy box of mangoes hurrying toward the tropical fruit department.

“What?”

“Fresh thyme.”

“I haf noh thyme.”

“Do you think you might have some in the back?”

“Noh! Noh thyme! I haf noh thyme for you!” I sought my inner Sponge Bob and moved on.

Was it paranoia, or had the guy with the cart behind me been staring at my butt since dairy products? There was a guy behind the guy who was staring at my butt, who was staring at his butt. Really incredible was that by the time we were going through detergents and insecticides, a woman with your typical piercings-and-goth look got behind the man who was behind the man who was behind me, and was really checking out his butt. And this is called the City of Angels?

Finally, in meats, after much deliberation, I decided upon a rack of veal. I reached for it just as someone else reached for the same roast. I had one end of it; he had the other. Unlike my choice of husbands, I know a good rack of veal when I see one. I sized up my opponent.

He had thick, dark curly hair, and wore a black leather jacket, a white T-shirt, worn jeans, and earrings, one diamond and one small hoop. He looked down at me through brilliant green eyes. Here was my fantasy, number four-hundred-seventy-two, in the meat department, clutching one end of my rack.

“Excuse me,” I said. To myself, I said, I like his mouth. He has juicy lips, but he’s not getting my veal.

“Excuse me,” he responded apologetically in a deep, raspy voice, not dropping his grip.

“There’s another rack of veal over there,” I remarked.

“Well, here, let me get it for you.”

He’s not such a slick one, I said to myself. He released his hold on my roast and picked up the other one. Now I knew I had him.

“Here’s the one you want.” He handed it to me and now I was holding two huge pieces of meat.

“Here, allow me to help you,” he said as he took the good one.

“How do you fix yours?” I asked suspiciously.

“Lots of garlic and butter, then I put it in the oven uncovered at three-fifty for one hour. Plum sauce on the side. How do you do yours?” He was sounding unsure of himself, and the plum sauce was wrong.

“I prepare Blanquette de Veau,” I answered confidently, pursing my lips French-style involuntarily in response to his sexy voice. “First I stew the roast and use the broth to make a heavy roux and add a few shaved truffles at the end.”

“That sounds great.” He nodded approvingly and seemed to look through my eyes into my thoughts. “This is far and away the best,” he said, gesturing toward the one he was holding.

“Right. Uh huh. I think it is, and I had it first. It’s mine.”

“But I have it now. Maybe the butcher can cut it in half.”

“Oh, like King Solomon and the baby.” He laughed a genuine, delightful laugh. He got my joke, and he was fabulously handsome.

“Okay. I love this roast but I will allow you to have it, even if it is rightfully mine,” he said finally.

“Nah. That’s okay. I’ll just go get a chicken.” That took all of his power away. He seemed deflated, and I was afraid that he would give up.

“I have an idea. This rack of veal is a little large for me anyway, so what if I buy it and we cook it together?” he suggested.

“Deal.” I replied without hesitation, then immediately regretted appearing desperate. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to mind at all, smiling a lovable, devilish grin.

We walked together—he, I, and the circling line of entranced butt watchers, to the checkout counter, everyone sneaking a peak at everyone else’s cart contents. I feared they spied my Moon Pies and knew everything.

Mr. Leather and I exchanged telephone numbers, agreed to meet at my place, and I watched him ride away with the veal. A man on a Harley, named Scott, had just picked me up in the grocery store.

II

Mom took Jessica for the night, and Lupe went to spend the weekend with her sister. I scrambled to tidy the place up. Amazing how fast a baby, a poodle, and a maniacal soon-to-be divorcée can make a mess. Baby toys put away, table set, sides prepared, candles lit, I dove into my white denim strappy dress, and surveyed the situation. All was under control, with the exception of Foofie, waiting by the door expectantly, obviously needing to go out. She looked up at me and shivered. I opened the door, and she immediately pooped on the front door mat. “Oh, no! No. It’s okay. It’s okay, Foof.”

I threw the doormat into a trash bag and into the garage. Be calm. Why be mean to a poodle? You are a terrible pet owner. I hope Scott doesn’t notice her big eye boogers, I thought. I sprayed Foofie with doggie cologne and sprayed the front porch and foyer with air freshener. Foofie slunk away.

I ran to my bedroom, washed my hands, fixed my hair a bit and doused myself in perfume. I took a moment to examine myself in the full-length mirror on the closet door. My hair was just not behaving. I rearranged it this way and that way and ran my fingers through the sides so many times that it began to hang in clumps. I turned around to survey my backside–not too bad–and then again the front. I must not slouch. I evaluated my image with perfect posture, and then relaxed. As soon as I relaxed, I became two inches shorter and four months pregnant. I must hold my breath all night, I decided.

There was no more time to worry about my appearance, because the doorbell rang. I caught a glimpse of him through the window before I opened the door. Oh, how dashing he looked wearing a black sport coat and white dress shirt, with a bottle of red wine in one hand and a large rack of veal in the other.

“Hi! You found the place with no problem?”

“No. No problem. Nice neighborhood.” He kissed me quickly on the cheek, and stepped back. “You look wonderful.”

“You, too.”

He looked at the antique Baccarat crystal chandelier above his head and took a sweeping glance about the foyer and its oriental carpet. “Nice place,” he remarked.

“Please come in.” I closed the door behind him. “Follow me. Kitchen’s this way.” What an odd first date, I thought. What if he’s a serial killer? Maybe he’s casing the place. Why can’t I be normal? “You can put that stuff down here if you like.” I indicated the counter, and he relinquished the grocery bags.

“Want to help make a salad?” I asked.

“Sure! What can I do? Mind if I take my jacket off?”

“Oh, sorry. Please, let me take it.” He took it off and handed it to me. Oh those shoulders. As I rounded the corner on my way to the hall closet, I surreptitiously looked at the label. Although from Macy’s, the coat was stylish, the fabric was soft, and I stole a delightful whiff before hanging it up. Maybe he’s the one who should be worried about this strange date.

Back in the kitchen, I said, “Thanks for bringing the bottle of wine. Should we open it?”

“Absolutely. Where’s the opener?” He was no stranger to opening a bottle of wine, and the muscles in his forearms grew impressively below his now rolled-up shirtsleeves when he pulled the cork. “We should let it breathe a while.” I remembered not to exhale.

“I’ll get some glasses.” I placed two dazzling crystal wine glasses on the counter.

“What’s next? Salad?” he asked. I brought red cabbage, lettuce, walnuts, pear, vinegar, oil, and blue cheese from various places in the kitchen. He cut the pear and grated the cabbage—all the violent stuff. I mixed the salad dressing.

I’m a musician,” Scott said as he savored the veal. The dinner was perfect, and two bottles of red wine evaporated, while tapered candles in antique crystal candelabras burned brightly. The music he had chosen especially for the occasion was from his collection, featuring old and new instrumentals, soundtracks, various recognizable artists, and mysterious nameless compositions.

“What is this?” I frequently interrupted, pointing into the air. “Oh, what’s that?” Pointing again toward the soft, sensual sounds of guitar, sax, drum, and soprano in an indistinguishable tongue.

“Where did you study music?” I asked, a sip of cabernet melting into my palette.

“I went to school in New Orleans for awhile, but I was working at the same time and finally dropped out. I learned mostly from listening and playing in a band,” he said in his sexy, husky voice.

“What instrument?”

“I can play different instruments, but I’m best as a vocalist. People identify with lyrics. I love feeling the audience respond to something that I sing, especially something that I wrote. You’re one of the first to hear one of my new songs tonight. What’s that?” He pointed to the air and mimicked my admiring, curious face.

He picked up the saltshaker and said, “This is a really nice saltshaker. What kind is it?”

I had sensed his discomfort earlier. Suddenly I longed for comfy dust balls and to proudly display Foofie’s mats. I wished I hadn’t given away that old ceramic rooster and chicken set from the Wisconsin Dells, but then there would inevitably be other issues.

“Thanks. It’s Nambé.”

“Where are the kids?” he asked, pointing to Jessica’s high chair.

“Kid. Jessica’s at my Mom’s for the night.”

“Oh that’s nice. What’s that?” he motioned toward the acrylic encased form of My Lobotomy.

We should have met for a cup of coffee. I hadn’t had a date in more than a decade. I felt my heart begin to beat rapidly and overwhelming anxiety invaded. Excusing myself from the table, I ran to the powder room and splashed cold water on my face. Now my makeup was ruined. I ran to my bedroom and shut the door, considering the idea of staying there, locking Scott out forever and drinking hemlock.

Sponge Bob wasn’t working and I didn’t have hemlock. I called Dr. Marty’s psychiatric emergency hotline instead. He answered after two rings, thank God, and I explained the situation. Marty told me to remain calm and to tell Scott about myself briefly, truthfully, leaving some of the skeletons in the closet for now, and to make an appointment.

I crept out of my room, and stopped by the wine cellar to chose another bottle of red. Scott was still sitting at the table, looking lost, vacant, handsome, and a little drunk. Fortified, bulletproof, behind another glass of wine, I explained my artwork, impending divorce, and briefly touched upon my job search, not revealing my burgeoning feelings of inadequacy.

Scott was quite interested in my artwork. “When did you first realize that you were an artist?” he asked, and obviously emboldened by alcohol, took my hand in his to examine it.

Dreamily, affected by the wine, comfortable in the conversation now, not thinking about my hangnails, I elucidated, “Oh, when I was a kid, I guess. I would lie in the grass with my friend, Judy, and study the clouds. ‘Look at that! It’s a horse with wings and a man with a beard.’ I would point them out, but Judy could never see anything but clouds. In the shade of a big tree, I could see gnomes and fairies playing in the sunbeams that filtered through on the grass, and Judy only saw shadows. Then I began to draw what I saw so she could see too.”

“Wow, you’re creative. Show me something you see right now.”

“Look at this! Right here, on the tablecloth in the candlelight. It’s a woman dancing.”

“Nuh uh!”

“Sure is. There she is, right there. That’s her face and there’s her long hair, and she’s wearing a long flowing gown.”

“Right there?” He pointed.

“No, that’s her cat.”

He threw his head back and laughed.

“No really, it’s there! Do you want me to sketch it for you? We have to hurry, because the light will change.

“Not right now.” Then his gaze fell from my eyes to my lips, and I knew he was going to kiss me. A real kiss. He moved closer. Dimly bemused that one moment I was frantic about my financial predicament, the next apologetic about an extravagant saltshaker, and now concerned about my obsolete kissing techniques, I just stopped thinking altogether.

I pulled away from him and brushed my hair from my face. “I’m planning a party on the twenty-eighth,” I heard myself say, “and would like to have live music. Would you and your band play?” He agreed.

We cleared the dishes, shared crème brulee, and a sweet, long kiss goodnight.

III

That night and the next morning, I successfully invoked my powerful Sponge Bob philosophy. I felt rejuvenated and confident. I became thoroughly convinced that this new invertebrate way of thinking and Sharon’s party idea would resuscitate my life and set me back on the path to happiness. It was a bright Saturday morning, and I showered, washed and brushed my hair, donned my favorite pink warm-up suit, and sprinted down our street to visit Sharon.

“Good morning,” I chirped to my neighbor, Mrs. McClellan, as she supervised her maid cutting flowers from the rose garden. “Beautiful day,” I called out to young Bryndon Warner, who waved and passed by in a Mercedes convertible. How time flies. I didn’t know he was old enough to drive.

Alive again, I approached Sharon and Hunt’s estate, invisible from the road, secluded on heavily wooded property, and surrounded by a great stone-and-iron fence. At the gate protecting the private drive to the house, I rang the bell and waited a short time.

“Hallo? Hallo? May I help you?” The nanny called through the intercom.

“Anamarie?”

“Yah, Mrs. Barett?”

“Yes. It’s me. Is Mrs. Tishbaum in?”

“Oh yah, yah! And she will be so happy to see you. I will open the gate, so you come ahead, and I will tell her.”

The massive black iron gates creak open seldom and slowly to allow only a few into the secret lives of my paparazzi-abhorring friends and their guests. Intimidating, with three levels built of white stucco and glass—modern, long and sleek, their home was like a museum designed by Hunt to flaunt his sense of style and form, to exhibit their priceless art collection, and to house their family in ultimate leisure and comfort. It was Hunt’s biggest and most satisfying erection, as Sharon would say. As always the place took my breath away, and I wondered again how I could ever consider myself to be an artist in a world of such sophistication and talent.

But this was the home of my true friend Sharon, who married Hunt, whose patients comprised a revolving door of Hollywood’s most elite actors, directors, producers, writers, singers, composers, and their wives and mistresses, their husbands and misters. He had lifted, tucked, sucked, implanted, and chiseled them all, and then again. He had been interviewed on every important talk show and in all the popular magazines. A family man who loved his wife, kids, and horses more than all the glory and glitter, he was still the same guy who I met in college, although his name back then was Lester Tishbaum. He married my best friend, and they loved me like a sister.

Suddenly the door was flung open and Sharon ran out to greet me. We wrapped our arms around each other and danced.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said as we pressed our cheeks together. Holding each other, we waltzed into the foyer where Hunt jumped up from playing his harp to join us.

“‘Bout time we saw you! You look terrific, kid.” He kissed me on the head and hugged me around the waist. I wondered if he felt my Twinkies. “You smell good too.”

We sat close together in the breakfast room on soft colorful Moroccan-cushioned sofas, looked out upon their lavender and herb garden and immense antique bronze water fountain, talked, and sipped exotic hot tea. We laughed about my session with their cousin, Marty, about my Sponge-Bob-driven life, and celebrities in the news. We talked about the latest earthquake, six on the Richter scale, nobody hurt, thank God, and admired the newest pictures of the kids.

Then pow. “So what’s goin’ on with you?” Hunt asked with his eyes fixed on mine. Sharon moved around in her chair, re-crossed her legs.

“Much better. I’m a lot better.”

“Good. We were worried. Why didn’t you call us?”

“I had to let the shock wear off. Well, I wasn’t really all that shocked, I guess. Not really. I have just accepted everything.”

“Don’t shut us out. We love you,” said Sharon.

“I was embarrassed, felt guilty, confused.”

“Guilty?” she asked. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Sure I did. I was too weak, or too strong, or too unforgiving. He was too spirited, too handsome, too tempted, and too egotistical. Some people can hold it together for life. Just not us.”

“Eh, it could happen to anybody,” said Sharon.

“Yeah,” said Hunt, “even Maria Shriver.”

“Even Hillary Clinton,” I added.

“Rick’s been dickin’ you over for a long time. He was never good enough for you. I hate that fuckin’ prick,” said Sharon. Hunt winced, but nodded. We reflected on this quietly, looked out onto the garden, and the cook who had once worked for Sharon Stone brought us tuna salads.

“Sharon, remember your idea about a party for me?”

“Sure, I remember. Why?”

“I’m ready for that if you still want to do it.”

“Oh Hunt, that’s what we should do! We’ve got to cheer her up and get her back into a social life. We talked about it, remember?”

“Sure, I think,” nodded Hunt with his sweet Martin Short face, dominated as usual by Sharon. He bit his lower lip, and assumed The Thinker position.

“Let’s work on the guest list. Barbara and I can invite some real people. Hunt, you should get some stars to come.”

“I know a single stuntman,” Hunt offered.

“A stuntman, Lester, please. That’s the best you can do for our best friend? Jessica is our goddaughter!” Sharon was horrified. When she calls him Lester, she really means business.

“I’ll also invite our new anesthesiologist, and Antonio when we fence tomorrow,” Lester/Hunt assured. “So, that’s three for me.”

It’s not as easy for Lester/Hunt as one would believe. I’ve seen him attempt to intermingle at parties. His legendary clients pretend not to know him, snub him in fact, and attribute their health and beauty to a new diet plan, expensive cosmetic line, exercise video and contraption, or just plenty of drinking water.

“Oh. Wait a minute! Isn’t that new anesthesiologist the one who is dating Cherise Tourneau?”

“Who the hell is Cherise Tourneau?” Hunt asked.

“She’s the latest young glamorous Hollywood bombshell. She was just on the Tonight Show the other night. Hunt, don’t you remember the clip from her new movie?” answered Sharon. “She can’t come to the party! That would ruin everything.”

“Ah, I do remember, but don’t worry. She dumped him a few weeks ago for some director.”

“Let’s invite the doctor and his wife from next door. They’re married, but I hear them fighting all the time,” Sharon suggested.

“What?”

“He’s darling, and she has legs like tree trunks. Do you know if he’s a specialist?”

“A psychologist. I think he’s the one who writes the advice column for the L.A. Times.”

“Oh, dear.”

“There’s that guy I play gin with at the club.”

“Oh, really? What does he do?”

“He’s a real estate mogul. Never married.”

“I remember you told me about him. He’s an older man. Never married? I wonder if something’s wrong with him. What’s his name?”

“Wilt.”

“Hmm.”

“We should go next door right now and invite the psychologist and his wife. Rosie, pick some lavender for us to take.” She opened the doors to the garden. “Rosie?”

“It’s Rosie’s day off,” said Hunt. “Ana is working today.”

“Ana! Ana!”

As soon as the doors were opened, muffled shouts were audible from next-door, sounding like “Put down that gun,” or, “Joe’s your son,” and “I hate your mother” perhaps. Then, I think, “You insufferable bitch!” in a male voice. A woman shrieked and we heard a crashing of dishes and a loud barking dog. “Bitch!” for certain.

“We should take the lavender later.” Sharon closed the garden doors.

And such was the beginning of my new life.

IV

The weather was perfect and the gods shined down upon us, heralding the full moon. Interesting-looking, beautiful, fascinating men and women of all ages arrived at my door in foreign cars, limousines, and heaps. Sharon hired extras—gorgeous actors—to mingle and tend the bar hidden behind the waterfall that flowed into the hot tub pouring into the pool.

Scott and his band placed their equipment on a platform near the waterfall and were testing when Sharon picked up the microphone. There were squeaks and squawks and the usual home-party feedback screeches intermingled with Sharon’s voice.

“Welcome to all of our wonderful guests this evening, and thank you for coming,” Sharon shrieked into the mike. Some people covered their ears. “We are all here tonight to celebrate a fabulous evening with friends, but we should also honor our hostess, Barbara Barett, the gifted artist and sculptor.” She was barely audible above the even higher-pitched sound system squawks. It made me kind of sick to my stomach. “Her artwork is displayed in her lovely home, and all are welcome to view, appreciate, and purchase this fine art. Thank you all very much, and enjoy!” People clapped and resumed conversation.

She stepped down from the stage and continued showing Hunt’s other cousin, the realtor, around the place with a small group of people following, investigating the digs and taking notes. The band started, playing an instrumental while Scott meandered through the crowd introducing himself and shaking hands in cadence to the sound of music that was current yet classic, romantic but upbeat, and strong without overpowering the party. These musicians knew their stuff.

Feeling like a newborn bird peeking from its broken egg, I saw champagne that bubbled and drinks that swizzled, and heard trills of brilliant conversations shared between friends, neighbors, stars, extras, and total strangers with exciting names like Skye or mysterious unpronounceable names like Anagnostes, who had great tans, hair extensions and plumped lips, and enjoyed the music, the moonlight, and free drinks with foods on little sticks for dipping in aromatic sauces.

Flowers and candles were floating in the crystal clear water of the pool as I floated amongst my guests in the self-conscious, half-conscious, conscientious way that is so typical of a beautiful, now alone, woman attending her own great party wearing a very expensive, unpaid-for revealing dress, with sexy shoes that hurt, living for the moment, encircled by appreciative guests. Surrounded by attentive gorgeous men handpicked by Sharon, I consumed a bit of champagne, thrust my eggshell cocoon aside, and pranced through them like a prized filly before the Kentucky Derby. Sharon had chosen the female guests with the criterion that they were to be Hollywood average or below, although they would still be head-turners in Nebraska since each had been powdered and preened by the best make-up artists and hairdressers and decorated in finest couture. This was my night to star but even though the deck was stacked, and I was newly hatched, I still felt fat.

The men, less intuitive than women, did not notice this Hollywood anomaly: a disproportionate number of handsome males. It was a sausage market, and the women and I surveyed the selection for the choicest meats. There was something in the air that night.

I loved and hated these moments beneath the knowing eye of the full moon in this strange town of Beverly Hills. In the morning I would wake up a day older, in financial ruin to accept that I was facing divorce, I needed to diet, and knew that the tags on the dress that I was wearing had to be replaced in order for me to return it. I could no longer even afford to pretend.

I snapped back to the moment and found myself surrounded by three women.

“After returning from Nepal, I have learned to live a simple existence,” said the tall, dark, thin one wearing a white linen pantsuit and fine mustache.

“Um hmm, that’s right, that’s right,” stated the lady in the dashiki and enormous filigree, gold hoop earrings.

“Yeah, this world is really fucked-up,” interjected the one wearing the army jacket and a diamond in her nose.

I continued on my way to make sure that the bartenders had enough ice when I bumped into Sharon.

“This is perfect,” she breathed, “it’s going to be a fabulous night.”

“I love this. I am so happy. Thank you Sharon.” We hugged, and savored the moment.

Then I saw Scott join his band. He was wearing a tight pink and beige, tie-dyed, silk shirt, faded loose jeans, loafers without socks, and the usual earrings. “Do you see him?” I asked Sharon.

She looked in the direction where I had been looking. “Who?”

“Him, on the stage.” He adjusted his microphone and strolled gracefully across the platform to whisper to his drummer. Returning to the front of the stage, he gazed through the party of preoccupied people and, to my embarrassment, caught us staring.

“Which one?”

“The singer. The one at the microphone.”

“Why? Did he steal something?”

“Just look at him. How he’s so focused on the crowd, taking everything in effortlessly, graceful as a big cat.”

“The singer?”

“Yes, Scott Martin. Doesn’t he just exude self-confidence? He seems at home on the stage like the audience is just a cozy fire.” I sighed.

“Of all fabulous available men here, you are infatuated with the help?”

“Mmmmmm, mmmmm, mmmmmmm. He’s smooth.”

“He’s the entertainment, Barbara. That’s the help.”

“I am intensely attracted to him.” Sharon rolled her eyes to demonstrate her disapproval.

A final word to the keyboard man and the guitarists, a last look through his inattentive audience, a deep breath, and he began to perform. As he sang and danced, the people forgot their food, and even their conversations, and began to respond. They tapped their feet, snapped their fingers, and moved to his music. He basked in the crowd’s reflected warmth. Evan Woodson, the handsome weatherman on Channel Four who just came out as gay, was watching, like Jody Foster looking into outer space in the movie Contact, while sucking the tip of his index finger.

“Do you think I should ask the bartender to take him a drink? He’s sweating,” I asked. Sharon stalked off.

“How do you like your new home in the south of France?” I overheard a man who looked like Omar Sharif in a turban ask someone who looked like Cary Grant wearing an ascot.

I stopped to speak with them. “Thank you for coming to my party. Welcome. I’m Barbara Barett. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Thank you for inviting me. What a beautiful evening. I’m Fareed Patel, Hunt’s anesthesiologist,” said the turbaned man, reaching for my hand and holding it between his hands. “I am extremely honored to meet you.”

An anesthesiologist could come in handy if … “I’m so glad you could be here.”

“Hello Barbara,” said the other man with a British accent. “My name is Nigel Tweed.” He held my other hand, and kissed it. “I was invited by Sharon. You and I have met before, actually. Do you recall my book signing?”

“Oh yes,” I muttered unconvincingly.

“That’s all right. It was several years ago. You probably attend so many.”

“What is the name of the book?”

“Artists’ Liberation from Gut-Wrenching Criticism.”

“I do remember! That book was incredibly inspiring. It was because of your work that I lost all inhibitions when I created my artwork.”

“That is wonderful to hear.”

“But, it’s true. It gave me the freedom and courage that I would have never found otherwise. Would you like to see my collection?”

“Certainly, I would love to see it.”

“May I see it also?” asked Fareed.

“Please come with me.” They followed between the guests and through the house to the sunroom where my artwork was on display like plucked ducks hanging in the window of a Chinese meat market.

Was this a dream? Was I safe to believe that these educated, prominent men had a real interest in my artwork? Perhaps they were just being polite. I consulted Sponge Bob. He said, “They probably just want to get in your pants”.

“This is My Lobotomy, which would never have existed if I hadn’t read your book,” I said, gesturing toward the form of my creation.

They put on their glasses, circling and studying the work.

“Please tell me about the conception of this work,” Nigel pleaded.

“After I read your book, after I was liberated and immune from others’ opinions, I created this piece.” They listened, captivated. “The slinky form is the spine of determination for life’s journey. The artist tools are those that give hope and provide escape from a critical, hypocritical world. The clay brain embodies the desensitized psyche, programmed to follow the mainstream agenda. The wig is the façade worn to detract from physical deficiencies and imply artificial beauty.”

Nigel circled My Lobotomy more slowly, holding onto his glasses, his head bobbing up and down. I held my breath. Other guests noticed and came to look and began to circle. He stepped back, and then examined closely, Fareed by his side. He removed his glasses, placed them in his coat pocket, and wiped his brow. Nigel and Fareed locked eyes. I could not bear another second. “This piece is phenomenal!” cried Nigel.

“I don’t like it,” whispered Fareed. Those in earshot gasped. I felt faint, and wrapped my arms around myself. “I believe it celebrates self-importance and falseness,” Fareed hissed.

“No, no, that’s not it! It’s about the body, mind and soul, and survival,” I pled.

Nigel looked defiant. “Fareed, do you not realize this creation came from the seed of my work? I would like to purchase this piece. I must have it if you would consider selling,” Nigel announced to me.

“It is my glory, but I will offer it to you for sale. I couldn’t think of a person I would rather have own it. I am honored.” The guests applauded and twittered.

“What is the price, Barbara?”

“I will sell My Lobotomy for three thousand dollars, and with it you get The Finger. They are one and two of a series.” I indicated the work on the pedestal in the acrylic box next to My Lobotomy.

He saw it. He gasped. “That is unbelievable. Phenomenal! But are you sure? That price for both pieces?”

“Yes. You don’t know how much this means to me, that you would select my artwork when you know so many great artists. I am humbled.”

He reached out, placed his hands on my shoulders, gave them a squeeze, and looked into my eyes passionately. “It is I who am humbled.” Some in the crowd were crying. Had the bartender slipped something in their drinks?

Composing ourselves, we sighed deeply. He preened the splendid silver locks of hair that had fallen onto his forehead, and pulled his checkbook from his coat pocket. He bought My Lobotomy and I gave him The Finger. It was the moment I had dreamed of, although I suspected that Sharon slipped something into the drinks. Some special Quaalude that makes everything and everybody appear beautiful.

“I’ll have my art installers crate it and pick it up tomorrow if that’s satisfactory. It will be shipped to my home in the south of France to be added to my personal collection.” There were now fifteen or so people crowded around. They cheered.

“To your home in the south of France? That’s so far away.”

“You may visit my home any time as my guest. Please do. Please do visit soon. In fact, I shall arrange for your air travel at my expense. Meanwhile, perhaps your agent could give mine a call. I will be touring with my book—you know, speaking engagements, book signings, talk shows and the like—and would request that you attend to promote your experience and the great influence of my writing.”

“Nigel, you cannot imagine how much this means to me, but I have a baby and work to do at home. I can’t leave. I cannot thank you enough, though, for asking.”

“I believe the contemporary exhibit judges for the Louvre should consider this. I will go about the appropriate applications.”

“Balderdash,” hissed Fareed as he looked upon My Lobotomy as though it were a flesh eating disease. Guess he didn’t get a Lude.

“The—the Louvre? The Louvre?”

“Absolutely. It’s just what they’re looking for.”

Now he’s working the crowd. I hoped his check wouldn’t bounce. “Nigel, this is so exciting to think about. It is beyond imagination. You are welcome to pick it up any time. Just call a few hours in advance so that I can be here waiting.”

“May I take The Finger now? I would like to show it to all the guests at the party.”

“Oh, go ahead, I’ll give it to you now.”

“Bravo, Nigel,” said Fareed, rolling his eyes.

“I can’t wait to show everyone what my writing has inspired!”

“Barbara! Barbara! Come over here. I have someone you must meet,” yelled Sharon from poolside. She looked quite stunning that evening, wearing all white and diamonds. Next to her was a slight, balding man, wearing a madras sport coat with matching socks, bearing a striking resemblance to smaller version of Barbra Streisand. Barbra Streisand with a cock, oh my. Obviously, I also had not received one of the Quaalude-spiked cocktails.

“On my way!” I bubbled, although I didn’t want to go.

“Oh, yes, here she is! Barbara!” exclaimed Sharon.

“Sharon, I just sold My Lobotomy to Nigel Tweed.”

“You did? To whom?”

“Nigel Tweed. He was on Oprah. You invited him.”

“Oh yeah.”

“He wrote the book that inspired my work. He loved it.”

“Wow.” Her expression resembled that of a person who had just lost a filling.

“He paid three thousand dollars and wants to show it at the Louvre. Do you know what this means?” She didn’t respond, and turned to speak to Barbra Streisand with a cock.

“He’s paying for my trip to visit him in Paris, not to mention that I have enough money now to pay some bills and buy food for the month.” My voice trailed off. I was talking to the back of her head.

“Wilt. Wilt, this is Barbara.” Sharon stepped back, I suppose so she could appreciate the results of her matchmaking.

“Did you hear me, Sharon? I sold my first piece of work!”

“Barbara, this is Wilt. Wilt, this is Barbara, our hostess for the evening.”

Why had she called me hostess? That sounded like I had paid for the party. She didn’t want him to know that I’m broke.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” I said to quasi-Streisand. I had to stoop down and then tilt my head upward to address him, because his eyes were fixed directly upon my chest. He drooled lasciviously. “But, excuse me, I was on my way to have a word with the chef.”

“Barbara, Barbara, come over here! I have someone I want you to meet.”

I barely distinguished Hunt’s voice above the party noise. He was standing before the band looking a little tipsy. He was with a handsome muscular European-looking guy wearing an expensive, Italian-looking white suit, Dolce and Gabanna, I would guess.

“On my way,” I answered with a wave like the first lady disembarking Air Force One.

“Barbara, I would like you to meet a friend of mine from fencing,” said Hunt. The man took my hand and kissed it, while the corner of Hunt’s mouth twitched like my poodle when company arrives just before she pees.

“This is Antonio. Antonio, this is our friend, Barbara.” He had a sexy brilliant smile, coarse blue-black hair that fell below the collar of his shirt, and he needed a shave. Hunt retreated, and Antonio and I were alone.

“How do you do, Barbara?” he said in a thick Spanish accent with mischievous, dark flashing eyes.

“Hi, Antonio,” I recognized him. How could I not? He just finished his first American movie, and they say he might be nominated for best actor at Cannes. His movie star handsome face has been in all the magazines, and I have seen stories about him on the celebrity gossip television network. He is single and sought after. I wondered in what possible way I could enchant him, so I said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” And I couldn’t think of another thing to say. My mouth went dry, causing my upper lip to curl under and stick to my teeth. I felt fat and wanted my Chapstick.

“I saw you from across the pool, and I knew that I recognized you from somewhere. Are you in my Yoga class?” I asked.

“No. Uh uh. I don’t take Yoga. Guess again.”

I studied him and exclaimed, “Hudson Hawk?”

“Pardon me?”

“Hudson Hawk, the movie. Weren’t you in that one?” Sharon appeared from behind the hibiscus and interjected patiently, “Do you have Antonio confused with Bruce Willis, dear?”

“Just kidding,” I said. “Sharon, let me handle this. Antonio, would you like to come into the house to see My Lobotomy? I just sold it, and I’m so excited!” What choice did he have? It was my party. By then he probably thought I was a little weird.

“Well, I am still a bit hungry. We Spaniards appreciate organs, eh?”

“You must come inside.”

“Why don’t you bring it out here? Don’t you have enough to go around?” He either (a) believes I put a daub of my brain tumor in a pâté just for him, or (b) I just wanted to get him alone in the house. Antonio put his hand on my waist, slid it down my hip, then lower and gave me a wink and a little push toward the house. Or maybe, (c) he just has a great sense of humor.

All the while, we had been standing by the band platform, with Scott’s kneecaps within touching distance. As Antonio followed me into the house, I turned to observe Scott. He was engrossed in his work. “He’s a pro,” I thought.

“This is My Lobotomy, I proclaimed as I showed Antonio my newly acclaimed artwork.

“I cannot eat that.”

“Of course you can’t eat that. It’s sold.”

“Oh, so did you ever really have a lobotomy?”

So much for that great sense of humor that I hoped he had. It was choice (a). I considered for a moment and responded, “Did you really get shot in your last film?”

“No, but I sprained my ankle,” he replied gutturally.

I pulled my hair behind my ears, thought for a moment that there may be a language barrier and explained, “Maybe you can understand it this way. My Lobotomy is the name of my art that I just sold. You could have eaten it if you wanted to, I guess, but you would have had to buy it first. Sorry—you’re too late.”

With an incredibly long, dark, husky, well-manicured index finger, he toyed for a moment with the pendant on the necklace that I was wearing. “So, do you have something else special for dinner for Antonio?”

I stepped backward, and realized that it didn’t take much to enchant Antonio. “Ah, dinner, yes, I have guests to attend to. We need ice. Let’s go back to the party. Have you tried the calamari?” I turned and ran.

Back poolside, Sharon crooned, “Barbara, there you are!” She hurried my way.

“Where’s Antonio?”

“Inside, I showed him my art.”

“And?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“He’s A-list. Isn’t he gorgeous?”

“He really is hot. A little too hot.”

“Oh, that Latin man could—“

The conversation was interrupted when a couple nearby began to argue. First, just the people nearest them began to notice and then others. As their voices became louder and louder, others turned to watch and the entire party became disrupted. She threw her drink, a margarita with salt, into the man’s face. He then pushed her into the pool.

Scott, the pro, continued his performance and barely gave notice to the fracas. He was really getting down, but with all his charisma, even he couldn’t upstage the couple. In the pool, the top of her dress untied at the neck, exposing an adequate backstroke and perky nippled breasts. With each stroke she choked obscenities, while her breasts bobbled and tufts of her dress and colorful sequins were left floating behind.

“Asshole,” she sputtered as she climbed the pool ladder and stomped toward the diving board. What remained of her delicate silk dress fell completely to the ground in a sodden heap around her ankles. She almost tripped, kicked it away, and climbed up onto the diving board.

“Son of a bitch!” she shrieked. She crawled to the end of the diving board, stood and then contorted her purple face, flailed her arms, and clinched her fists. Oh! And the size of that gaping mouth, and the hair still in an updo. Did the characters in Children of the Corn and Eight-Legged Creatures have a child?

She jumped up and down on the end of the diving board, wearing only thong panties, and screamed in cadence, “Hah!” Bounce. “You always think”, bounce “you know every—” bounce, “—thing, you ego—” bounce, “—tistical bastard!” Bounce, “well, hah!” bounce, “I’ve been having,” bounce, “an affair with the—”, bounce “—pool boy!”

As she finished her last word she took one last running leap, and jumped off the board, clutching her knees into a perfect cannonball.

The guests were appalled. They became frozen, not knowing the appropriate behavior given the situation. “Are you gonna love me, love me, Baby? Tonight, Baby? Will you want me?” Scott sang. The show must go on.

Sharon, still determined, tapped me on the shoulder, pointed at the man wearing the margarita and said, “Let me introduce you to the doctor from next door,” she whispered, “He’s Doctor Bill—you know, the psychologist with the popular new advice article in the L.A. Times.”

I observed the doctor, then the woman in the pool, and said, “Who does her hair? It’s still perfect!” There were murmurs of agreement amongst the guests.

And Hunt, trying to recover a party atmosphere said, “Oh, Barbara, Barbara! Here’s someone I would like you to meet. He’s a stuntman!” Hunt was standing between Doctor Bill and a stocky surfer-type, wearing an ‘I Love Toxic Waste’ T-shirt with a tuxedo jacket, plaid shorts, and tennis shoes.

The inebriated surfer-type, ignoring Hunt and me, had become entranced by the exhibition in the pool. He turned instead to Doctor Bill and slurred like a frat brother, “She doesn’t have much of a personality, but she does have very nice tits.”

At that, Doctor Bill, the cuckold, without hesitation, reared back, paused a split second to allow Hunt to duck, and took a swing at the surfer. The surfer tried to punch him back, but connected instead with a bartender who was serving drinks. All three were fighting now, and more men started fighting to restrain those three in an attempt to stop them from fighting. Everyone was screaming, furniture was turned over, and clothing torn.

“Let’s do the Harlem Shuffle!” Scott shouted into the mike, clapping his hands and swinging his hips to no avail.

I saw Hunt in there punching Frank, who was in rabbinical school and had unfortunately stopped by to bring a self-help book.

“Lester! Lester! Don’t hurt your hands. Your hands! Ohmigod,” screamed Sharon, who began hitting Frank over the yarmulke with her Chanel bag.

“Your bag! Your bag!” said Rachel, Sharon’s niece, attempting to protect Sharon’s Chanel.

“Mees Barrrbarrra. Meees Barrrbarrra,” cried our Lupe. She only rolls her R’s like that when there’s real trouble.

“Yes, Lupe?”

“El señor está aquí para su coche.”

“Como? …” I looked beyond my brawling, rioting guests past the naked woman, around Scott as he gave the performance of his life, through the fence to the street in front of my house. There was my red BMW being pulled away by a tow truck.

“Stop, stop, that’s my car!” I screamed, and ran to the fence. This seemed to have a fire-hose effect on the crowd who were so completely, instantly hypnotized by this new occurrence that they forgot their riot and the naked woman. The band stopped playing because someone had tripped over the amp.

Nigel broke the silence. “Barbarians!”

“This is why people should never consume alcohol!” replied Fareed loudly. “But as I was saying before the primordials assaulted one another, I find the artwork you just acquired to be pathetically overworked.” He still didn’t get a Lude.

“Peace everybody. Peace!” cried the feather earring woman.

The man in the tow truck rolled down his window and switched a cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. He yelled as he drove down the street, “This was your car, lady. You shoulda paid da payments.”

All in a matter of minutes I had experienced thoughts ranging from megalomania to revelation to suicide and back. So much for my façade and being newly hatched. I hung from the fence suspended by my fingers like a tattered plastic bag trapped by the wind against a highway guardrail, and turned slowly to face the guests who had witnessed it all.

Faces blank, open-mouthed and stunned, their squabbles and shish-ka-bobs forgotten; they saw me, revealed, transparent. The doctor who had started the riot was standing frozen, with a half nelson on a cosmetic dentist, who had one shoulder torn from his sport jacket and clumps of dirt and grass in his hair. The naked woman in the pool became frustrated when she had become upstaged, and was submerging periodically in a search and rescue of what proved to be her wig, which had finally and fatally detached.

The band reconnected the amp, and struck up an easy-to-dance-to number while my listless guests began to depart. Sharon and Lester stuck it out bravely to the end, and were last seen searching through my medicine cabinet for Valium.

The band was disassembling as I walked outside. Scott was last to leave. “Some party, huh?” I asked Scott.

“Phew,” Scott nodded his head, “you sure know how to throw a party.”

“Did you have a chance to eat something? There’s a bunch of food left. Are you hungry?” I asked.

“Oh, no thanks.” He stepped closer.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I ate before the show.”

“Are you lonesome?”

“No. Uh uh. Got my guitar.” He patted it. “Are you?”

“Of course not. I’ve still got My Lobotomy for tonight anyway. Want to go in the house–the four of us? After my parties I always make a move on someone from the band.” I whispered the words so close to his mouth that my lips brushed his. Did I say that, I asked myself, vaguely aware that one strap of my dress had fallen.

“Always?” He whispered back. He didn’t kiss me, but just rubbed his lips back and forth softly across mine.

“Nuh uh, just sometimes really.” Impossible to talk, now I had to do him one better, and found myself kissing his cheek close to his mouth. He pulled his face away, but brought his hips closer, looked into my eyes for a few seconds, then closed his eyes and, with a half smile traced my lips with his tongue.

The other dress strap fell away, conveniently. He took my hand and led me to the house while unbuttoning his shirt.

Before the fireplace, which I never had time to light, he kissed me. I savored the longest, slowest, softest, most wonderful kiss I had ever been kissed. Still holding my hand, he lay down on the floor and gently pulled me toward him.

V

I said, almost sang, “Lupe, may I borrow your car this afternoon around five-thirty? Foofie has not been feeling well, and she has an appointment with the vet.”

“Si, absolutemente! I am so happy to see to you are so happy these morning!” Her amber eyes sparkled. Lupe, also known as Loop, the beautiful, tiny Mexican lady continued to care for Jessica and me tirelessly and cheerfully and made our house sparkle throughout the crises.

I chugged down the street, shifting gears spastically in Lupe’s old, green, rusted, but immaculately clean, paid-for Volkswagen that I call Hoopty. Foofie, adorned with her tarnished rhinestone collar and reputation, and I headed for the office of Dr. Weasell, veterinarian to the cherished pets of otherwise loveless celebrity elites. Buck-toothed and bow-legged, our poodle, although not show quality, was a most dependable watchdog, with a propensity to eat from the diaper pail and a history of promiscuity with neighbor canines. Foofie, Hoopty, and I were quite the compatible, happy threesome, notwithstanding Hoopty’s plastic dashboard Mary, El Piolin bumper sticker, and black smoke pumping from her tailpipe. This beautiful simplicity was mine, and it was momentarily liberating from the squalor of my life.

Dashboard Mary resisted, but finally released her suction cup with a gasp, and I placed her in the glove box. When I rolled the window up to avoid our fumes and simultaneously changed the radio to something in English, I lost control for a moment, hitting a large pothole, which caused the glove compartment to fly open. I realized this was a message, and returned Mary to the dashboard. What if I had wrecked Hoopty? Foofie threw up. Poor Hoopty.

A pony-tailed cab driver, probably an otherwise out-of-work, angry, Berkeley grad thinking he owns L.A. and has the answers to solving the problems of the universe, passed and hollered, “Pollution bitch!” and shook his fist. Foofie snarled, barked ferociously, and clawed and bit at the window.

Dr. Weasell is an excellent vet, but charges exorbitant fees. Everyone pays to wait their turn for their pet’s appointment. Rob Lowe was sitting just across the room when we walked in, signing autographs with his golden retriever. Unfortunately, since I am not on the A-list, I supposed, Foofie’s name was called right away, and I didn’t have time to stick around.

“She hasn’t been eating much from the diaper pail or even the garbage, and she’s been vomiting,” I told Dr. Weasell while he listened to her heart, palpated her abdomen, and ventured deeply into her tangled mats.

“No wonder. She’s going to have puppies in about three weeks. I would guess—oh, probably four of them. Also, she needs to be groomed.” He delivered the diagnosis derisively.

“I’m having four puppies? On top of everything else you’re telling me I’m going to have four puppies?” I was near tears.

“No, Foofie is going to have four puppies,” encouraged the doctor. He was Texas A&M graduated who runs a sausage business on the side and was rumored to relate on a personal level only to his hedgehog, and charged at least $200 for fifteen minutes of condescending advice. Like I said, the value was in the waiting room.

“You don’t understand!” I began to cry. “Foofie is a promiscuous slut and a terrible mother. She’s had puppies before, God only knows what with, and she sticks me with them and runs around all night. I had to feed them through baby bottles until I found homes and paid people to adopt them!” Then I began to sob.

“Well, why didn’t you have her spayed?” asked the sausage-selling vet. Why was he so eager? I remembered seeing Wolfgang Puck’s catering truck in the parking lot a few months prior.

The choking tears constricted my throat and rendered me unable to speak–guilt, guilt, and more guilt. Why didn’t I have her fixed? Because I thought I would get her buckteeth fixed, find her a nice poodle boyfriend, and sell their puppies. Of course, no one wants a bucktoothed puppy in Beverly Hills. That’s why.

“I’m sorry,” comforted the vet, softer now, perhaps remembering how he had seen us through the painful, lingering death of our old Saint Bernard, Marv, the first pet that we ever had that died before it ran away, during which time he appreciated nearly $1500.

He squeezed up his face, turned his head away and tapped smelly Foofie lightly on the head at arm’s length, then prescribed prenatal canine vitamins and charged $375.

While driving home, I contemplated what could be pawned after the proceeds from My Lobotomy were spent and decided on the oriental rugs. Foofie vomited again this time on the back seat. Poor Hoopty started with hiccoughs and clouds of black smoke, and under dashboard Mary’s wobbly faithful watch we returned home safely as night was falling.

Holding Foofie under my arm, I pulled the mail from the box and sifted through. Mostly bills and overdraft notices. No word from Rick. Some junk mail directed to the occupant. Advertisements from realtors and movers. I walked up to the house.

I struggled with the door, holding wriggling, smelly, pregnant Foofie and the mail. I groped for the light switch, found it, and switched. Nothing happened. Switched again. No electricity. Switch, switch, switch. The check I had written to the electric company must have bounced.

The phone was ringing. I placed Foofie and the mail on the floor gently, and stumbled through the darkness to answer the hallway telephone. According to caller I-D, it was ‘Private Caller’.

“House of Happiness,” I answered with mixed emotions, pleased that the telephone, too, had not been disconnected.

“Why did you answer that way?” It was Rick. My heart jumped. It was the first time he had called since he had left almost a month ago.

“I don’t really know. I was being facetious.” If I said things were horrible, he would be happy.

“How are you and Jessica?” he asked.

“We’re doing okay.” True, considering people all over the world were starving. If I said we were happy, he would be horrible.

“Are you sure? I know the electricity is off. The company called me at the office yesterday.”

“Then why didn’t you pay the bill? You can torment me, but what about Jessica?”

“I didn’t know how to handle this since I haven’t heard from you. I just gave it to my attorney.” He had a bevy of them, and they all had mob connections. “He’ll talk to your attorney. Meanwhile, I would like to visit Jessica and take her over to my place. What’s your attorney’s name so we can set up some visitation time?”

“I don’t have an attorney yet, Rick. Attorneys want money. I don’t have any,” I said tersely. I wondered what place he was talking about.

“Yeah, well, that’s a problem.”

“I also don’t have a car.”

“Sorry about your car. The factory rep was coming out to do an inventory, so I had to have it brought in.”

“You could have told me first.”

“Yeah, well I wish we could work all these things out. Why did you throw my flowers away? Why are you doing this to us, Barbara? You are acting very erratically and irresponsibly.”

“Me? I am irresponsible? What about you and your whore?”

“She was just a friend, Barbara; a friend in trouble. But you are so jealous, I couldn’t tell you about her. That poor kid was so upset when you broke into the beach house that she moved back with her parents in Florida. I hired a dectective. I know it was you. You have everything, but that’s never enough. You have to blame me for monsters that you create. And, besides, I hear you have a boyfriend.” I envisioned his lips in their cruel snarl.

“You will pay a detective, but you won’t pay for electricity so that your baby can have milk? We need our stove to cook, Rick, and milk needs to be refrigerated.”

“Let your new boyfriend pay for it.”

“I have a new friend who happens to be male, just a friend, Rick.”

“Are you sleeping with him?”

“No. We didn’t sleep,” was the truthful response.

After an awkward silence, he said, “Barbara, I love you. I really love you! Have you missed me at all during the past few weeks?” This was his car salesman making the close voice. Too little too late. “All you have to do is say the word. I’ll come home and take care of everything. Electricity, cars, positive bank balance, gardener. Come on, Baby, I’ll take care of all that. I didn’t want this to happen. I really want to come home to you and Jessica. It’s up to you. I’ll change. I won’t go over to Buzzy’s so much.”

I remembered a line from an old country and western song, ‘Tight shoes don’t stretch, and men don’t change’.

“Rick, listen to this, and listen very carefully.” Pausing for a few seconds to get his full attention, I hung up on him.

My head and heart pounded as I considered the repercussions. I went into the kitchen and searched through the drawer beneath the telephone book for the business card that Sharon had given me. Tomorrow I shall make an appointment with Hunt’s cousin, Leonard Glass, the divorce attorney to stars.

I called out for Jessica and Lupe. “Jessica! Loop! Where are you guys? Lupe?” They answered from the dining room.

“Momma! Momma!”

“Aqui!”

I found them under the dining room table, which Lupe had completely draped with bed sheets. On hands and knees I crept under to discover Jessica and Lupe on sleeping bags and pillows with flashlights and storybooks, eating Salerno butter cookies and orange drinks in boxes.

“May I come in?” I asked, peeking in.

“Yes, Señorrra, of courrrse, please.”

“Momma! Momma!” Jessica clapped her hands in glee. Lupe smiled her big perfect white-tooth smile. Foofie crawled under too. We sat, legs crossed, like Indians.

“Wow, what a great tent! This is sooo much fun!” I kissed my sweet baby’s head and inhaled her baby powder smell. “Thanks, Lupe.” I kissed Lupe’s cheek and she pulled Jessica closer. I couldn’t control my trembling lips even by squeezing them tight. “It’s going to be okay,” I promised. I felt that familiar knot in my throat and crawled out from under the table, not wanting to spoil their fun with the tears that were streaming down my face.

VI

I retreated to my studio. Ah, my studio. Especially during the darkest hours, this place surrounded me with mysterious comfort. It always teems with energy from a loving unknown source that reassured in time of trouble, strengthened and motivated me, and inspired creativity. There was a deep, ever flowing well here, and I was the fountain. I imagined the spirits of my artistic great-grandmother and of my first best friend, John Jacobs. In first grade he was the first to learn his ABC’s and write his name, and was the first to teach me of death when died of leukemia. I feel the presence of innumerable faceless, but familiar spirits, from another dimension called angels who love me and give solace, encouragement, sometimes warnings, and ideas.

I closed the door and brought a white pillar candle from its shelf. I lit the candle and my favorite sweet frankincense that I had purchased years ago in a market near the duomo in Florence, poured a glass of red wine, and began praying and meditating. I sat by my friend, the drawing table, sipped the wine, gazed into the candle and prayed for the same inspiration that created my art. I had never before so fervently and directly asked for my spirits’ advice. Suddenly I was jolted into total awareness. I knew what must be done. It just came to me like a rediscovered memory. The inexplicable someone, or something, or the collective souls spoke to me telepathically. Who, what, I do not know, but the message was clear, with no doubt.

I rolled the taboret from under the drawing board and removed pencils, paints, a straight edge, and some drafting triangles. I found a flashlight, walked down to the garage, and dragged in a large board and some smaller ones, then a handsaw, nails, screws and a hammer. A certainty of purpose drove me.

I needed a strong accomplice. I dialed the telephone, and while it rang, I began to draw on the very large board. “Scott? Hey! How are you? Well, something very important has happened. No, no, we’re okay. But, listen, would you be an angel and come over tomorrow to help me with something?”

The next afternoon, Scott was on time and looking fine, dressed in a fitted, worn blue and white-checked cotton shirt with rolled up sleeves, loose jeans, no socks, and blue suede shoes. I was pleased that he seemed curious to find out what I was up to.

“Come with me.” I motioned him to follow as I went through the garage, lugging the toolbox. “Could you grab the ladder?”

Face down, in the grass were the boards that I had painted the night before. “What’s up?” he asked as we hammered and nailed the framework.

“I had a vision last night.”

“A vision?”

We hammered and nailed. “Or, it could be called a visit,” I explained.

“What’s that?”

We were almost finished. “It’s like a dream, but you are totally awake. It told me to do this.”

“What is it that we are doing exactly?”

“Just a minute.” I pointed towards the sign. “Help me, please.” We lifted it, popped it into the frame and stepped back to analyze our work. Scott breathed heavily from exhaustion, wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve and examined the sign. Tarot cards and an upturned palm were painted colorfully on the sides. A crystal ball, which reflected my face, was quite clearly and artistically painted in the center, and below it read:

Sister Barbara

Tarot Reader and Spiritual Advisor

By Appointment • 800-467-5471

He backed away from the sign to get another view, peered, pointed his index finger, and squinted with bewilderment. “What does that mean?”

“I studied the Tarot and astrology and found it fascinating, but that was years ago. While I was meditating last night, I received a calling. It was the most fantastic thing, Scott.” He looked at me like he just discovered that I was Dracula and he needed a crucifix. I wanted him to understand and believe me.

“Also, there’s the omen. The electricity is out and the Tarot cards are best read in candlelight anyway. It’s meant to be. I will have a home business that doesn’t require electricity and I won’t need a car.”

“Shouldn’t you at least take a refresher course, or...”

Scott was interrupted by a white convertible that squealed around the curve in front of the house, top down, stereo blasting. It streaked past in a blur of shiny chrome, long flowing hair, screams of laughter, and hands and arms waving to deafening music. The car screeched to a halt a few houses down, then reversed, and made a grinding stop in front of my mailbox. With the stereo off, the four girls read our new sign and talked amongst themselves. Then the driver parked properly, scraping the huge chrome rims, got out, and hurried past Scott and me in a giggling flurry, probably thinking that we were maintenance workers.

The other girls followed. One girl stopped to pick a rose from my garden, while the leader, the girl who had been driving, rang the bell, which would not ring because there was no electricity. While they waited, one began teasing her voluminous hair with her fingers. Another was texting. One dug some gum from her mammoth Gucci handbag and offered it to the others. The leader was trying to look through the peephole.

“Are you looking for Sister Barbara?” I called out as Scott and I advanced toward them.

“Yes, we are,” answered the leader. The others turned and shook their heads affirmatively.

“I am Sister Barbara,” I informed them confidently, although I wished I had had time to prepare and to dress accordingly. I was wearing one of my old grey baggy yoga outfits.

The girls regarded me suspiciously. One twirled her hair around her finger nervously. Another chewed her thumb cuticle while the other wildly chomped her gum. The leader removed her sunglasses to scrutinize me.

“Hold this for me, please,” I asked Scott, passing the hammer to him before walking through the group to open the door. “I am Sister Barbara,” I repeated in a calm, melodic tone. “Do you have appointments?”

The driver stepped closer, while the others fell behind, apprehensive, observing. “Oh, no, I’m sorry, we don’t have appointments. We just drove by and saw your sign. Are you open?”

“Well—I might make time to take just one of you. My schedule is very full today, but I can possibly fit one in.”

“Oooh, far out, for sure!” gushed the driver. “A reading would be really fun. I’ve always wanted to do this.”

“Me, oh, please do me,” begged the shy one that picked the flower.

“No! Me! Come on, please!” pled the one with short blue hair.

I held up one hand as the Pope might gesture to quiet the masses before speaking from the Vatican balcony. “We are wasting time. Since I only have time for one, ummmm—” I glanced back at Scott, who was examining the geraniums, trying to appear to be the gardener. Then after another moment’s hesitation, speaking to the apparent leader, I said, “I will read you today.” She squealed, and the others uttered various mumbled complaints and sounds of disappointment.

They all followed me into the house, including Scott. Try as he might, he could not become disinterested.

“Lupe, please show this girl to the upstairs studio and the others to the library, and offer everyone lemonade,” I said

“Good luck, Meadow!” they cheered as the huge mahogany doors closed behind them.

After they were behind the solid library doors, well out of their hearing range, I whispered, “Scott, may I speak to you in the kitchen for a moment?”

“What now? A quickie before the séance?” Scott chuckled nervously, and I closed the kitchen door behind us.

“That wouldn’t be bad, but I have another idea.”

“God help us,” Scott interrupted.

“I need you. Will you help me?”

“Don’t even ask me this. No. Uh uh. I won’t have anyth—.” He couldn’t complete his sentence because I closed his lips with my mouth.

“Please, be my best friend—just this once. Please just—” I dug in the drawer to get a pen and some paper, then continued pleading and kissing; “Just take some notes about what they’re talking about in the next room, while”—kiss, kiss—“I’m upstairs doing my work.” When he protested, I begged and then kiss, kiss— “You’ll never have to do this ever again. I can turn on the tape recorder next time, but I don’t have one and we don’t have electricity anyway, so I need you. I didn’t know business would come in this fast. Please. Just write down a couple of little things, like their names, or some boyfriend’s name, or if they talk bad about somebody—girlie stuff—any little information that you hear. Please, Scott, and meet me back here in half an hour with the notes.”

I leaned my top half away from him, bottom half pressing against him and unbuttoned the three top buttons of his shirt, pulled it open, and planted the paper and pen inside, then stepped back and looked into his eyes like an old dog in a shelter. I didn’t need psychic powers to read him. He exuded innocence, sensitivity, and fascination and nodded his head in acquiescence. “You are so fuckin’ weird,” he said.

“Thank you. You are an angel,” I said. I knew how Eve must have felt when she said, “Oh, come on, Adam, what’s one little bite of the apple?”

“Half an hour. See you in the kitchen, Sister Barbara. You’re a witch, and not even a good one. You should take a class.”

I blew him a kiss and ran up the stairs to the studio loft, where I found the girl sitting cross-legged on the sofa.

It was an overcast day, and the usually bright sunlit studio seemed dreary, so I crossed the room to switch on the light. Uh oh, forgot, no electricity. I glanced nervously at the girl who watched, wide-eyed.

“It will take a moment to prepare, so just make yourself comfortable. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” she squeaked.

I remembered an old battery-operated boom box in the closet, pulled it out and found a perfect mystical relaxation CD left over from the one yoga class I attended. I lit four large white candles and the musky magical frankincense.

I had furnished the room for meditation, reading, and refuge from my unhappy marriage. Isolated and independent from the rest of the house, complete with its own bath and soft leather, flesh-colored sofa that was comfortable enough to fall asleep upon, this room had become my haven. The other furnishings and art were creations in my unconventional style and testimony to my love for art. The room was a living being with walls filled not only with spirits, but by books that embraced me and breathed life into my artwork.

The Meditation Table, another of my children, was placed before the sofa where Meadow (I had heard them call her by name) was sitting. The round top was sandblasted glass, supported by a base made from petrified red oak, with its thousands of years of absorbed wisdom.

I sat across from Meadow in my Day of the Dead chair, of my design, which, despite its somber name, celebrated life. The large oval feet upon close examination were carved bleached oak replications of human skulls. Indians would keep the skulls of their beloved chiefs and elders to ward off bad spirits and enemies. The legs, carved from red oak, were animalistic with haunches, attached to the cushioned seat and back, upholstered in plush off-white suede.

I settled back in the chair to observe the girl. She seemed fearful, yet determined, amused and excited.

“Have you been to a medium before?”

“Not a medium per se, but I’ve wanted to all my life.”

“Do you know what a medium is?”

“A fortune teller?”

“Yes, sometimes, but a medium is also someone who communicates with your guardian angels. We may receive messages about your past, present, or future.”

“Oh, okay.” She was anxious, but open.

“Are you ready to begin?”

“Are you going to tell me anything bad?”

If her eyes grew larger, they would pop out and make a mess. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t tell you anything bad. There are no coincidences. You are here for a good purpose.”

“Like, do you know what I’m thinking right now?”

“Ahem. Let’s get the business out of the way first. That will be one hundred fifty dollars, please.” She searched through the contents of her mammoth handbag, beneath hair brush, folded notes, cigarettes, bottled water, and various forms of lint, extracted cash, placed it on the table, and pushed it toward me.

It was two hundreds. “Do you have change?” she asked.

“Perhaps downstairs. Are you sure you don’t have anything smaller?”

She sighed and dug through her purse again. “Oh here’s a two twenties and a ten.” I pocketed the money.

I pushed the play button to start the music. “Now, let’s not talk. We shall meditate. Let’s meditate together. You must have some questions. Think of them.” Speaking slowly, softly, and rhythmically, and pausing between sentences, I continued, “Let’s perform a cleansing ritual first. Throw away your gum and remove your shoes. Put both feet on the ground squarely and sit comfortably back in the chair,” I continued melodiously, like a hypnotist. “Breathe long breaths—deeply-deeply, being aware of the incense as it cleanses the air around us. Look into the candle flame and don’t allow your mind to wander. If you think about spaghetti, your reading will be about spaghetti. Within the flame you will see images if you look very carefully. Place all of your attention on the flame as it flickers, and open your mind.”

I chanted, “Watcher, Watcher, come to me, I seek your wisdom. What do you see?” I was contacting my contact. Meadow tensed. Easy on the scary stuff, this girl’s freaked out already, I thought to myself. Only ten minutes had passed. Twenty minutes left until time to meet Scott in the kitchen. Maybe he was right about taking the refresher course.

“Very good meditation, Meadow,” I said.

“Dude! You know my name?” She gasped in open-mouthed astonishment.

“Yes. Continue with your concentration.” I waited for a minute. “Now transmit your questions. I will leave for five minutes or so to allow total quiet. Remember. Do not let your mind wander. Focus! OOhmmmmmmmmm. Ohmmmmmm. Ohmmmmm. Very good! I’ll be right back.”

“Ohmmmmmmm. Ohmmmmm. Ohmmmmm,” she chanted softly over and again. Her eyes closed.

Back in the kitchen I found Lupe and asked her to pour the lemonade, which took three minutes. Seventeen more minutes until I could meet Scott. Another five-minute eternity elapsed, during which time Loop handed me a tray with lemonade, cookies, and a Valium. How did she always know just the right thing to do and when? English wasn’t her native language. Maybe she’s psychic too! She descended from the ancient Mayans, she told me once. It occurred to businesswoman me that we could get an eight hundred number and become partners catering to a bilingual community. Hispanics were the fastest growing demographic of consumers and, of course, they valued spirituality culturally.

It was late afternoon and getting dark in the house, and in my nervous state, forgetting about the disconnected electricity, I had attempted again to turn on the kitchen light. Each time, upon remembering, my stomach flipped another somersault. I could not wait another second for Scott, so I ran to the library. There he was on the floor in the hallway, lying on his stomach, pen in hand poised over paper, and his ear pressed against the cold air return.

“Aaaahhhhghghghgh! You’re early!” Scott jumped.

“Shhh, you were right. I need to take a class. Give me the notes.” He whispered, “But you were only gone ten minutes. I don’t have much. I think they might have fallen asleep in there.”

“I need that paper now. Give it,” I demanded.

The notes read, “Tiffany met new hottie boy named Cortland. What was that gross pile of stuff in kitchen with wig? It’s dark and hot in here. Light switch doesn’t work”.

“Scott, that girl’s up there waiting for me. I think I hypnotized her. This is not enough. Now what do I do?” I was frantic.

I had a fleeting idea that he should go in like a maintenance man to fix the electrical problem and wake them up, and gave him that homeless dog look, but he backed away, put his palm up in the classic ‘stop’ gesture, held his shirt closed at the collar and said, “I don’t know. Leave me alone.”

“Well, please, just stay here and listen, okay?”

“But what if one of them comes out and catches me?”

“I told them to stay in there, but I’ll lock them in if it will make you feel any better.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“Please, just ten more minutes! You were going to do it for a half hour, remember? It will get better than this. I came down early. Please?”

I returned the notepad to him, and he accepted it reluctantly. I locked the library door quietly, and went back through the kitchen. “Lupe, es possible tu esta psychic?” I said in mangled Spanglish. She looked puzzled. “Uh… Deseo la fantasma?” I asked. She gasped. I tried again, “Sabes tu la persona muerta?” She gasped and crossed herself. I took the tray and said, “That’s okay, never mind.” I hoped I hadn’t unintentionally asked her to kill the kids in the library and prepare them for dinner, and wondered if she would quit.

Fighting off an anxiety attack and breathing heavily, I raced back to the studio, where I found Meadow, awake and flipping the wall switch up and down.

“It’s getting dark and hot in here,” she said, “and this switch doesn’t work, Sister Barbara.” She fanned herself demonstratively with her hand.

“All the better to read you with—I mean—that’s good for our meditation. Here’s some lemonade.” I washed down a Valium.

“Ooooh! You knew I was thirsty. Cool!” She gulped the drink.

“That’s my job. Well, now it’s time to get on with the reading.” I was speaking assuredly, but felt that my eyes—thank God we were in the dark—were darting about rapidly, shiftily, like in the movies when the camera focuses on the villain and ominous music plays.

She sat back, deeply within the sofa, her legs crossed beneath her, yoga-style. She was comfortable and ready, and it was show time.

Not ready, I bit my lower lip, rubbed my forehead, and waited for a Delphic sign. Spirits? Familiars? Where are you? There was no answer. She would be suspicious if I left the room again. Glancing at the empty lemonade glass, I said, “You must focus more. Perhaps you should use the bathroom. It’s over there,” I pointed.

“Wild! You knew. I’ll be right back,” she shrieked. She had an annoying voice.

Searching my mind desperately, I watched her as she hurried to the bathroom. She was a beautiful young girl, with thick auburn hair falling in wisps beneath her chin and in heavy waves down her back. She wore tight denim jeans that fell below round hips, and exposed the strap of army camouflage panties.

She closed the bathroom door. I heard flushing and washing sounds, and then she was back. She sat on the edge of her chair, clasped her hands between her knees, inhaled deeply, and announced, “I’m back.” Her shoulders were hunched upward tightly around her ears like earmuffs.

“Now it’s time to return to our work. Yes. Now it’s my turn to focus. Open your mind so that I may receive your thoughts.” She twirled a long thick lock of hair.

“No, no, you must not fidget. Focus only on the candle.” Our eyes targeted the candle flame like William Tell on the apple. After a few minutes I thought of something to say. “Yes, yes, a message is coming through. This message is so intense, that it is difficult to conduct the routine session. It will not even be necessary to read the Tarot cards now. This message is overpowering. Yes, it’s about a guy.”

“Ooo ooo hooooo! I could feel it too! Tell me more! What is the message?”

“He is waiting for you. He’s been searching for you. Perhaps you are soul mates from previous lives.”

“We are?”

“I am being shown a picture—yes, powerful. I’m seeing you. You are wearing a very small black, string bikini, leather perhaps. Yes, leather, in Malibu. Umhmmmmm yes, it’s Malibu all right; I can see the shoreline distinctly. If you go there on Saturday wearing this bathing suit—I see—yes—you will be walking along the beach—ummmhmmmm—and he will be there searching for you—soooooo—you will meet again. Yes! That’s it!”

“I just knew you would tell me stuff like this! What will he be wearing?”

“No more. The entity has pulled its energy away. It’s gone.” I fell upon the arms of my chair, legitimately drained.

Her lustrous blue eyes danced. “You are the bomb. I just knew I should come here. I don’t know why, but I could feeeeeel it.”

“Yes. You applied great mental strength with me, and we found the entity at a high frequency level, which provided the conduit for the message. Now two souls will meet, or meet again. You did a very good job, Meadow.”

“Thank you. It was sooo intense.”

“And for me. This has exhausted me and, I must leave you for a moment. You have expended great amounts of energy as well. Please relax while I’m gone, listen to the music and hydrate with the fresh lemonade, and put her shoes back on.”

I ran downstairs. Thank God, Scott was just outside the library, and Lupe, who did not quit nor fix the girls for dinner, was cleaning the refrigerator.

“Well?” I asked Scott.

In a voice like the narrator on Unsolved Mysteries, he answered, “I think I’ve got something for you this time.” He read from his notes: “The girl upstairs, Meadow, yeah Meadow, got a little scratch on the car on the way here.”

“That’s just the kind of stuff I need. What else?”

“I checked out the scratch and I’m pretty sure it can be buffed out. Also they want to go for pizza when they leave.”

“You’re good!”

“Someone has a hickey and someone named Tara got breast implants from her parents for making the honor roll, and if Meadow fails biology, she’ll get kicked off the soccer team.” He exhaled, held his shirt closed at the collar and looked at me. “I have to go to work now.”

“Thank you, thank you. You have helped me so much. Now rip that paper up and throw it away.” I threw him a kiss and ran back upstairs to find Meadow trying the lights again. “It’s too dark in here,” she said.

“No–no lights, please. Electricity will banish the little creatures of fire.” I brought out a flashlight.

“Your friends are waiting for you. I’ll show you the way.” I started downstairs shining the flashlight beam ahead. At that moment with a whirr, the air conditioning started up, the lights flickered on, and the stereo began to play. Meadow blinked in the sudden light.

“Wow, girl. How’d you do that?”

I continued down the steps with Meadow following. “A mystic never reveals her secrets. Your friends are waiting, anxious to hear about your reading, and they’re hungry for pizza.” She clomped behind in her clunky shoes.

“Oh, but one last thing I must tell you before you go back to your friends,” I whispered over my shoulder as we continued down the spiral. “You should probably get a biology tutor if you want to stay on the soccer team.”

She gasped, missed a step and began to fall. I jumped down the last two stairs to avoid collision and she bounced past, landing in the foyer where the other girls were waiting expectantly. The girls closed around and helped her to stand. She was not injured, only embarrassed; we knew when she retrieved and caressed her runaway I Phone.

“There’s something really wrong with your lights, Sister Barbara,” murmured one.

“Rarely, when I expend enormous amounts of psychic energy, it kills the electricity. It’s happened only once or twice before.” A crescendo played in my head.

“Wow,” whispered one whose hickey was now illuminated.

“So cool,” said another.

The other just inhaled short hard breaths, forgetting to exhale.

“What happened up there?” asked the hickey one who wore chartreuse high-top tennies.

“She knows everything, Girl. She’s solid,” Meadow screeched and stood tall, as their leader.

She turned to me and said, “You really do, and I wouldn’t just say that because—uh—you would know anyway if I was just saying that—because you—uh—just like totally know everything.” To them she said, “she rocks. She sometimes freaks you out, but not really bad stuff, per se. Like, you just have to try it.” They looked at me as if I were Lady Ga Ga, just dropped down from a cable on stage doing the side splits, tattooed and naked.

“Thank you, but the reading is only a manifestation of energy conjured by the subject through my invitation and suggestion. You were an excellent subject, and your spirit entity, your angel, is with you,” I said.

Then Meadow nudged me and whispered loudly, “I just can’t wait until Saturday.”

“What’s on Saturday? What’s on Saturday?” they cried.

“Meadow may tell you if she chooses, but now, go talk amongst yourselves and enjoy your pizza.” I opened the front door and they filed out.

Feather Earring stopped and said, “Wait, I want an appointment. Will you read me?”

“Me too!” exclaimed another.

“Just call me. There’s my number.” I pointed to the sign. “But, please call well in advance. I must be certain that the planets and their vibrations are in positive alignment with the Earth and your sun sign. Oh, one more thing, Meadow, don’t worry too much about the scratch on the car. It can be buffed out.” The finale.

Their jaws dropped. I closed the door gently and leaned against it. Their excited, garbled voices diminished down the walkway. I heard the doors of the white convertible slam. Psychic channeling is exhausting, but the truth is that pseudo psychic work conducted by a novice without electricity is life threatening. I felt faint.

“Señor Scott went to work. He say he weel call you later,” Lupe said.

I had money in my pocket. “Gas up Hoopty, Loop. Let’s take Jessica for ice cream.”

VII

I was asleep. I hoped I was dreaming. But the sun was streaming through my bedroom windows. What was this noise? Nothing but a bad dream. Just wait it out. It would go away.

I was awake. I looked at the clock and rolled over, repositioned pillows, and untangled the blanket, which had become disconnected at the foot of the bed. Bedcovers in perfect placement and pillow shaped just right, I enjoyed the coolness of the room and the warm rays of morning sunshine, and snuggled in. I thought of the poor milkmen, bakers, fishermen, and all the people who needed to wake up at dawn’s crack. It was an hour before Jessica usually awoke.

Sleeping well is a goal of mine now, one of life’s simple pleasures. Safe in my room where nothing could get me, peacefully dreaming alone in my king-size bed, I could lie crossways, or upside down. I could have all of the covers and pillows. It was okay if I didn’t brush my teeth. It was fine that I was wearing last night’s t-shirt and panties. I was single now.

Suddenly I heard a thunderous bang. I jumped out of bed, dragging the covers behind and ran down the hallway through the house. What in God’s name was happening? This could be the big one! The entire California coastline could be falling into the sea. “Jessica! Lupe! Lupe!” I screamed. I couldn’t hear them if they answered. The house rattled like a freight train. “Jessica! Lupe!”

I searched their rooms. The sound became even louder, and the entire house quaked. I ran toward the noise, through the kitchen, and found Jessica and Lupe safe, looking from the window into the backyard.

“What is it, Lupe? What’s going on?” I gasped.

“Choo choo?” asked Jessica.

“Look, Mees Barrbarra!” she exclaimed, gesturing toward the pool area.

I discovered the source of the resounding racket. A crew of men wearing hard hats, goggles, dust masks, and safety shoes had drained the swimming pool and were hard at work breaking it into little bits with a wrecking ball and jackhammers. I hop-wobbled outside wrapped in blankets like a human taco.

“Excuse me! Stop! What are you doing? This is my swimming pool. Why are you on my property?” I shouted.

One of the men who had been observing the others finally heard me above the clamoring, and climbed from the hole. “Zenzen wakarimasen! Sukoshi mo wakarimasen!” he screamed, barely audible above the din. The other workers stopped, and leaned on their jackhammers. It was immediately quiet, but my ears were still ringing. He was walking toward me, and I could visualize his features now. He was short, stout, and his face was square, dark and weathered.

“I said, what are you doing?”

He took his hard hat off, wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve and nodded respectfully. “Nihongo ga dekimasu ka? Nigatsu kara koko ni sunde imasu.”

“Huh? Is that Japanese?”

“Tanaka-san to hanashimaashita,” he said, his eyes were black, piercing, and commanding.

“This is my house! That was my pool. I didn’t call anyone to take the pool out.” I was getting becoming hysterical.

“Wakarimasu ka? Shitsurei. Nan to osshaimashita ka?” he said animatedly, pointing to the pool, pointing to himself and waving his arms fanatically.

“Do you speak English?”

He marched off to a dump truck which was parked on the grass beside the hole, opened the door, and searched around inside for awhile. He returned with a clipboard and a bunch of spotless papers.

The dust had settled. I noticed that he and the workers appeared to be Asian. He rustled through the papers. “I am Yabo. Doozo yoroshiku. Konnichi wa. Kisoku o yoku oboenakereba narimasen. Yes. English. Okay. I am Yabo. I work for Giovanni Enoble Iannucci, 686 Linding Lane. This is collect. It is on paper.” He handed me the top paper, a work order, I guess.

“Giovanni Enoble Iannucci is my estranged husband. He does business as Rick Barett, but you must be at the wrong address. This is Winding Lane.”

“Light. Light addless. Linding Lane. Okane wa juubun motte imasu ka?”

“My husband doesn’t live here anymore. He is using his alias with you. You might want to get paid in cash as his check will most likely bounce. You could Google him. He has very bad credit and low morals. As you can see, I do live here, and I did not authorize this work.” I enunciated each word, moving my lips as though speaking to a lip reader.

He referred again to the clipboard. “Exclavate pool. Constluct tennis coult. Constluction Pelmit #10437. Pelmit handy. Hele it is. Look!” He turned the board around and pushed it toward me.

I read the permit; it was authentic. “But I don’t play tennis,” I pleaded. “I like swimming. My husband loves to play tennis, but he doesn’t live here any more. I played tennis with him once. He said it was like playing tennis with Helen Keller. I’m no good at golf either….. ” My voice trailed off.

I pulled the blankets into a more organized, tighter, safer taco. Since I didn’t seem to be able to communicate, I considered throwing myself at his mercy, but then pictured how inane that would look, me in yesterday’s t-shirt and panties, clinging to his construction boot with Jessica and Lupe watching at the window.

Lupe called me from the house, gesturing with the telephone. I walked slow, tight, taco steps. The pool incident had been a draining experience, both literally and figuratively.

“Hello,” I answered wearily.

“Hi, Barbara. How are you?” It was Rick.

“Why are Japanese people digging up the pool? Can you tell me what’s going on?” I shrieked.

“We don’t really ever use the pool any more. When I called to discuss things and to arrange some time to see my daughter, you hung up on me. I asked you to be civilized and let our lawyers meet, but you ignored me. I wanted to try to reconcile our differences, but you were too busy having parties. I miss my daughter. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep, and you’re having parties? I thought you didn’t have any money.”

“Sharon paid for the party. We had it here so that I could exhibit and sell my artwork. We decided to have the party here because Sharon doesn’t have a pool.”

“Well, now neither do you,” he said coldly.

“Did you have the electricity reconnected?”

“Yes. The guys needed it for their jackhammers.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yeah. I’m putting in a tennis court where our house is. I bought the lot next door, and I’m going to build a house just like ours. I’ll put the pool over there. Next time you want to have a pool party, you can come over.”

“How can you do this? You don’t live here. I’ll call the police!”

“We own that house, Barbara. I have a building permit, and I’m building a tennis court for you on our property, my dear wife.”

I couldn’t utter a syllable. In a moment of temporary insanity, I placed the telephone receiver in the kitchen sink, closed the drain, and turned on the water. Then the doorbell rang.

I opened the door. What a ghastly sight I must have been for the woman at the door that beautiful crisp early fall morning: wrapped in blankets, disheveled hair, covered in concrete dust, with a facial expression like a character from The Body Snatchers after just finding a pod.

Probably in her early forties, the woman appeared on edge and haunted. She was fine-boned and extremely thin. She had short, wiry, henna-dyed hair, small darting brown eyes and a colorless complexion with the exception of bright pink rouge isolated in circles on her cheeks. She wore a tight short olive, green, wool suit with a small, fur collar closed tightly at the neck and sickly, sweet perfume smellable in Sacramento.

She was the type of woman who smoked cigarettes, drank martinis and had tanned too much in the past. She probably had no children and gave raisins for Halloween treats, or gave nothing and turned her lights off. I imagined she had multiple cats and that they shared problems including depression and constipation.

In the woman’s arms, she cradled a ratty-looking Chihuahua wearing a sweater to match her olive green suit. The dog bore a close resemblance to the woman sans rouge. A spotless, late model, dark Lincoln Town Car with sparkling chrome rims was parked in my driveway.

“I don’t have an appointment, but I saw your sign. Are you open?” she asked.

Alas. Am I open? I am so open. I combed my hair with my fingers, feigning professionalism.

“I must talk to somebody. I have some very grave problems. Are you Sister Barbara?” she asked while nervously switching the Chihuahua to the other arm.

“Yes, I am Sister Barbara. Welcome, welcome!” I ironed my T-shirt top quickly with my hands. “I will help you. Come in, please. Come with me. We’ll have tea.” She followed me to the kitchen where Lupe was emptying the dishwasher. I noticed a strange expression on my customer’s face, followed her gaze, and saw the overflowing sink with the floating telephone. “Lupe, I believe the telephone is cleansed now,” I said. “Please bring a pot of tea upstairs.” I motioned to the lady to follow as I led the way. Aware of intermittent Japanese outcries and continued pounding of jackhammers, I climbed the stairs with difficulty, still wrapped in blankets. The lady and the Chihuahua were close behind.

“You may make yourself comfortable here,” I said, indicating the sofa. I started the relaxation CD. Business was coming in so quickly that I hadn’t had time to choose different music. I brought fresh candles and incense from the cabinet, and arranged them on the table. Lupe appeared at the door with the tea tray.

“Thank you, Lupe.” I poured cups of tea, and passed one to my customer. “Please relax, listen to the music, and drink your tea. Excuse me for one moment while I change my clothes.

I threw the blankets on my bedroom floor and jumped into my lucky, grey, Tarot-reading yoga pants. I returned. “What is your name, Sister?” I asked soothingly, settling into my chair.

“I am Shirley Winters, and this is Precious.” She brought the dog to her face and nuzzled it. “Thank you so much for seeing us without an appointment. I hope we aren’t causing an inconvenience. I see you’re having some construction work done. But—I—” her voice quavered. “I just thank you.” She dropped Precious to her lap, covered her eyes with one hand and covered her nose with a hanky, sniffling a bit. The Chihuahua looked depressed as well.

“The fee for the first session is one hundred fifty dollars, and subsequent fees depend upon the work I must do.” I saw Lupe outside, serving iced tea and sandwiches to the Japanese. I needed to have a talk with her.

“That isn’t a problem.” She opened her handbag, then her wallet, counted out the cash, and handed it to me. I hated asking her for money, but it was business. Although she hadn’t yet explained her turmoil, I felt genuine compassion for this tiny troubled woman. I was a kindred spirit for all hopeless wretches. Mercifully the demolition noises subsided, and so I took the window of opportunity to begin. I sipped my tea.

“Shirley, I am happy to be here to help. Please breathe the incense and just be calm for a few moments. Look into the candle flame, and try to block your apprehension with the faith that things will be better from now on.” She responded, and I waited until she appeared less tremulous.

“What is your trouble, Shirley? I will try to release you.” By what right should I advise this poor woman? My own life was in such a disastrous and desperate condition that I intended at first opportunity to call my own spiritual advisor, who worked in a tent between a cotton candy stand and the Tunnel of Love on Santa Monica pier. But there was apparently a train of misery befalling L.A’s mystic community. Last time I called for an appointment, my seer was unable to accommodate, explaining that her own life had momentarily fallen into some unexpected state of disarray.

Shirley sipped her tea, took in a deep, shuddering breath and began. “I have been hopelessly in love with a married man for the past eight years!” she blurted.

My heart recoiled at her words. “You’re going to be fine. Go on.”

“For eight years I have loved him, listened to his promises and waited for him to leave her. Eight Christmases, eight Thanksgivings and every other holiday, I have been alone and slept alone while he slept in his loveless bed for the sake of his children,” she wailed, miming air quotes with her fingers.

“I know it’s painful, but you may tell me.”

“Then his children went off to college, and still I waited. I cannot wait another day, yet I can’t leave him. I can’t give up after all the time I have spent.”

For good reason, this woman has arrived at my doorstep. Perhaps she is here to teach me. I tried to erase thoughts of Debbie Burning and her grungy lingerie and her medicines and wondered what stories Rick had told. I became sad for Shirley, and for myself, and for all the wives and now even the consorts of bad men. I searched the room for Kleenex. I searched myself for understanding, but I was struggling with my own racing, conflicting emotions. This woman was in love with a man who had betrayed his wife and children for eight years. And God, how many women like this dismal creature were once joyous mistresses of unfaithful husbands like my own?

“I don’t have anyone, just Precious and the cats,” she gasped and sobbed and blew her nose, “and the hope that some day he will be free and be mine.”

Refresher course or none, good medium or mediocre, I knew what had to be done. There was no doubt. I stooped, put my arm around her boney, shuddering shoulders, and with utmost sincerity and certainty said, “Sister, compose yourself. I will help you.”

She turned her face up toward mine, snuffed, and asked, “Can you really? How will you help me?”

“I will perform magic. Spells. I will put powerful spells on him that will not harm him, but will make him a better man, and will release you from your agony.”

“How will you do that?”

“Magic. I will need photographs of you and him together. Do you have such photos to bring to me?”

“Eight years’ worth!” she exclaimed. She and the Chihuahua nodded.

“Bring the photographs here tomorrow. And, of course, you must compensate me to do the work.” Given my egregious situation, I had no alternative but to attend to business.

“Are you sure you can help?”

“Absolutely certain.”

“How much does it cost?”

“Nine hundred dollars for one week.”

“That’s not too expensive, if it really works, and—well—I don’t know where else to turn. When would you start?”

“Tomorrow at 9 A.M., if you can be here.”

“Thank you! I’ll be here. I feel better already. I know I was led to you. This was meant to be.”

Her colorless face seemed to transmit a minute glow like sunlight in a black and white movie. It was hope and pain that I saw in her eyes, and it was I who brought this glimmer of hope. I, a desperate fraud.

The studio quaked as something collapsed on the ground below, and Japanese voices resounded. I snapped back to my own grim reality.

VIII

I awoke to the telephone ring the next morning at two A.M. “This better be good,” I said.

“It will be, unless you’re too tired.” Scott replied. He had just finished his show.

“I am wide awake watching Flash Gordon and the Clay People on TV. Want to come over and watch with me?”

“That’s one of my favorites. I’m on my way.”

I had been sleeping wearing perfume, only perfume, so I went to the closet for a nightgown. I chose a sheer, short white silk gown, brushed my teeth, and combed my hair.

I evaluated the bedroom. It was immaculate with the exception of the pleasingly rumpled all white bedcovers and innumerable plump white pillows of various shapes and sizes. Surrounding the room were watercolor originals that I painted the first time I was in love. There were cherubs in fluffy clouds, nudes presenting flowers, and couples embracing. Plush, soft, light taupe carpet covered the floor, and fresh-cut flowers from my garden were on the tables beside the bed in heavy, sparkling, antique cut crystal vases and their fragrances filled the room. In my imagination, the room once intimated ultimate paradise. That was until the artwork, my formerly brilliant creations, became lackluster, kindergarten-like, and overworked in response to criticism. I often punished myself at the mere sight of those paintings that would not fit under the bed with my other bad ones.

I padded barefoot through the hall way, turned on the porch light, set the outside door ajar and returned to the bedroom. I must have fallen asleep while I waited, because I woke with a start to find Scott standing at my bedside.

“Hi,” I said, sleepily.

“Hi! What happened to Flash Gordon?”

“S’over.”

He sat on the side of the bed and kissed my eyelid. “Do you mind if I take a shower?”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been working.”

“So?”

“So, I should take a shower.”

“Actually I rather like you just the way you are.” I put my hands around his neck and pulled him closer. He didn’t argue.

Hair. When I awoke that’s what I saw first. I examined it cautiously, careful not to startle the beast. I held my breath and looked closely. Then I remembered. It was Scott. He was sleeping peacefully. I kissed him on the shoulder. He didn’t move. Oh, my God, I hadn’t killed him, had I?

“Scott?” I nudged him. “Scott?”

“I heard people speaking Japanese,” he whispered without opening his eyes.

“You did?” I raced to the window and looked out. Sure enough, there they were, with a bulldozer this time.

Scott rolled onto his back. “Pearl Harbor?”

I closed the drapery and got back into bed. I put my head on his shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Shh, we’re having a dream.”

“Both of us?”

“Yes.”

“The same dream?”

“Uh-huh.”

“About Pearl Harbor?”

“Kind of.” I snuggled closer. “We’re in Hawaii. Yeah. That’s it,” I sighed.

“Mmm, this is nice.”

“We are lying on the beach and we can hear the ocean. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.”

“What’s that?” he asked. The Japanese bulldozer roared as it dumped dirt into the crevasse that was my former swimming pool.

“The waves crashing in,” I said.

“Oh, that’s real nice.”

“This is a very private beach, and we are lying naked under the sun. The trade winds are unusually strong today.”

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” he said.

“What hotel?”

“This is a dream, right?”

“Yes, it’s a dream.”

“A five-star hotel, then. I just want to get a little more sleep, but then let’s do it in the ocean before the tide comes in.”

I thought about that for a moment. “My customer will be here soon, so go back to sleep.” I kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.” I hoped he didn’t look under the bed.

“Great.” He rolled over on his side and pulled the covers under his chin.

I took a fast shower and dressed for this bright cool October morning in an off-white pullover sweater and tan cargo pants just in time to hear the doorbell. Lupe got to the door first, and I found Shirley Winters and Precious in the open doorway.

Today Shirley was wearing a pumpkin orange light wool suit with a short jacket and mink collar. She appeared to be in relatively cheerful humor, her deep-set darting eyes aglow with orange circles of rouge. Precious, spunky, ears perked and shivering, sported a matching orange jacket ensemble with a faux mink collar. Shirley set the little dog on the floor, and Foofie moved in to sniff its butt.

“Good morning, Shirley. Hi, Precious.” I patted the yapping dog on the head. “Don’t we look sunny this morning?”

“Good morning. Can you tell? I felt so much better after leaving here yesterday. I’m sorry if we’re a little early. We just couldn’t wait to see you this morning.”

“I’m just glad you’re here. Let’s get to work. Want something to drink? Some tea, or juice, or coffee? How about some toast?”

“Coffee would be wonderful for me, and Precious prefers water.” I asked Lupe to bring a pot of coffee and water, fruit and toast. “It is not necessary to bring anything to the men outside,” I added.

“Please come with me.” Shirley and Precious followed to the studio. Once upstairs, I saw the Japanese assembling outside to discuss their morning plan of assault.

“Do you have what I asked you to bring?” I asked as we sat at the Meditation Table.

“Yes. The photos and the money.”

There were two envelopes. The white one held nine crisp hundred-dollar bills, still smelling of fresh ink. The second envelope contained approximately twenty-five photos. I turned the overhead light on and dumped them onto the table.

Shirley and Precious held their breath as I examined the photographs. As I looked through them, I prayed that my mouth did not visibly fall open. I hoped that by some unconscious mannerism or twitch that I did not reveal my utter astonishment and disbelief. Pictured here in living graphic color were a Shirley and a man, six to eight years ago, judging by Shirley’s hairstyle, on a yacht. Shirley’s cheeks were rosy from happiness, not rouge, and her eyes danced.

Lupe brought the tray, a bowl of water and a biscuit for Precious. Sounds of demolition and fervent sporadic shouts in Japanese resumed. Shirley sipped coffee as I inspected another photo, this one of Shirley appearing distressed wearing a long white summer dress and the man with a dollar in his teeth, his sights fixed on a belly dancer. The setting could be in the Greek Islands. Another seemingly more recent shot of the couple pictured them on a sofa in front of a Christmas tree opening gifts with Precious at their feet. The man’s bare belly bulged, hanging from his open red plaid bathrobe. Shirley, wearing a red silk kimono, had one scrawny leg slung over his big fat hairy thigh. Who took this photo?

Another photo depicted the man, along with another man whose face I couldn’t see, and Precious, all wearing Sombreros, looking on as Shirley shopped in the streets of a city obviously in Mexico. More photos: a candid shot of the man and Shirley kissing in a restaurant, surrounded by champagne glasses and a birthday cake; a close-up of the man, bleary-eyed with drink in hand, on a sandy beach wearing a bathing suit revealing his chapped, hairy, thick white legs and Shirley, ratty-looking, sitting on the edge of his lap avoiding his belly, wearing a white bikini with her breastbone protruding like that of a sickly spring chicken.

The shock and awe of it was that I recognized this man. This flabby, pale, sixtyish, balding drunken lover of Shirley and Precious was the acclaimed Frank Sullivan, former District Attorney, now the respected Federal Court of Appeals Judge, chairman of the subcommittee on judicial misconduct, and former chairman of the American Bar Association committee on professional responsibility. Tough guy on drugs and bad guy to the bad guy when he was D.A. One who came down against the Catholic Church and its pedophile priests, and a close friend of the President of the United States. I know because I just saw him on Larry King. This pathetic little woman, my second client, just paid me to do witchcraft on her boyfriend, Frank the Hammer.

“What is this man’s name?” I asked, expressionless.

“Frank.”

“Yes. These photographs are perfect,” I said, scooping the pictures back into the envelope while Shirley watched expectantly. All the while, she sat completely erect, eyes popping, with her boney little legs crossed at their pointy little knees, and her long skinny feet protruding from her droopy orange skirt. She sipped her coffee and nibbled a piece of sourdough toast.

“So, what now?” she asked eagerly between bites.

I commanded my face to remain an expressionless mask, and paused for an interminable moment before saying in a wizardly voice, “Now, Sister Barbara works her magic.”

“What should I do?” asked Shirley.

“Nothing. Just continue life as usual, only with the peace of mind that the universe will resolve the problems. It is best that you tell no one about our secret work, but above all, don’t give Frank any reason to suspect. It is best that he does not alter his usual, instinctive, nefarious activities, which are to be evaluated and remedied by the masters.”

“Yes, I understand.” She nodded gratefully, reached, and touched my hand. She held it, trembling, and said, “When will I notice something happening?”

“Probably within a few days. Can you be here at one o’clock next Saturday afternoon for another session?” I placed my remaining hand on hers, and said, “It will be okay”. I stood to conclude the meeting.

“Yes, I’ll be here. Thank you so much. You are so comforting. You have brought me some peace. For the first time in months, I’ll sleep tonight.” She leaned to pick up Precious who growled fiercely at the threat of being separated from the biscuit.

The telephone rang. It was the Sister Barbara hotline. This was a separate line that I posted on the Sister Barbara billboard, previously reserved for the studio just in case anyone called regarding my artwork. Finally, a call. “Excuse me, please, Shirley.”

“Hey, Sister Barbara, this is Chloe. I said I would call. Remember me?” implored a young female voice on the other end of the line.

“Yes, sure. How are you, Chloe?”

“I really need to see you, as soon as possible, okay?”

“I would be happy to see you. Let me look at my calendar.” I found the piece of paper where I had just scribbled Shirley’s appointment. “Yes, here it is. How about next Saturday afternoon at two-fifteen?” I was thrilled to show Shirley that I had another customer.

“Excellent. I’ll be there. Thanks, I can’t wait.”

“Don’t be late, Chloe, and bring one hundred fifty dollars.”

“Okay, see you Saturday!”

I returned to Shirley. “Well, I think we’ve accomplished our objective for today, and there will be fantastic results to discuss when you come back next Saturday. Will you be able to bring nine hundred dollars for next week’s work?” I was relieved that she didn’t question why Chloe only had to pay one fifty. Shirley didn’t seem to have financial problems.

“Certainly.”

“Let me call Lupe to see you to the door.” I called on the seldom-used intercom. “Lupe, por favor!” To Shirley, I said, “Feel free to call me at any time if you have questions or problems. Most importantly, relax. Bye bye, Precious.” I reached down to pat the dog’s head. This time it lunged and caught its teeny needle tooth on my pinky. I drew away quickly, concealing the bleeding wound inflicted by the tiny canine barracuda.

Alone again, I removed the photographs from the envelope and looked through them once more. Muffled Japanese shouts, coupled with sawing noises emanated from outside. I could see that they were felling a large tree. Refusing to lose momentum of concentration, I fanned the photos, and threw the hundred dollar bills atop.

I meditated but received no inspiration. I meditated with greater intensity, fixated on the photos. I noticed one photo stuck behind another, one that I hadn’t seen before. I peeled them apart carefully.

I examined the newly discovered photo. It was yellowed with age, as were all of the other pictures. Judging by the hairstyles, it was taken the same time as the other photos. I recognized that the moment caught in time was of Judge Frank Sullivan, his back slighlty turned, with then-secretary of defense, Gerald Bartholomew, and then-governor of the State of California who had since become President of the United States. That’s right. The President of the United States! There were also a few Asian women with voluptuous lips in the photograph, which was taken in shallow waters of some cavern. A Turkish water pipe was in the background. The Judge’s hand was undeniably dangerously high upon the thigh of the governor, and they gazed into one another’s glossy eyes. Shirley’s arms were around an Asian woman, her face clearly recongizable, although contorted seemingly in ecstasy. Did I mention they were all naked?

Why had I been given this information by the powerful unknown forces? How could I respond to this discovery? Why me?

In shock, I inspected the photograph again and again, even with my magnifying glass. There was no doubt. This was not a Photoshop-doctored print. It was real. I quickly replaced the pictures into the envelope and hid them deep within the bowels of my closet.

I slumped back into the chair, dazed, exhausted, drained. I must have fallen asleep, and begun to dream so vividly that I was jolted awake. I received a vision. I had been so peacefully unconscious, but I know I was beckoned. Who was calling me? Was it my guardian angel? My spirit teacher? I had no idea where the information was from, but I knew exactly what had to be done. I found paper and scribbled some notes.

IX

It was my own bedroom, but I tiptoed in. Hair. Protruding from the immaculate white blankets and pillows was his dark, curly mop. Everything else in the room was white with the exception of my celestially inspired terrible artwork and the hair of the person in my bed who was exhausted from singing love songs to other women all night long. I looked at him as he slept, and felt an uncontrollable animal rush.

I loved his hair. In my imagination I changed his hair to blonde, then I took it away altogether until he was bald, and what then? I felt the same. Was it his body? In my mind his body became fat then old and I still wanted him. I certainly didn’t want him for material reasons, but I was in awe of his dedication, talent, and passion for music. We had much in common as inspired artists.

I scrutinized his face. His nose was long and his mouth was wide and his Cro-Magnon forehead was manly. And those eyes, oh those eyes. Within them I imagined there must be worlds of knowledge bequeathed by loving ancestors. He possessed a sort of angelic-savage look and I feared that I might love him.

My feelings could have been totally illogical and deluded in my haste to heal the pain and loneliness. And this new life I have is scary. Why not go for security and Darling Doctor David Horowitz, the dentist, and buy a library of romantic fiction? I could have it all: darling, practical, responsible Doctor Horowitz and excitement. It just wouldn’t be love.

I imagined life with Darling David in ten years. He is obsessing upon one last case of rampant gum disease afflicting one of the neighbors. “Right in our own neighborhood. Can you imagine?” he asks. “After all of that plastic surgery and all of those wives and always being in the spotlight, he didn’t take care of his teeth?” David has returned home at five-twenty-seven as usual after a hard day on his hunt for plaque and finds me waiting as usual, reclined on a chaise lounge shaped like an upper plate. He washes his hands.

He returns and says, “Hi, Dear, I’m home. Did the children floss?”

“Hello, Darling! Yes, we all had a good floss. Did you find any new cases of dental disease at the office today?”

“No. Because there is no more plaque. I think my hygienists have triumphantly eradicated the plaque within my practice. We must expand to the suburbs for awhile until the nuclear Chinese plaque strikes.”

“I’m sure you’ll find some old plaque in the outback, brave one. Let’s wash our hands again for dinner, my love.”

“What are we having tonight, my sweetest?”

“Quail.”

“Quail again?”

I drop my vibrator, rise from the upper plate chaise and throw my arms around his neck. Now you can see that I am wearing an apron and only an apron, except for a feather boa. “Let’s just forget the quail tonight,” I say huskily, humping his leg and swathing his ear with my tongue.

“No. What kind of quail?”

“It’s Tuesday night fortune quail, my darling,” I beg.

“What is that?”

“It’s quail roasted with kumquats and persimmons and inside there is a fortune, as in a Chinese cookie. Maybe you’ll get the fortune!” I hopped up and down, clapping my hands. “I made the recipe up specially for tonight and picked the fruit from our garden this morning.”

He turns away in disgust. “I’m sick to death of those silly outfits you wear, and your disguising that same old quail recipe over and over. I would like a divorce, my all.

“Very well.” So much for Darling Doctor David Horowitz and me. Maybe I should have tried lamb chops.

Then I imagined Scott and me ten years in the future. It is three A.M. and I am nude, except for that feather boa and apron. He returns home wearing believable synthetic leather pants (cows are endangered now), and he’s sweaty from singing love songs to other heterosexual women (also endangered). I am not lounging on anything because we can’t afford furniture. Who cares?

“What’s for dinner, Vice Thighs?” he asks.

“You’re lookin’ at it.”

Now, see how simple? We communicate and this relationship works.

I felt a magical carnal attraction toward this alien sleeping in my bed. I slipped from my clothes, and lay beside him. He didn’t move. I touched a curl on his forehead. He didn’t move. I lay halfway across his body and kissed his lips. Still he didn’t move. I kissed his neck. He didn’t move. I kissed his chest. I kissed his stomach. I peeked under his boxer shorts. He was awake.

ONE HOUR LATER

“So, this woman asks me to help her because she is miserably in love with a married man,” I say to Scott.

He was listening intently as he devoured the breakfast I prepared of rib-eye steak and eggs. “Umhmmmmmm,” he mumbled over a mouthful.

“I sincerely wanted to help her, so I asked for pictures of the man to enable me envision him in meditation.”

He swallowed a bite. “So you needed photographs. Can Sister Barbara really harness metaphysical powers?”

“Oh, yeah. Some people hold a watch or a ring, something personal, and feel vibrations, but I can’t do that. It’s easy to see a photograph and read into it.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“Sure, and going great until I recognized the man in the photographs to be very well-known and highly-respected in government.”

“Who is it?”

“I can’t say, but he’s been on Larry King.”

“No shit.”

“That’s what I said.”

He finished his orange juice and said, “So what’s next?”

“Work.”

“What kind of work? Voodoo?”

“Don’t insult me.”

“I’m just trying to fit in. What did you tell the woman?”

“I told her that I know that I can help her, and we made another appointment for next week.”

“What are you going to do next week?”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet. I have some ideas, and I was wondering?”

“What?”

“Could you help me with something?” I asked, as I spread jam on my toast.

He immediately grasped the collar of his shirt, and held it together tightly. “Gee whiz, Sister Barbara, but it so happens that I’m booked.”

“You didn’t even ask me what it was that I needed.”

“Right. You’re scaring me again.”

“ I’ve been using my old CD player because all those woofers and tweeters and whatever they are don’t work on my stereo system. I thought you could help me transfer everything to my new I pod.”

“Oh. I wish I could help you out, but I don’t really know about that technical stuff,” he said while sawing on his steak. I noticed he scraped the fork on his teeth. We had just slept together and had fabulous sex. Why is it that afterwards, the man is fortified and satisfied, then busy and unattainable, and the woman begins to notice his table manners?

No more time for further analysis, the doorbell rang. Scott followed me to answer, perhaps curiously anticipating the fearsome intriguing possibility of a new Tarot customer.

At the front door was my friend, James, my trainer from the health club. He was six-foot-six with an enormous chest, and biceps and triceps and quadriceps and all other ceps. He was a behemoth of a man and one of the most handsome men I had ever met. He was childlike and unaware of his intimidating presence.

Before all of my recent turmoil, I had been working out—swimming, lifting weights, bicycling, jazzercising, pilates-ing, and confiding in James a bit, in an attempt to lose those extra fifteen pounds in the hope that Rick would come home to discover the clitoris of his own wife. Although I had notified him on numerous occasions of its importance and even directed him to its precise whereabouts, he never found it.

“Hey, lady, I been missin’ you!” he said in his mellifluous deep Nigerian accent. “I been at club, and keep lookin’, but no you, so I call, and no answer, so I come over.”

“I stopped by the health club and left an invitation to my party. Didn’t you get it?”

“I know of no pahty.”

“I invited you! I’ve missed you too. A lot is going on.”

“What goin’?”

“I’m, well, I’m—I’m getting a divorce.”

“Ah, divohce and pahty. Sorry to hear.”

“I know. I know. It’s a long story.”

He looked around me to Scott. “How rude I am. I am James,” he said, extending his hand.

“I’m so sorry, Scott, this is James. James, this is Scott. Scott is a musician and friend, and James is my friend and also my trainer from the health club.”

“Wait! I know, mahn. You the singer. Uhhhh—Scahtt—Scahtt and the Scahtt Sohmbohdy Bahnd. Good music. Good. I’m James Nwankpah.” He reached around me and engulfed Scott’s hand with his own. Scott seemed to shrink.

“Well, thank you, James. Ya mahn. Heh heh. It’s so good to finally meet you too.” Hmm. I had never spoken of James, and was he mocking James’ accent?

There was an uncomfortable pause in conversation until James and I talked at the same time. It was awkward.

“Would you like to come in, James?” I asked.

“No, but thank you. I just hahd quick lunch and going back to gym. I brought new schedule for you. We have fun new classes and good new people you would like.” He handed it to me and stepped back.

“I’m really glad you came by, James. It’s nice to know that I was missed, and I hope to train with you again soon.”

“You look beautiful. I am hahppy to find you hahppy.” With that he put his immense arm around me and I reached up and kissed his cheek. “Good to meet the famous Scahtt,” he said diplomatically as he returned to his impeccable black pickup truck.

I closed the door, and turned to Scott. “I’ve got to get those dishes done and then we can go out or something.”

“Yeah, I guess I’ll just be going.”

“Dishes will only take a few minutes. We could do something this afternoon—a movie maybe or a ride out to the beach.”

“No, wish I could, but I’ve got to get back to the band.”

I watched his car until it disappeared. We didn’t even know one another. How could he just leave so quickly? How could I allow this to happen?

Should I beckon Sponge Bob? Fuck Sponge Bob. Back in the kitchen, I pushed the chairs back under the table and roughly returned the dirty dishes to the sink. He never even took me out on a date. He wouldn’t even take a look at my sound system. I reached into the cupboard for a Moon Pie and walked into the family room.

I sat on the sofa, unwrapped the Moon Pie, took a bite, and clicked the television on, looking for the afternoon news. For some reason, it was difficult to see the picture on the television clearly, and I flipped through more channels. There was a glare on the screen. In fact, the whole room was unusually bright. When I looked outside, I discovered the cause of the problem. The old oak tree, which always provided a shield from the afternoon sun, no longer existed. In its place was a stump.

I couldn’t believe my eyes, so I walked outside to get a closer look. The former pool was filled with dirt, and the Japanese had moved north to pour a fresh foundation on the lot next door.

Inside, the telephone was ringing, and I rushed to answer. This had to be Rick, the source of all-evil, and I was livid.

“Hello?” I snapped.

“Go to the mail box. Right now. I’ll hang on. This is fab-u-lous.” It was Sharon. I hadn’t talked to her since she and Hunt left for vacation to their second home in Hawaii.

“Is my mail box there?” Most recently it was nearly buried in rubble.

“Just go,” she commanded.

“Why?”

“Because your invitation to Warren Grant’s annual party will be there. I just opened mine.”

Warren Grant was a big Hollywood agent, friend and patient of Hunt’s. Hunt also had tucked many of Warren’s clients. I met him at one of Sharon’s dinner parties and had been on his ‘A’ list for the past few years.

“It’s on the Queen Elizabeth this year. She’ll be docked in Laguna.”

“Wow. That’ll be fun.”

“Yeah. Remember fun? F-U-N? You can’t go by yourself, of course. You’ll get a date. How about that guy, Skip?”

“Scott, Sharon, and you know it. Hang on the other line is ringing.”

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mrs. Barett?”

“Yes.”

“This is Theresa Tidwell from A-1 Aluminum Siding Company.”

“Sorry, I’m not interested.” I clicked over. “Sharon?”

“No. This is Rick. What’s new?” I couldn’t deal with him and switched over to the other line.

“Hello? Sharon?”

“No. Theresa Tidwell from A-1 Aluminum Siding Company.”

“No thanks. I’m not interested.”

I pressed the button again. “Sharon?”

“I hate hold,” Sharon answered.

“Sharon, are you busy? Can I come over for awhile?”

“What’s the matter? What happened?” she asked.

“I just want to talk to you.”

“Of course. Come on over, Canary. Let’s talk.”

I replaced the receiver and stood motionless for a moment. When I took a jacket from my bedroom closet, I saw my unmade bed. I ripped the sheets and blankets off and stuffed them into the laundry basket.

I marched across the bedroom and dialed the telephone.

“Doctor Horowitz and Doctor Logman’s dental office,” the voice answered. I tried to speak, but I was suddenly aphasic.

“Dental Office,” repeated the woman on the line, impatiently.

“Hello. Is Doctor Horowitz in?” I finally managed to mumble.

PART THREE

THE BEGINNING AGAIN

I

“Yes, Doctor Horowitz is in, but he is with a patient. May I help you?” The barely human woman’s voice responded.

“Uh, sure. This is—uh—a friend.”

“Yes? May I help you?” the voice asked disbelievingly.

“Yes, I would like to speak to Dr. Horowitz.”

“The doctor is only taking emergency calls. Are you having a dental emergency?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“What is the nature of your dental emergency?” she asked coldly. What an amateur I was. I couldn’t just announce, “I am David’s future wife, so you better watch out.” Now I had to dream up a dental emergency.

“What is your name please, and what is the nature of your emergency?”

This was exciting for her, I could tell, so I didn’t want to let her down.

“Gloria Calhoun,” I blurted, “my dog just ate my dentures and I’m getting married tomorrow. I need to talk to Doctor Horowitz immediately.” I hoped it was good for her.

The woman gasped and juggled the receiver. Regaining her composure, she said, “have you been a patient of Dr. Horowitz’ before?”

“Yes. He pulled my teeth.”

“I don’t recognize your name.”

“My name was Tatiana Eugenides then. With a ‘y’. Just go get him.” I thought maybe I should just hang up. I really had made a mess of this.

“Certainly. One moment,” she said at last. Two or three minutes passed while I listened to Barry Manilow.

“Hello? This is Doctor Horowitz.”

“Hello, David?”

“Yes?”

“David, this is Barbara, returning your call.”

“Barbara?” Yes, Barbara, but I called you years ago.”

“Has it really been that long? Time really flies. I’m sorry I didn’t call you back sooner, but I’ve been real busy.”

“Yes, Barbara, I’m delighted to hear from you, but can you hold on for one moment? There’s a call on another line—a macabre dental emergency. Just hold on now, don’t hang up. I’ll be right back.” Click. Some things never change. David still uses dramatic adjectives. Click.

“Miss Calhoun?”

“No. It’s Barbara, David.”

“Sorry. Please continue to hold one minute. I’ll be right back.” Click.

Click. “Miss Calhoun?”

“Nope. It’s still me.”

Click Click. He disconnected me. The phone rang a minute later.

“Did you take care of the emergency, David?”

“Not yet. My new inept receptionist must have disconnected her. But, where were we? Oh, yes, I was saying that it has been years since you failed to return my call. I remember that precisely because I had just taken Mrs. Fenwick’s impression, and I called you while it was setting up. Actually, you answered the telephone and asked me to hold on because you needed to answer the door. I held on for a full fifteen minutes, but then the Fenwick impression was set, so I had to hang up. I think of you every time I polish her bridge. Who was at the door?”

“I don’t remember, David, but I was married then anyway.”

“Then?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“I’m getting a divorce.”

“Divorce? Oh my. That’s too bad. I’m really sorry. Are you and Jessica okay?”

“We are. But tell me about what’s going on with you.”

“I’ve been well. I have a new associate, and we’re doing some new progressive implant and cosmetic work. I still get out as often as possible to go deep sea fishing.”

“Yes. I remember how you love deep sea fishing.”

“I’m taking a fish taxidermy course so that I can mount my own trophies.”

“That sounds like an interesting skill.”

“Oh, yes. My life is full, and I have even mounted a beautiful marlin, but I’m still lonely. You know how I’ve always felt about you. Tell me what you and Jessica have been doing.”

“Let’s see. I’m still seriously involved with art— just made my first sale.”

“Oh congratulations! I remember your work. It’s brilliant. What else?”

“I’ve been reading Tarot and doing a little witchcraft on the side for extra money. No voodoo or black magic, though. I won’t do that.”

“Metaphysics. Yes. Creative people are quite open to that. Intriguing.”

“What about that pediatric dental office that you always wanted to build?”

“I’ve had the space for quite some time, but just haven’t had the time to design the build out.”

“May I help with that? I bet I could design great kids’ space.”

“Would you want to? I know you could come up with a wonderful design. I would love to work on that with you!”

“It would be great to work with you, but I mean professionally. I need the work.”

“Of course. I understand. It’s business, but I can’t help admitting how nice it would be to see you. How about stopping by the office tomorrow afternoon? My last patient is at four-forty-five, so I’ll probably be finished around five-fifteen.”

Precise, reliable, darling David, still dividing his life into quarter hours. Opposites attract and maybe he was just what I needed for stability. He would look so handsome with me at Warren Grant’s party. Such a beautiful couple.

“See you then, David.”

I ran through the house, outside, and down the street, anxious to see Sharon.

“Something smells terrible in here,” I said to Sharon when she opened her door and purple-green smoke billowed out.

“Jacob was playing doctor and micro-waved Hunt’s new surgical instrument.”

“I think we should call the fire department. This stuff could be toxic.”

“No. Last time the fire department just said to open a few windows.”

I bent down and patted Jacob on the head. He took his sucker out of his mouth and tried to put it in my hair.

I looked into the smoldering microwave. “I think it’s burned out.”

“No doubt.”

“The rubber parts of the instrument still look fine. When it cools off we can save those.”

“Don’t bother. We have a whole drawer of rubber parts. Dehlia! Dehlia!” she cried. A woman appeared.

“It is Dehlia’s day off. I am Juana.” Sharon merely pointed at the microwave and Juana took charge.

“How many people work here?” I asked Sharon. “Geez.”

She ignored my question and said, “So, sit down and tell me. What’s been happening while we were in Hawaii? You sounded upset on the phone.” She plopped down on a sofa in the sunroom and I took an overstuffed armchair across from her.

“Have you taken a look at my house lately?” I asked.

“Pardon?”

“My house is being torn down by a Japanese construction company, hired by Rick, and is being rebuilt on the lot Rick bought next door. I am within days of residing on a tennis court.”

“What?”

“You heard me. They took out the pool, filled it with dirt, removed trees, and have put a new foundation on Rick’s lot next door.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“Well, you’ve been in Hawaii, but what could you have done anyway?”

“Call Hunt’s cousin Leonard, the divorce lawyer? Call the police?”

“I called Leonard, and he told me that Rick and I own the house together and that Rick got a legal construction permit. Nothing can be done until there’s a property settlement after the divorce. Until then he is within the law.”

“That doesn’t sound right to me. I’m calling Hunt right now. He’ll talk to Leonard.”

“Maybe he’ll take Hunt’s call, but he won’t take mine. He wants $25,000 as a retainer. I only gave him $2500, and he says that’s already expended.”

“He’ll take Hunt’s call.”

“Maybe in a couple of weeks. Leonard’s out of town somewhere according to his away message when I tried to send an e-mail.”

“Oh God.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Why is Rick doing this?”

“He became enraged after we had the pool party, but he says he’s doing it because he loves me. As our house falls, he calls and says things like, ‘Hi! How is your day going?’ or ‘You can stop this Barbara. Let’s just get back together.’ He wants to imprison me like Humbert did Lolita, without the thrilling exploitative sex, of course.”

“That bastard. That sick bastard. Get the baby. Get Jessica right now. You can live in our guesthouse until the divorce is over.”

“Thank you, Sharon, but we can’t live with you and Hunt. Besides, I have tarot customers, and our house is still livable for now. That’s not what I came over to talk about anyway.” Juana brought a tray with wine, cheese, and grapes.

“There’s more?”

“James from the health club came over this morning when Scott was there. He had spent the night, and then he left without even kissing me goodbye. We didn’t even have a fight.”

“You and Scott or you and James?”

“Scott.”

“Scott Martin? Who cares? How could you possibly have a fight with that…? Your house is being demolished and you’re worried about an altercation with that… musician?”

“I really care for him, Sharon.”

“Oy vey. You are driving me crazy. I have to see Marty.”

“Love’s crazy.”

“Love? How could you love him? You don’t even know him. You’re just in a hurry to find someone to replace Rick. Just give yourself a little time.”

“Maybe you’re right, but I really, really like him. I love being with him.”

“Well, you have seemed happier somehow since that horrible party, I’ll admit. I guess that’s what’s most important.” After a few moments of nervous silence, she continued, “So, all right, go on.”

“It all happened so suddenly. Do you remember when you were first falling in love?”

“Vaguely.”

“Scott and I slept together, and it was incredible, Sharon. Everything had been perfect until we were having breakfast. One minute everything was fabulous, and then I asked him if he could help me fix my sound system. He’s a musician, so I thought that would be easy.”

“Uh huh.”

“He said he didn’t know how. Then James—remember James from the club?”

“Yes, of course. How could anyone forget that man?”

“Scott seemed to be intimidated by James and was impolite to him.”

“James is hot. Have you been with James too?”

“Even you don’t know me any more. No, I love James like a big sweet teddy bear.”

She sighed with regret. “Well, just forget about it. You’ll find someone when the time comes. Just get to know yourself. Don’t be in such a rush.”

I noticed that Jacob had begun filling the dishwasher with designer shoes and handbags. “Sharon. Look at what your son is doing.”

“Dehlia! Dehlia! Stop it, Jacob!” Juana came running.

“Sharon, that’s not all. I have a Tarot customer who came in for advice about her married boyfriend.”

“People really call you?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmm. I haven’t had my cards read in forever. Do you really know how to read them?”

“I hope so. I’ll read you sometime if you want me to.”

“Oh, that would be fun!”

“So anyway, when my customer showed me photographs of her boyfriend, I recognized him immediately. He is—uh— well-known internationally.”

“Internationally well-known? Who?”

“I can’t tell you that, but I know that you know who he is. He’s very well connected. For example, guess what he calls the President of the United States?”

“What?”

“Honey.”

“Honey?”

“That’s right, and I have conjured up some entity that wants me to do witchcraft on him.”

Sharon grimaced and took a sip of wine. I sipped mine. We sat there for a long while contemplating until she finally broke the silence.

“He calls him ‘Honey’?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because they are lovers.”

“Oh come on, Barbara. You must be delusional. How do you know?”

“I saw the pictures and then I was informed through meditation.”

Sharon exploded instantly. “I saw all this coming! You were bottling this all up inside. You were depressed, and now you’re hearing voices. You’re having a breakdown! I can’t handle this. You should see Marty and Leonard. I’m depressed now. I have a stomachache. I think I’m going to vomit.”

“So that’s your advice?”

“How can I give you any advice? You don’t listen to anything human. I told you not to marry Rick to begin with. All of this would have never happened if you had married David Horowitz.”

“I called David today.”

She sat upright. “You did?”

“See. I listened.”

“What did you talk about? What did he say?”

“We’re going to meet tomorrow and I’m going to help him design a pediatric dental office.”

“Oh that’s good. That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. You’ll be good at that, and David’s wanted that office for a long time.”

“I’m thinking that I might ask him to Warren Grant’s party.”

“Perfect. You should do that! Maybe you haven’t lost all of your marbles.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“Yeah, but you have some real problems that you’re going to have to deal with. Instead of worrying about all of them, you should address each one, individually and rationally. You should organize them.” Sharon, the logical, took a pen and paper from a drawer and put her glasses on. She popped a grape into her mouth and spread cheese on a cracker. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

I reached for a cracker. “Can I offer an idea?” I asked.

“Yes. You can, but it probably won’t be very good.”

“Do you have any colored markers?”

“Always the artist. This is not the time for colored markers.”

“Okay. I can do it without markers. You write, then. Make two columns. On one side, we’ll put the problem, and on the other we’ll write possible solutions, like Einstein or Thomas Jefferson or somebody would.”

“That’s not bad.” Sharon wrote ‘Problem’ on the left and ‘Solution’ on the right side of the paper. Then she drew a line down the middle.

“Okay, let’s address the worst problem first and get it over with,” she said.

“The Japanese,” I said without hesitation.

Sharon wrote ‘1. The Japanese’ in the left column. She held the pen over the right column, stared at me over the top of her glasses and said, “What should we put here?”

“Your turn. I thought of the problem. I can’t do all the work.”

Sharon drummed her fingers on the table. I looked at the ceiling but found no inspiration. We sipped our wine.

“Can you think of anything?” I asked.

“No. Can you?”

“No. Let’s go ahead and skip that one for now and go on to the next one.”

“Okay. Then.” She wrote ‘2’. “What’s number two?” “I don’t want Rick to build a house next door.”

“Right. That’s inappropriate. He’s such a fucking douche bag. That’s very good for number two. What can we put in the other column?”

“Well, I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Well—.” She bit on the end of her pen. I scratched my head.

“Let’s do some easy ones. That way we can warm up,” I suggested.

“Okay. So let’s skip down to–oh–what do you think?”

“Six.”

“Okay. What’s six?”

“I really feel uncomfortable doing witchcraft on the close friend of the President. Write that down.”

“How do I write that?”

“Uhhhh. Yeah, just go ahead and abbreviate.”

She wrote UWFP and said, “and you are a Democrat. This would be stressful. You should charge extra for that. Raise your rates.”

“We’re really rolling now. Number seven, Scott.”

“Number seven.”

She stared at me vacantly. “Come on. Write it down,” I said. I want to be with someone, but I don’t know if I’m causing my relationships to fail because I try too hard or I’m too demanding, or what. I’m worried about it. I just don’t know how to be single.”

She rolled her eyes, sighed, and wrote ‘7. Scott’. Then she immediately wrote ‘David’ in the opposite column. She looked up triumphantly and said, “There’s your solution. David.”

“No, Sharon. The solution is not David. The solution is not Scott or any man. I have to get my life in order.”

“David is the solution.”

“Last week the doctor next door was the solution. I need to play the field, not marry it.”

“David is handsome, he’s rich, he’s brilliant, and he has always loved you. Do you know how many women in Hollywood would go with him just for the veneers?”

“I’ll ask him to Warren Grant’s party, but I’m just not attracted to him. He’s not my type.”

“You should look again. You have been attracted to the wrong kind of man. That’s your problem. Change your type,” she said, making derisive air quotes as she said the last word.

Juana entered the room and asked, “Mrs. Sharon, should I start dinner?”

“Dinner? Wow. I didn’t know it was getting so late, I’m sorry, Sharon.”

“Me either.” She jumped up. “Time always passes quickly when I’m with you.”

“I’ve got to go home. I just remembered I didn’t even leave a note for Jessica and Lupe. They’re probably worried.” I picked up the paper, folded it, and put it in my pocket. “I feel much better now. Thank you for being there, Sharon. You really helped me.”

“Helped you? You won’t let me help you, and I would do anything for you.”

“Yep. Remember what we said in school?”

“If you killed somebody…” she started.

“I’d help you bury him,” I finished. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Thanks for everything. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I had pretended to have an Ozzie-and-Harriet life but it had fallen like a house of cards. Sharon was sharing my pain. She was my true friend. Thank God for her. I felt better. Everything was going to be fine.

By the time I finally walked home from Sharon’s, the sun was low in the sky surrounded by streaks of blazing orange, pink and purple. Lights had been turned on in neighbors’ windows and they glowed like a Thomas Kinkade painting, full of warmth, comfort, and security. It was late autumn, and I smelled the first logs of the season burning in fireplaces. I suddenly felt chilled, shivered and wrapped my arms around myself. At one house, they were probably celebrating a special occasion with family and friends. Cars lined the driveway and delicious aromas of butter and garlic wafted about.

I had never been so alone, so displaced, but I welcomed the comfort that comes when nothing is left to lose.

The porch light was on at home, and the house was dimly lit inside as though everyone had gone out for the evening or gone to bed for the night or as though no one really lived inside at all. I unlocked the door, switched off the porch light, and went to the baby’s room.

Jessica and Lupe were asleep in the rocking chair. It was much too early for them to fall asleep. I must spend time with Jessica like I did before this horrible mess. Lupe had been wonderful. She sensed that I needed time to myself and she gave the baby extra attention, but now there was no more time to waste. I resolved that it was time for serious work.

II

Some force was guiding me. Was it my guardian angel? My spirit guide? Did I need an exorcism? I turned on the light above my studio desk, started some music and poured a glass of wine. I retrieved Shirley Winters’ folder from the closet that held the pictures of her and Frank Sullivan. I plucked out that newly discovered photo and examined it. I pulled the desk light down closer and broke out my magnifying glass to get a better look. The image was so clear that I could see the dents around Frank’s swollen ankles where his socks had been. Poor Frank is a water retainer. Even the intricate patterns and colors of the Turkish pipe were visible in the background, but something interested me most—the giant mole on Frank’s ass.

The force compelled me to Google Frank. United States Federal Court. Hey—look at this! It was right there. ‘The Honorable Frank Sullivan’, and there must be the number for his secretary here somewhere. Clerk? No. Judge’s office! I couldn’t believe this. This is uncanny. Here was the number for his office, just begging me to call. It was late, past working hours. His office was probably closed, but I could just listen to the recorded message. I engaged the Private Caller setting on the phone. This is a perfect chance to practice. Let’s see what happens. I dialed. It rang, twice. “Hello?” answered the voice. It was not an answering service or a computer. It was Frank. I know it was really Frank.

“Hello? Frank?” I said warmly.

“Yes?”

“Frank, I have a photograph you should buy,” I said politely.

“What?” He didn’t sound worried, yet. I bet he thought I was a friend, kidding him.

“I said I have a photograph you should buy.”

“What photograph? Are you the photographer from last week’s fundraiser?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Well, whatever event it was, you need to talk to my secretary during regular business hours.” I felt that he was about to hang up on me and that I would lose my opportunity.

“I found a photograph of you that you should have. You probably wouldn’t want your wife to see it. Or the Washington Post. Or the National Enquirer.”

“What are you talking about? Don’t you threaten me! Who the hell is this?”

“Yes. I have it right here in my hand. It was taken in some cave or cavern a while back with some really close friends. You and Honey look real cute. But Frank, have you ever had that mole looked at? You know, the one on your ass, right in the middle of the left cheek. Hmmm—it’s red, and raised above the skin. You should see a dermatologist.” There was a long silence, except for heavy breathing on both sides.

“What do you want from me, you tabloid whore?” he bellowed finally.

“That’s not a very nice way to talk to someone who is worried about your well-being, Frank.”

“You fucking bitch.”

“I really don’t feel that it’s in your best interest to insult me, your Honor, so now I’ll tell you what I’m going to do for you. Tomorrow I’ll get a few copies made of this little snapshot for CNN. I’ve got to go for now, but I’ll call you tomorrow around this same time. Bye-bye now.”

III

I pulled Hoopty into one of the designated parking places in the shade of a giant fig tree shading David Horowitz’ office. I crawled out of the tiny car, slammed the door, adjusted my skirt, and teetered a bit in my high heels upon the fallen leaves that covered the pavement. When I removed my sunglasses and adjusted my vision to the late afternoon sunlight, I saw David’s office staff peering through the windows.

Stenciled in black and gold calligraphy on the glass door was ‘David M. Horowitz, DDS’ above ‘Robert A. Logman, DDS’. I stepped inside to the reception desk. The staff had vanished with the exception of the receptionist.

“Yes? Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked stonily. She wore a tent-sized cotton blouse with big pink and orange flowers and white polyester pants that flared at the ankle above white orthopedic shoes. On the back of her office chair was a dingy white sweater with pilled frizzes. She was short and plump and wore bifocals and a little yellow button with a smile on it. I knew she was wearing knee-highs, that she was playing doctor, and that she didn’t like me much. Lionel Ritchie was playing and a drill whirred in the background. The air smelled of antiseptic and fluoride. I wanted nitrous.

“Are you a patient?” she asked stiffly as she looked around me at the Volkswagen.

“No, I’m a friend of David’s. He’s expecting me. Will it be okay if my car is parked there? I wouldn’t want anything to happen to it.”

“Yes. That is parking for our patients. Doctor is here. Please have a seat.” I could tell that she thought I was after free veneers. She walked down the hall and disappeared behind one of the cubicles.

I took a seat and picked up People magazine’s best and worst dressed issue. Hmmm—I wondered which ones had their fat sucked off by Hunt. A nose job here and an implant there. Here a tuck, there a tuck, every-where a tuck, tuck. On to rehab. Buy a farm. Here was a natural: she looked horrible. I began to play a word game on my phone.

Feeling someone’s stare, I looked up. Two of David’s office staff were examining me dissapprovingly, one pretending to search through the appointment book, the other through a file. I was wearing a tight white cashmere dress, and I don’t mind saying that I looked hot. It was unseasonably warm that day, but this old dress of mine was one of my favorites. I wondered if they knew that Hunt, Sharon, David, and I were friends. If so, they are checking me over for evidence of plastic surgery. That is the real drawback of being friends with Hunt.

My breasts aren’t that great, but they’re natural. When summer ended and I began junior year in high school, Margaret and Elizabeth finally started to grow, and reached the size of gumdrops. That year I put silicone pads under my prom dress. The dress was too big on top, even with the enhancements, and the pads kept slipping up, down and around. At one point, after a fast dance, I looked down and to my horror found one had dropped down around my waist. I kept going back and forth to the bathroom to make adjustments. My pimply date, Michael Caldwell, stared lasciviously at what appeared to be a bust and tried to feel me up all night. I finally said, “Here, you like them so much, you can have them.” I took them out and handed them to him. I hear he’s still living at home with his mom, probably wounded forever and still whacking off.

Those women behind the reception desk were still staring. It crossed my mind that maybe I should get implants and veneers. If you’re gonna do the time, you may as well commit the crime.

Darling Doctor David appeared, and I was jolted back to the present. He had become even more handsome with time. His facial features were absolutely perfect, almost too perfect. He had incredible intense dark blue eyes, long lashes and thick shining blue-black curly hair. His skin was the whitest white and his jaw was square and strong with a deep cleft in his chin. He was tall, thin, broad-shouldered, and a bit of fine, dark chest hair was visible above the neckline of his green scrubs. His dental office audience swooned.

“Barbara. Hello. You’re a sight for sore eyes!” I stood to meet him. We squeezed hands, and I kissed him on the cheek.

“It’s good to see you again, too.” I struggled to remain unruffled while processing his overwhelming good looks.

It was impossible to disregard the scene that had appeared instantaneously behind us. His office staff, overcome with curiosity, forgot their pretenses and posed like cheerleaders, frozen in a pyramid form with the largest one on the bottom, her face just barely visible above the reception desk. One was motionless with her hand in the desk drawer, and another stood, transfixed, wide-eyed, and open-mouthed turning pages in the appointment book while staring at David and me. An elderly woman wearing a little black velvet hat and paper cape was peeking around a doorway. I knew I must stay cool and carry this through.

“I’m really sorry that I didn’t return your call sooner, David, but I want you to know that I’ve thought of you often.” I meant that sincerely, and I was glad I said it. David was such a sad-looking puppy.

“That was then and this is now, and I abide by Nietzsche as you know. All is forgiven.” I had no idea what he meant by that, but the spectators sighed. The little lady with the hat clasped her hands to her heart.

“So, let’s get to business. Where’s that space you want to use for your pediatric patients?” I asked.

“The building is down the street. Would you like to see it?”

“Very much. Let’s go.” He offered his arm.

“May I?” I accepted and he steered me to the door. He flashed his perfect smile, and his long skinny dimples folded into pleats on his cheeks. The faces all disappeared just before he turned to say, “Good night, Florence. Good night, Evelyn and Virginia. Thank you, Mrs. Flynn, and I’ll see you in two weeks for that brand new crown.” He closed the door behind us.

“My car or yours?” asked David. It was sunny, cool, and there was a gentle breeze that beautiful day. I was thrilled that I had made a wise, successful concerted effort to cultivate an exciting new relationship.

“Let’s take yours. That’s the one I’m driving right there.”

“Ahh, a Volkswagen. That’s a very good choice. They keep their value and have low maintenance and good gas mileage.”

“Yes, frugal is the new cool.” Pretense was not necessary with David.

I surveyed the parking lot and tried to guess which car was David’s. No question, I thought, it’s the white Volvo.

Observing David as we rode in his red Ferrari convertible, I tried to decide what movie star he looked like. At a stop light he glanced over, saw me staring and smiled. He picked up my hand and kissed it. Another thing about David is that he comes from an incredibly wealthy family. They own hotels, posh ones. And shopping centers, big ones.

I tried to remember what it was that I hadn’t liked about him before. It started with the boots he wore one rainy day that, worse yet, he called his rubbers. I sneaked a peak at his footwear. Today he was wearing sneakers.

I studied his hand as it rested on the gearshift. It was pale, white, delicate, sterile-looking, long-fingered, and chapped from too much washing. And it was then that I noticed that he hadn’t shifted during our drive. His Ferrari was an automatic. I remembered an old movie we had seen together a long time ago. He had disliked Easy Rider and thought Dennis Hopper got what he deserved. He finally broke the silence.

“You’re beautiful,” he said reverently and comfortably. I imagined that he had heard his father speak lovingly this way to his magnificent mother.

“So are you.” I sat silent for a few minutes watching him while he drove cautiously and peered over the steering wheel like a little old woman. I couldn’t keep myself from saying, “Would you ever wear an earring and shiny loafers without socks?”

His dimples folded into his cheeks and rolled into a sexy smile. “Are you serious?” he asked.

“Yes, but not always. I can be facetious. You might rely on me to be unpredictable or predict that I might be unreliable. Or, just when you become comfortable with that, I might throw in a little surprise and become hypnotically boring. But what I’m actually saying now is, do you think you would ever wear an earring? Not to the office, of course, but like, could you, for instance, if you were on vacation? Just for me?”

David threw his head back and laughed, his shoulders heaving as he turned into the parking lot of the new office building. “You are always such fun! Heh heh. No socks. And earrings? Ahaha! Can you imagine that?” he exclaimed. When he laughed, he snorted. He was absolutely right. I couldn’t imagine him wearing those either.

How many women would have given anything to change places with me on this perfect sunny day? Riding in an expensive sports car with tall, dark, handsome, well-bred, intelligent, educated, rich, sensible, sensitive, eligible, ready, willing, and able Darling Doctor David Michael Horowitz, heir to the Horowitz fortune. And I was over-critical of him, even while consumed with urgency to end my loneliness, and with the fear that I would never really be happy, that all my life I would hear people around me saying how delightful I was because I was cheerful, alive and full of fun, when all along I was dying in solitude and wallowing in self pity because I had always been attracted to the wrong man.

David opened my door and reached his hand to help me out. The office was in a strip shopping center that was still under construction—hot popular location, great modern architecture, and probably owned by the Horowitz family. The ground was full of ruts, and he took my hand. “Let me help you. You could turn an ankle in those shoes,” he said softly.

So what if he wouldn’t wear earrings and if he always wore socks? Geek was the new cool. Barbara, you are unreasonable, childish, and self-destructive, I told myself. You create unhappiness for yourself, and you’ve got a lot of baggage. You’re not getting any younger and lately the sackers at the grocery store have started calling you ma’am.

When we walked through the empty office, I enjoyed the smell of fresh lumber and paint, and was elated by the prospect of designing the interior of this brand new space. He was almost childlike with excitement when he told me his thoughts about a dental office for children, and how he would dedicate one day per week to work for the poor. He rambled about his vision of a large talking tree with teeth and went on and on about the importance of pediatric dental hygiene. I noticed the sun beginning to set, and suddenly remembered Frank the Hammer. It was time to call Frank.

“Excuse me, David.”

“Yes?”

“I must excuse myself for a moment to make a personal telephone call.”

“Certainly,” David said and walked outside politely.

I walked further into the interior of the office space, and dialed the number from the prepaid cell phone that I paid for in cash. I dialed the number. It rang only once.

“Hello?” His voice cracked with tension. I could almost feel sorry for him had I not been conditioned by the photos and pathetic Shirley.

“Hi, Frank, it’s me again.”

“Did you go to CNN?”

“Not yet. I’m going to wait a while. I’ll give you another chance to buy the original photograph instead.”

“Where did you get them?”

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you can have them back.”

“How much do you want?”

“I have to hang up right now. I’ll call you right back.” I didn’t want my location to be traced. Knew that from a TV cops show. I dialed him again.

“So, where were we?”

“How much do you want?”

“I want twenty-five thousand dollars.” I glanced over at David while he paced outside, and gave him a little wave.

“How? Where?” He sounded relieved. I realized this was not an enormous sum of money to him.

“Put the money in a plain brown grocery bag. No bills over twenty, please,” I talked fast.

“Okay.”

“Take the bag to Our Lady of Mercy Catholic Church in Santa Monica this Saturday at four P.M. There is an old confessional that is no longer used in the middle of the chapel to the left of the altar. Put the bag under the seat in the confessional, and leave immediately.” This was my church. I knew that the only thing going on at that time was choir practice. The chapel would be empty.

“Go alone. I mean it, Frank, go absolutely alone. We’ll be watching. If anyone is with you, the photographs go to CNN. And to tell you the truth, Frank, I really think society should know about you. You have sinned against God and mankind. You have been disgusting, perverted, and hypocritical, and you look stupid naked. You deserve to be exposed. Pardon the double entendre.”

“So, how do I get the photographs?” he asked urgently.

“I’ll hang up again for a minute and call right back.” I disconnected and redialed.

“Okay. I’ll overnight the photos to your office, marked personal and confidential.”

“How do I know you’ll do that?”

“Have I ever lied to you Frank? Repeat the instructions so we can be certain that you understand them correctly.”

“I am to put twenty-five thousand dollars in small bills, nothing larger than a twenty, into a brown grocery bag. I alone am to take the bag to Our Lady of Mercy Catholic Church in Santa Monica this Saturday at four P.M. and place it under the chair of the old confessional in the middle of the chapel to the left of the altar. I am to leave immediately,” he repeated submissively.

“Good boy, Frank.”

“Then you’ll send the photographs?”

“Yes.”

“So help me God, if you don’t send the photographs, I’ll find you.”

“Don’t worry about anything but that mole, Frank.”

When I walked toward the door to go outside, David, always the gentleman, strode over and opened it for me.

“Is everything alright?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you. Everything is fine. But it’s getting late and I should be on my way home.” I wanted to get out of there fast.

He drove me to my car and asked, “Will you see me tomorrow night for dinner?”

“Umm. What time?”

“Eight-fifteen?”

“I can’t wait until eight fifteen, David. Could you pick me up by eight-thirteen?”

His cheeks turned bright red and his dimples folded deeply into his stunning smile. “Sure. I’ll be there at the exact time. Oh, I almost forgot!” He ran to the trunk of his car. He dug under a tackle box and a large fish on a wooden frame, and then ran back with a package in his hands.

“Please give this to Jessica,” he said, offering the package. He was flushed with excitement.

“You are too sweet, David. I’ll tell Jessica this is from you and I know she will love your gift. Thank you so much.” I accepted the box, kissed David quickly and sweetly on the lips, and we said, “until tomorrow”.

In the box was a bounty of tiny toothbrushes: Big Bird, Elmo, and Grover. Jessica’s favorites! She and her twelve teeth would adore them.

IV

When I returned home, I raced for the telephone. “Hello, Mother Cassandra? This is Barbara. I know. We haven’t talked in a long time. Yes, I’ve missed you very much, too. I know this is short notice, but could you please give me a reading tonight? You can? I’ll love you forever! I’m on my way. Can’t wait to see you, either.”

Traffic was light, and in less than twenty minutes I was walking down Santa Monica Pier. The air was fresh and cool, and the ocean breeze mixed with scents of the fishing boats, bursting popcorn, and grilled bratwursts. The stars and a new moon illuminated an indigo cloudless sky, and the colored lights from the Ferris wheel reflected gaily upon the water as it lapped rhythmically against the pier. With the carousel playing background music, children laughed excitedly and chased each other, and families and couples paraded about the boardwalk eating ice cream, pushing strollers, buying tickets, and flaunting faded stuffed animal prizes. I made my way through this magical place to Cassandra’s tent just beyond the cotton candy stand where she had performed psychic readings for over thirty-five years. The red flag at the top of the white canvas tent rippled gently in the soft breeze. The tent was not as large as a circus tent or an evangelical revival tent, yet ample at about twenty feet high at the peak and thirty feet square at the base. Her sign, resting on a great wooden easel, greeted me.

Mother Cassandra

Spiritual Reader and Advisor

As seen on Montel Williams

I walked through the open flap of the tent.

She looked up from her crystal ball and said in her delightful German accent, “Vell. Und about time you came to see me. Schpatzee!” She pushed her chair back, got up slowly, adjusted the kinks in her hips, and opened her arms. We hugged and kissed European-style on both cheeks. She placed her hands on my shoulders and looked deeply and lovingly into my eyes as all good witches do.

“I haf seen you often through my dreams und through the crystal ball. Time und time again over the years we haf been friends. I haf calledt you to warn when trouble is aheadt und without fail you haf come to me. This time, I haf seen the worldt collapse for you. Ewrywhere is trouble. Ewrywhere is fear. Und mistakes.” She shook her finger at me. “Aargh! Und mistakes. Und I call you, but do you call me back? No!” She threw her arms in the air and nodded her head side to side. “Did you not wonder couldt I help with this?” She didn’t mean that she called on the phone. She meant that she had called telepathically.

“I did think of you, and I should have come earlier. Everything fell apart so quickly, and it was so awful and complex that I didn’t think even you could help.” She was right. I should have come sooner.

“You shouldt know I am always here for you. I know about ewerythingk. Wisely you haf chosen to endt life as it hadt been. This you must understandt. You haf mourndt with the death of your marriage, but you are a young widow with your whole life aheadt. You will use the past, the badt as well as the gudt, to make gudt energy for eweryone. This is your destiny.” She was so impassioned that her breasts heaved with each quick, heavy breath. “Ahh, Schpatzee.” She shook her head again in disapproval of my absence, and a few long wisps of hair fell and curled around her face. “You cannot do it alone.”

I took her hands, held them in mine, and said to this little wise woman, “When you see a friend that you haven’t seen for a long time, don’t you ever just say, ‘Hi. How have you been?’”

“No, because I know!” she fired back.

Cassandra’s round face glowed when she spoke with animation, and her rosy cheeks swelled beneath her small bright blue eyes. She must have been a spectacular beauty when she was young, for she was exquisite even now. She appeared to be nearly sixty, but she had appeared to be nearly sixty when I first met her almost fifteen years ago. Her delicate white skin was finely wrinkled and intricately creased. She wore her long thick grey blonde hair in a French twist with occasional fine curly wisps that fell around her neck. She was short, stout, and had enormous breasts that started beneath her collarbone and ended just above her stomach. Her immaculately pressed black dress was made of fine silk. It had a small rose floral print and was calf-length, exposing light-colored support hosiery, thick ankles and practical shoes with black stumpy heels.

She possessed a young spirit and an advanced soul and was born with rare metaphysical gifts, as were her mother and grandmother. She had a genuine compassion for people and sensitivity to their suffering and had devoted her life to helping. She was a devout Catholic, but practiced and taught white witchcraft, Kabala, Existentialism, and Spiritualism. Cassandra could prophesize, hypnotize, mesmerize, psychoanalyze, exorcise, mediate, meditate, divinize, conjure up, communicate, consecrate and sing high soprano in her church choir. She was the loving wife of Helmut (now deceased, a former UCLA professor of neuroscience and author), is the mother of two, grandmother of six, and she baked great cakes and cookies. I had been her student for years, and she was my real life Teutonic fairy godmother.

“Well, I don’t go so much for the chokes with a time like this. How you haf been we know. Now is to findt out how und where you will be in the future. Now come und sit. We cannot waste more time. Less talkingk, more thinkingk.” She took my hand and pulled me over to sit at her magical table. She began to gaze into her crystal ball. “Please clear your mindt,” she said emphatically.

In seconds I knew that she was no longer with me as she used the extraordinary powers of meditation to achieve clairvoyance. Paradoxically, I concentrated on nothing as she had taught me. The average individual is able to meditate only seconds before his or her mind wanders. As Cassandra’s student, I had been able to meditate for four or five minutes without breaking concentration, but to achieve her level, one had to enter a state of altered consciousness that most others, including me, were unable to achieve. From this place Cassandra communicated with entities from another dimension.

I was extremely fortunate to know this acclaimed teacher, celebrated author, poet, and Berkley University professor of occult science; the founder of the Society for Psychic Research of Southern California; and High Priestess and founder of Los Angeles Psychics for Missing Children. She was often called upon to use her powers to assist the Los Angeles Police Department, as well as the Federal Bureau of Investigation. She was known to work day and night without pay to help find a missing person or track down a predator, and she reportedly earned $100 per minute for advising wealthy clients worldwide in distress.

I watched her as she peered into the crystal ball. She held her hands palms up, motionless on the table on either side of the ball. One moment she looked into it as if searching, and then as if she had spotted something. She leaned forward and looked closer. At one point, in order to get a better view, she leaned over the top and stared straight down through the ball. More than once she appeared to see something distressful, for she grimaced and shook her head from side to side. Something on the right bottom caused her to chuckle. Finally she leaned back in her chair and breathed deeply several times. I knew she had returned to consciousness. She said, “Schpatzee. Your life is in the schtrudel.”

“What did you see? Oh Cassandra, please tell me!” I gasped.

“Und what wouldt you wandt to know first?” she teased, drumming her fingers on the table.

“Tell me about my house. Did you see anything?” I shuddered.

“Darlingk,” she answered, “I see that you must let go with the house. There is nothingk you can do. Here is unhappiness, and I see more schtruggle aheadt for you. But when you surwife from this, there is the gudt house for you with peace in it.” Our eyes were locked, and I listened, transfixed. Her voice was melodic and soothing as a soft rainfall.

“I can do that. I can let the house go. That’s not an insurmountable problem, but it requires incredible strength to endure all of the problems at the same time. They seem to engulf me. I try to focus on Jessica and my work, but I am anxious to the point of dysfunction, and I can’t see a way out. And I’m lonely.” Questions flooded my mind. I searched for words. I knew she could read my mind, but how when I was so confused? No wonder I hadn’t come to her before. It was all just too difficult. I needed to calm down.

“Yes, I know, Schpatzee. Und I know it will be alright.” She held my hand, squeezed it, leaned forward, and looked intensely into my eyes. “This is a hardt test that you will pass with flying colors. You must believe that you are never alone!”

“Have I willed myself to be alone?” Was she talking about spirits? “I mean, without a man, forever?”

“You haf not willedt yourself this loneliness, Barbara. Haf patience. You undterstandt? I see the someone who will be very close to you.”

“Yes. Did you see David? Is it David? Tell me. What do you think of him?”

“Yes, I saw this Dawid. But this is not the man for you. Always listen to your heardt. You know this.”

“No, that can’t be, Cassandra. I like David.” Maybe I could change her mind. “Didn’t you see all of his good qualities? He’s very sweet, and he thinks I’m fabulous, and he thinks Jessica is adorable. Can’t I learn to love him?” I pleaded.

“No! No, you will never learn to luf Dawid or anyone else. You are powerless against luf. Luf comes to you when luf is ready. You will know this yourself the next time when you go out with him, yah.”

This just could not happen. “We’re going on our exciting first date tomorrow night, and I have hopes that this is the beginning of a wonderful long-lasting relationship. What do you mean? Please don’t be so cryptic, Cassandra.” I didn’t want to hear this. I folded my arms, sat back in my chair and stared at the floor.

“Dawid will say the somethingk tomorrow night, und then the somethingk will happen. Und with that, you will neffer want to see this Dawid again for the rest of your life. Und neffer you will! Und gudt!” She pounded her fist once on the table for emphasis.

“Oh, come on. That can’t be true. What could he possibly say? What could happen? Cassandra, you’re wrong this time. What did you see in there?” I pointed to the crystal ball as if it were a bad Oscar host.

“Okay. I see you with him. You walk into the room with the carpet, color redt. There are windows that are coweredt with heaffy drapery, also redt, with tassels, color goldt. The drapery is not open all the way, just open part the way, the drapery. Understandt? Open like this. Like my arms.” She extended her arms to demonstrate. By then I was looking under her face for subtitles.

“Then, through the window, you will see buildingks. Bik buildingks. You sit down with this Dawid fellow at a table, und talk a while und then he says it, the somethingk you will neffer forget. Then it happens, some somethingk, und you know Dawid is not your man. Und that’s it. That’s what I see in the crystal ball.” Her eyes fell on it, and she gazed upon it as though it were a starry sky.

“What could he possibly say? No. It’s not true. What could it be? Is he secretly married? Is he gay? Has he committed a horrible crime?”

“I toldt you everythingk I know. Tomorrow is the last time you will ever go out with Dawid, und it shouldt be, because there is the other gudt man waiting for you. You fill his thoughts und his dreams, und he is longkingk for you.”

“There is? Who?”

“He is the one.”

“What one?”

“The one with you for your destiny. You couldt not force yourself to luff Dawid. The other man couldt not force you to resist. Your Karmic paths are crossed. He has been with you in lifes past, like my Helmut, und he will be with you in lifes future. He is your eternal soul mate und he is impossible to escape.”

“I am afraid to even hope for so much. It is too idyllic.”

“He will find you.”

“When will we meet?”

“When your lifes are in order.”

“Where is he?”

“Under the stars.” She inhaled deeply, tucked a few fallen strands of hair back into her French twist, and settled back in her chair as though to dismiss the matter.

I leaned forward and searched her face. “Did you see Scott?” I asked.

“Yes. He will be your wery gudt friendt und he misses you. You und he did not communicate well, und he waits for you.”

“Why doesn’t he call me?”

“Because he worries it is too fast.”

“Oh. Okay then. Is he the one?”

“He is one to be wery close until the music stops.”

“Life is so difficult. What is happening to me? Have I done something wrong along the way that has caused all this? Does all this have a purpose?” I was more confused than ever.

“You are in school, Schpatzee, to learn what life is. We all are. Of course there is the purpose. You are fulfilling prophecy und doingk well. I see it all clearly, und you will, too, in time. This is your radical life transition. It is impossible to hurry it, just as it is impossible to push the river.” A sudden wind blew the tent flap open, and it waved back and forth and the candle flames danced as if in agreement. “Yah, you will findt the one.” She laughed. “Even the windt knows. Yah, he will be to you like Helmut was to me.” The wind billowed through the tent until she got up and battened down the flap. She was as strong against the swift wind as one much younger. I jumped up to help, but she had already tied it down. She walked back and impishly pinched my cheek. Her long candlelight shadow followed her while she pulled her chair closer to mine. I scooted my chair closer to hers.

“Now ask me the question, Schpatzee.”

“I don’t know what to ask, Mother. My mind is flooded with questions.”

“No, Schpatzee. Fast. Tell me! What is your question?”

I answered, mindlessly, “Okay. Well. I saw you smile. What did you see in the crystal ball that made you smile?”

“I saw you playingk with your children.”

“Children?”

“Yes, my darlingk, you will haf four of them in your lifetime.”

“Four! Four children! Oh my God, Cassandra!”

“Und a wonderful mother you will be when your life is in order.”

I sobbed. She couldn’t have uttered more beautiful words. She held me in her arms until I finally managed to speak. “You made sense out of chaos, Cassandra. You helped me sort things out and now I know I can go on.”

“Remember the oldt story with the German farmer who was so eager to grow his crops that he went out at night und tuggedt on the new shoots?”

“I remember.” I nodded affirmatively.

“Barbara, don’t hurry your life. You haf been calledt upon to work for the Great One. He is buildingk your character und testingk your strength so that you will be His vehicle. Your house will be set in order, you will tend to business, have clear mindt, und wait on the will of Heaven. He has chosen you, understandt?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Well, He chose the wrong one. I was an art major; He should have chosen an accountant.”

“No, He has chosen well. You haff powers you haf yet to realize, Schpatzee.”

“Why do you always call me ‘Little Sparrow’?” This was getting too heavy for me and I was trying to change the subject.

“How do you know that ‘Schpatzee’ means ‘Little Sparrow’?”

“You must have told me.”

“No, Barbara. I haf neffer toldt you. I call you Schpatzee because that is what my grandtmother calledt me. First it was her name for a little sparrow that came to her window sill each morning. She saidt one day, when I am oldt, I will findt my own Schpatzee. You remindt me of myself when I was young. And this is the day I haf been waiting for, the day you say ‘Little Sparrow’.”

“No. You must have told me.” I tried to avoid her electric blue piercing eyes.

“I have been waiting. It is our prophecy. You know, I am an oldt woman, und I cannot stay on the Earth foreffer. Someone has to do my work when I haf gone. You are the one.”

Attempting once more to change the subject, I said, “I’ve always wondered about that scent that you are wearing. I love it. It reminds me of gardenias. What is it called?”

“Very interestingk that you ask. I don’t wear perfume, und now that you say this, your perfume always smells of the gardenia too. But we haf somethingk much more important that we must talk about. Shame on you, Barbara.”

“For what?” I was ready to go home.

“I haf taught you to do your best, work hardt, and neffer worry.”

“About what?”

“You must not feel guilty about the work you are doingk for the Great One.”

“What work?”

“On the man who has usedt his power to manipulate and persecute innocent people. You haf done what you haf been calledt upon to do, und the Great One und our friendts on the Astral Plane are wery well-pleasedt. I, too, am proudt.”

“Are you saying that it is not wrong to blackmail a Federal Judge?”

“You are working for Godt. You haf performedt to the highest expectation.”

“For God? I really don’t think I’m qualified for this position. Wouldn’t it be simpler to marry David Horowitz?”

She reached across the table and picked up my hand. “Barbara, you are the chosen one. It was the prophesy before you were born. My grandtmother toldt me that I wouldt teach the chosen one, and that she wouldt be my Schpatzee.”

“That’s really nice, but”

“There is nothingk you can do to stop the magic that is workingk aroundt us. Und now you must go und prepare. Tomorrow will be the most difficult day of your life, my daughter.”

“Cassandra, I’m not strong like you. I don’t have the powers. I’m leaving town. I’m getting an exorcist.”

“You will do your work for Godt und He will be with you. Do not disobey Him. Do not fear.”

On the way home on the Santa Monica Freeway, I looked for an unfamiliar exit where He wouldn’t be able to find me. I thought about previous workers, Mary and Moses. What did I have in common with them? I was driving a green Volkswagen, and Mary had a donkey, while Moses had to walk. Mary had an immaculate conception, and Moses, an arsenal of plagues, and I married Rick’s hubris. If this were Jessica’s Sesame Street’s “Which One Doesn’t Belong”, I would thankfully be eliminated.

I got off the freeway a few exits before mine, and drove down some dark side streets. I kept a keen eye on the rearview, and in all directions for some sign: meteors, a burning bush, a stunned herd of camels, anything. There was nothing but a new moon in a clear starry sky and an ice cream truck headed home after a usual day in the neighborhoods. Then I saw the problem. It was too calm, eerily quiet. By the time I pulled the car into my driveway, I was bordering on hysteria. I opened the car door, grabbed my purse and rushed into the house.

“Lupe? Lupe? Are you here?” I cried out maniacally as I burst through the door.

“Yes, Mees Barbara,” she answered from the living room, her accent not rolling over the r’s.

I ran from window to window, closing draperies. “Está bién la niña?” I asked nervously. I looked around the room wildly. Nothing unusual.

“Si, don’t worry. Everything ees okay.”

After all of the draperies were closed, I turned off all of the lights. Then I changed my mind and turned them on again.

Lupe helped bring provisions into the bedroom. Medications. A game of Scrabble. A baseball bat. Tarot cards. Jessica, Foofie, and water. Spam and a first aid kit. Essentials for disaster. Then I locked the bedroom door and pushed a chair against it.

“What ees wrong?” asked Lupe.

Jessica was frightened and was thinking about crying.

“Earthquake drill. This is just practice.” I opened a can of processed cheese, squirted it on some crackers and passed them around, regaining control of the situation, attempting to calm the others although they had been calm all along.

Hours passed. Foofie passed gas, while Lupe began knitting, and Jessica was fascinated by peering into the toilet bowl as it flushed. I ran into the bathroom just in time to find Scrabble tiles churning around the rim of the toilet. I read them as they swirled. M-P-G-R-F-N. I contemplated deeply. Thank God that didn’t make a word.

I needed to go to the garage for a plunger, but first I had to get hold of myself.

Just look at you, I said to myself, this is abnormal behavior. You are searching in the toilet for a sign amongst Scrabble pieces. I needed to talk to someone, but whom? Not Sharon. One more of my problems could have put her over the edge. I can’t call my mother. She had no experience with these things, and she would only worry. Sponge Bob hadn’t been working lately. We couldn’t stay in the bedroom much longer. Jessica had stopped up the toilet and I didn’t want to see any vowels.

Then I thought of Marty, my psychiatrist. He would know what to do. I excused myself for a moment, took my cell phone into the closet, and closed the door. I dialed Marty hastily.

“Hello, Marty? This is Barbara. I’m so glad you answered,” I whispered.

“Hello, Barbara. Is that you? I can hardly hear you. We must have a bad connection.”

“Yes, Marty, it’s me, Barbara,” I whispered loudly.

“What a pleasant surprise! I haven’t seen you since your pool party. Great party, by the way. What’s going on?” He asked, sounding solid.

Did he really believe that was a great party? “I’m not doing too well. I think I may have lost my mind. Can you analyze me over the telephone? I can’t leave my bedroom.”

“Why can’t you leave your bedroom?”

“It’s a long story, and I don’t know where to begin. Can you just tell me some insanity symptoms to look for? You know, danger signs.”

“Are you considering doing harm to yourself or another?” He asked assertively, yet so pleasantly. I wondered if he would send a bill for this.

“No.” This may have been a lie.

“Good. Are you functioning?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you been eating and sleeping, going to the store, just carrying out your normal chores?”

Normal chores? “Oh, yes.” I didn’t even know what normal was anymore. It was getting uncomfortable, really stuffy, and itchy in the closet. I moved away from my old dusty feathered cape. Gee, I didn’t remember I still had that. I should give that to Goodwill. Would Goodwill take that? Probably, the Hollywood branch.

“Mmmmmm hmmmm. Are you depressed?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Hmmmmm. Are you able to function at work?”

“Well, I don’t know yet. I just got a new job.” How could I tell him that the Japanese were tearing down my house and that, according to a venerable boardwalk seer, I was an agent of God, blackmailing a federal judge? I wondered whether blackmailing a federal judge could be considered a job. It had the potential to pay well. There just weren’t any words for all this.

“A new job? Congratulations! That could explain it. That’s always stressful. Barbara, everyone has occasional fears and depression. You’re simultaneously going through a divorce and lots of changes, but really, I’ve found you to be one of the most stable patients I have.”

“Do you really think so?” He must have me mixed up with someone else. “This is Barbara Barett.”

“I’m positive. Just take a hot bath, drink lots of liquids, and get some rest. You’ll get used to your new job in no time, and everything will be fine.”

“Thanks for talking with me, Marty. I feel better.” His voice had such a soothing hypnotic tone. Like spa music or a mother singing a lullaby.

“You’re quite welcome, any time. But as long as I have you on the phone, uh, do you have another minute?”

“Sure.” We needed to wrap this up. Foofie was scratching at the closet door and Jessica was war whooping and jumping on the bed.

“Well, actually I was just about to call you. I drove over to Hunt and Sharon’s house the other day and saw that sign in your yard. You never told me that you read Tarot.”

“You never asked.”

“And Sharon told me that you have created and sold an original magnificent esoteric artwork to Nigel Tweed. I recommend his book to all of my struggling creative patients. Sharon also tells me that you are quite a gifted seer. Would you do a reading for me and show me the artwork you have available for sale?”

“Yeah, Marty. I would be happy to do that.”

“I hated to ask you since you’re so busy with the new job and all, but I’ve been having a few personal problems. I would really consider it a special favor if you could squeeze me in.”

“No problem at all. How about next week.”

“You tell me. When do you start your new job?”

“I have flexible hours.”

“Oh, that’s great, so when can we meet?”

“I hate Mondays.”

“Me too.”

“How about Wednesday? Isn’t that your day off?”

“That is my day off. That would be terrific.”

“How about eleven A.M.?”

“I’ll be there. I really appreciate it.”

“Oh, Marty?”

“Yes?”

“Do you know David Horowitz?”

“Sure. David, Hunt and I played peewee football together.”

“Do you think I should marry him?”

“What are you, crazy?”

“That’s what I’m asking you. You’re the expert.”

“Of course you should marry David Horowitz. I wish I were a woman, so I could marry David Horowitz.”

“Marty, you are good. I feel fabulous. I’ll try to do the same for you on Wednesday. Make sure to get enough sleep and take a hot bath before you come. Clear your mind. Drink plenty of liquids.”

“I will. I look forward to it. It’s been great talking to you.”

“Bye.”

It’s all clear to me now. I’m not the crazy one, Cassandra is. Cassandra has popped her cork. Poor Cassandra. Maybe she had some sort of mini stroke or life crisis. I am going forward with my plans for tomorrow, and I will bring David Horowitz into my life.

When I stepped out from the closet, I was a new woman. I sang out, “Okay, everybody! The drill is over. Everybody did a great job! Let’s put all this stuff away and find the plunger.”

After Jessica was bathed, I took time to rock her and to read a story. She fell asleep on my lap, and I put my sweet angel in her bed and tucked her in. I inhaled her soft baby smell and kissed her velvety cheek.

Then I went to work. I had to get ready for the most difficult day of my life. The accountant’s daughter, I found a pad of paper and pen to make a list. October 31, I wrote. Wow, I had been so busy that I had forgotten that my birthday was tomorrow.

THINGS TO DO

Saturday, October 31

1) 11:30 A.M. - Read Chloe

2) 1:00 P.M. - Read Shirley

3) 2:00 P.M. - Dress in disguise

4) 3:00 P.M. - Leave for church

5) 4:00 P.M. - Pick up money

6) 6:30 P.M. - Get ready for dinner

7) 8:00 P.M. - Dinner with David

I looked the list over and noted that I only had one and a half hours to get ready for my date with David and worried about that. Tight schedule like an air traffic controller. I had time to bathe and for hair and makeup, but no time for unforeseen difficulties.

I lay down on the top of my bed, fully clothed, stared at the ceiling and thought over the recent past, and possible future. The wheels in my head turned round and round until I was exhausted. I should have gotten up and put my teeth-whitening trays in, but I was so tired. I just couldn’t. My eyelids were too heavy to open. Maybe I’d have one of my four-star, double-thumbs-up flying dreams, maybe my favorite, where I impress a group of people because I can fly. I flap my arms and begin to ascend. Getting off from the ground is the hard part, but once up around thirty feet or so, the wind carries me. The crowd looks up in awe of me while I sail above. Or there’s the bad dream where I flap my arms and don’t go anywhere and the crowd boos me.

What would I wear to my wedding? Who would we invite? Where would we go on our honeymoon? I should pack lightly. Barbara Horowitz. Barbara Victoria Horowitz. Ahhh. Fine linens would be embroidered: BVH

V

I awoke with a start from my worst recurrent nightmare: me, dressed impeccably stylish, surrounded by intriguing people, fitting in for once, and having a great time. I’m smiling at something someone said, and suddenly I feel my upper front teeth loosen. I close my mouth and feel them with my tongue. The top middle teeth, the beaver teeth, are loose, but the eyeteeth, the vampire teeth, are even looser, dangling. One falls into my mouth, and I spit it into a napkin. No one notices, and I think it’s okay for a while, until I smile and all of my molars fall out, clinking one-by-one, bouncing off my dinner plate, loudly onto the dinner table. I’m humiliated.

I purged the dream from my mind. I thought, it’s just a dream, and today’s my birthday! The sun was streaming through the windows just for me. All I had to do to pass Go was drive to church, collect $25,000, and become the future Mrs. David Horowitz. Nothing could go wrong, for I had made a list. Yes, it was my big day, but it was also Halloween. Oh, no! I had forgotten to make a costume for Jessica. How could I, in such a short time, pull off something as cute as last year when she dressed as grapes with purple balloons enveloping her little self?

I ran to the studio to search through my art supplies for ideas. Some of the dusty old boxes hadn’t been opened in years, and I found some delightfully handy old materials: feathers, twinkle lights, corrugated cardboard, handcuffs, garter belts. A person could make practically anything with mannequin parts, chicken wire, and a moose head. But there wasn’t much time. I chose corrugated cardboard, white rope and red crepe paper to transform Jessica into a fine Halloween firecracker. I gathered the materials and slammed the closet door. Something fell from the shelf above and nearly hit me on the head. I picked it up. What a coincidence. It was a gift Cassandra gave me for my thirtieth birthday—a book about Tarot and an old deck of cards. They had belonged to Cassandra’s mother.

I opened the book. On the inside cover, Cassandra had written, ‘Study, Spatzee. One day you will teach. Love, Cassandra.’ I had studied the Tarot for awhile, but became lazy since I found Cassandra to be more knowledgeable and in tune than I, to read for me.

I placed the Tarot and the book on the Meditation Table and lit candles. I waited for the energy as I shuffled through the cards. It’s difficult to describe the feeling in your fingertips and the palms of your hands when you begin to communicate, but it can best be described as a tickling, tingling, almost vibrating, slightly electrical sensation. Touching the cards, smelling them, shuffling them, feeling them brings calm, opens the mind for suggestion and takes one to a middle consciousness, a different state of awareness, until the synapses connect, a snap, and you know It’s there, and whatever It is, has answers.

According to the Tarot, a medium practicing pure faith can channel the combined intelligence of all departed souls. Through reading the Tarot, or meditation, through dream study, or the crystal ball, a medium thus connected could theoretically perform open-heart surgery if necessary. From what I have read and from what I have learned from Cassandra and my priest, Father John, It may also be called God or His messengers, your spirit guides or your angels. It is one of life’s greatest mysteries. And the messages are always accurate, but obscure in translation between dimensions. If there is a mistake, it is made by the interpreter, the medium, the reader, not the spirit.

I shuffled and twisted the cards round and round, asked for guidance the way I had been taught, pulled seven cards face down on the table and fanned them. They would tell me about the most difficult day of my life. My stomach knotted, I held my breath, and turned them up. The High Priestess. The Moon. The Three of Swords. The Ten of Swords. The Nine of Swords. The Eight of Cups. The Five of Cups reversed. I gasped like the Wolfman discovering the pentagram on his palm.

Napoleon may have drawn the same cards on the morning of Waterloo. These cards could have been Julius Caesar’s on the Ides of March. Had Abraham Lincoln read cards like these, he would never have gone to the theater that night. These were cards befitting the Hindenburg or Titanic, JFK in Dallas, or Bill Buckner during the seventh inning stretch of game six of the World Series. So much for the Tarot—I doubted I’d ever look at those cards again. I packed them up and returned them to the shelf. I had a lot of work to do, and today was Halloween. The baby couldn’t be grapes again.

I set the art materials on my worktable, approximated Jessica’s height and began to cut the cardboard. I thought I heard a faint strange noise, and listened, but then there was nothing, and I resumed cutting. I heard it again, a far off scratching sound, probably a raccoon or opossum in the attic. They got in there every fall to build nests. I heard more scratching and squeaking sounds. Whatever it was desperately wanted to get in or out. I followed the sound, which became louder as I approached the closet. I placed my hand on the doorknob and hesitated for a moment. The rustling ceased. I waited a moment longer; the rustling resumed. I held my breath, then twisted the door handle, and flung open the door.

There was Foofie as happy to see me as I was to see her. She probably had followed me into the closet, and I must have closed her in accidentally. I guess I was just a little jumpy. The zombie in my closet was mere metaphor. Foofie had found some papers and an old raggedy rug in the closet and bunched them into a comfy heap.

I returned to the costume project. Foofie stayed in the closet, even though the door was open. The costume was coming along nicely, almost finished, when Foofie began bunching up the papers again and walking around in circles, yelping.

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked, irritated, as I left my work again to check on her. By the look in her eye and the position of her body, I knew exactly. She was in labor! We are going to have Halloween puppies. Tarot hadn’t mentioned that.

I ran to the telephone to call the vet, but was unable to finish dialing, being interrupted by the ringing doorbell. “Hang on, girl, I’ll be right back,” I shouted to Foofie as I ran downstairs.

It was Chloe. I forgot that I had agreed to give her a reading that morning. At least I was dressed today, since I had slept in my clothes, although not feeling quite fresh or presentable enough to receive clients. I reached to open the door with excuses for canceling our appointment flashing through my mind, but the door seemed glued to its frame. I should never have made this appointment, I thought to myself. It is my birthday, Jessica’s Halloween costume isn’t ready, the dog is in labor, and I have just fired the Tarot for bringing me bad information. After several more attempts, the door still refused to budge. I motioned from the side window, and shouted, “Just a moment, Chloe.” She nodded her head.

The Japanese were going to arrive any minute, and I had to pick up the twenty-five grand before my date with David. I thought to tell Chloe I was sick and offer to read her some other day. I pounded the door with my fist along its frame, put one foot against the wall for leverage, and pulled on the door handle with all my might.

“Don’t send her away!” a voice shouted from behind.

I looked up, behind, and all around. “Who said that?” I stuttered aloud. There was no one there. I tugged on the door once more, but it seemed nailed shut.

“See her!” the reverberating voice demanded. I jumped back in fear, and the door creaked open on its own.

“Well, I see you’re right on time, Chloe. I’m sorry, but—,” I wanted to say I’m sorry, but you have caught me at a really bad time. Instead I recognized her urgency and listened.

“I’ve been counting the days, waiting to talk to you. I couldn’t talk to anyone else about this,” she said, tears welling.

Reluctantly, as the voice demanded, I realized I must see her. It was as though I were looking at a theater screen. I saw a movie in fast-forward. I barely caught the understanding of the flashing images, but I knew enough to understand that I must help her. Then her eyes became just eyes again and looked like my baby daughter’s eyes when she was hurt and afraid.

“I’ll do my best. Come on in. Want a Coke or something?” I offered. She followed me to the kitchen, and as I fixed her a Coke, I heard the Japanese drive up. They chattered and unloaded equipment, and Chloe followed me upstairs.

“I see you’re having a little remodeling work done,” Chloe said.

“Some,” I chuckled.

“And there’s a new house being built next door.”

“Oh, is that right? Excuse the mess in here. I’m making a Halloween costume for my daughter, and Foofie is having puppies in the closet.”

“Puppies! Oh, can I see? Our dog had puppies when I was little. It’s so awesome.” Foofie made a soft yelp when she heard her name, and we looked in on her.

“I just found her. I don’t know how long she’s been in labor, but she hasn’t had a puppy yet. Let’s check her again after your reading.”

“Okay.” Chloe hesitated a moment, and said, “I feel better all ready, just being here, around you.”

“That’s nice to hear, Chloe. I sure hope we can do some good work today.”

There was a loud thud that shook the house. Chloe jumped. “Don’t worry that’s just the Japanese felling trees,” I said in my most motherly voice.

Chloe took a seat on the sofa and sipped her Coke, while I pulled Cassandra’s mother’s just-retired cards from the shelf. I lit a fresh white candle, and began to play a CD with the sound of gentle rolling waves and synthesized music over a soft, barely perceptible heartbeat. Then I began to burn special frankincense I had brought from a shop near the Vatican. I had been saving it.

Chloe placed her car keys inside her purse. “Should I turn off my cell phone?” she asked.

“Yes, please.”

She turned off her phone, closed her purse, and set it on the floor by her feet. I observed her. She was a naturally pretty girl-next-door type, medium height and small boned, wearing little makeup. She wore fitted cropped jeans with a soft loose green sweater and floral-patterned tennis shoes. I was ready. “Let’s begin,” I said. “Take some cleansing breaths, put your feet squarely on the ground, and look into the flame of that candle. Look into it deeply, and see your problem. You can see everything clearly if you just look and ask.”

I studied her face and watched her enormous blue eyes reflecting the flaming white pillar. Her soft, oval face told me that she was no longer a child, not yet a woman. She was sensual and susceptible, inquisitive and fearful. Her clasped white-knuckled hands and rigid posture showed distrust, regret, and fear.

Fortunately, the Japanese were not making any commotion, and Foofie had temporarily stopped yelping. While meditating, Chloe and I hadn’t moved a muscle. “Chloe?” I broke the silence. She sat up with a start.

“Yes?”

“It’s about a boy, isn’t it?” I asked.

She nodded her head and lowered her eyes. “My boyfriend, Adam. Well, he was my boyfriend.” When she lowered her head, her natural sandy blond hair fell over her shoulders, and her long thick lashes lay like dark delicate brushes against her white round cheeks. “I am so ashamed,” she said.

“What happened? It’s okay to tell me,” I assured.

She paused for a long time, trying to control herself, searching for words until her eyes again met mine. “He told me that he loved me, that some day after college we would even get married.” Her eyes were brimming with tears. “He was my first boyfriend.”

“Ah, first love often ends in disaster.”

“We went together a long time, and then after we—” Her voice trailed off. She brushed a tear away, and I handed her a tissue.

“I don’t even need the cards to read you, Chloe. Look at me,” I said gently. The usual sparkle in a young girl’s eyes was dulled with embarrassment. “Don’t be ashamed of what you did. It’s normal and part of growing up.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. “He broke up with me and told everyone.” Her voice broke. “Everyone in school knows. I’m afraid my mother will find out. I’m her only child, and she warned me about boys. It would kill her. If only I could change what happened. If I could just—”

“There’s nothing you can do about the past, but learn from it. But you can do something about today.”

“What can I do?”

“Deny it.”

She pulled her tear-streaked face away from her hands and looked at me incredulously through pink, swollen eyes.

“Does he have proof?”

“No.” Her expression transformed from incredulous to skeptical.

“Did you tell anyone?”

“Just you.” Skeptical to hopeful.

“Then it’s his word against yours. Not good enough in any court of law. Tell his friends that he’s just mad at you because you won’t. Tell his friends that he kisses like a wet mop. Tell them that he’s angry because you found another boyfriend.”

“I did meet a great guy when I was on vacation, but I told him I was going out with someone.”

“Contact him! Tell him you’re available.” Chloe broke into a smile and then a whole-hearted laugh. She clapped her hands and bounced up and down on the sofa.

“I already found him on Facebook,” she admitted sheepishly.

“Tell what’s-his-name’s cutest friend that the only reason you went out with—what’s his name?”

“Adam.”

“Adam—is because you really wanted to be near him. Turn all that bad energy right around on him, and then just sit back and watch.”

“What will happen?”

“He’ll look like a liar, a braggart, a traitor, and a fool. Other girls won’t be in a hurry to go out with him, either. They’ll figure that if he lied about being with you, he’ll lie about being with them.”

“Is it fair if I don’t tell the truth?” she asked.

“It’s just about as fair as him lying to get your trust, then beating his chest at the expense of your reputation and self-respect.”

She jumped up from the sofa and hugged me awkwardly around the neck. “Thank you, thank you! I think everything can be all right. And I promise, I’ll be good and I’ll never do it again.”

“You were never bad. And you will do it again, some day. Your love and your body are your most precious possessions, and you’ll find someone who appreciates you and is grown up enough to love you.”

“How could he lie to me like that? He really acted like he loved me, and I believed him. How can I ever trust anyone again?”

“He’s too young to know how to be responsible for his love. He’ll learn a lesson from this, and has many more lessons to learn. I believe that everyone is looking for the special one. Just take your time, and don’t ever lose trust. Disappointment by love with the wrong person helps put you in tune with the real one. Real love will find you.” I wondered whether I was talking to myself.

She breathed a deep sigh of relief and said, “I just might ask that boy to be my Facebook friend.”

“Absolutely. If you can believe this, I can still remember when I was in high school. It seemed so all-important then, but on graduation day after I walked out that door, I never saw ninety-nine percent of those people again.” I stood up.

She stood, and said, “Wow, is that true?”

“That’s a fact, and you know what else?”

“No, what?” She studied me admiringly, and I was warmly reminded of past enlightening discussions between Cassandra and me in times of trouble.

“My first boyfriend broke my heart, too, and he was one of the few high school people that I saw years later.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. He didn’t see me. He was looking in a store window at the mall.”

“Yeah?”

“He was bald and fat and I barely recognized him. He had a bunch of loud, grungy kids and a homely wife with him, and I was thankful to be me and walk away.”

“Hah!”

We both savored the moment until Foofie barked. Nice segue. “Hey, do you have that hundred fifty dollars?” I asked.

She began to open her purse.

“Do you have a gynecologist?”

“What?”

“A gynecologist.”

“Is that a baby doctor?”

“Right. Well—it’s a woman’s doctor. Don’t they tell you this stuff in school?”

“Well, maybe I wasn’t listening.”

I wrote down the name of my gynecologist. “Call him and make an appointment. He’s an excellent doctor and has teenaged daughters of his own. I’ll call and tell him that you’ll be coming in. Pay him with the money that you were going to give me.”

“No. Please. Let me pay you,” she implored.

“I didn’t even read the cards. We just talked. Just promise to see the doctor,” I said firmly, leaving no room for rebuttal.

“I promise. I will. But, I don’t know how I could ever thank you enough,” she said. She couldn’t know, but it was she who taught the lesson.

We were interrupted by the distinct sounds of crashing cymbals and a tuba. “What’s that?” Chloe asked. “Sounds like the Salvation Army band.”

“I haven’t the slightest.” I quickly checked Foofie who seemed to be in controlled agony. “It’s not the Japanese. They’re in the back, and this is coming from the street.”

“It’s getting louder. I think it’s at the front door,” said Chloe.

As we ran downstairs, it became clear that we were hearing the “Happy Birthday” song. The previously obsessed and stubborn door was standing wide open, and on the lawn were fifteen or so musicians wearing full dress dark blue uniforms, with top hats to white boots and golden tassels on their shoulders. The leader, with his back to me, faced the band, swayed to the music, stood on his toes, and waved his baton. When the song was over, he threw his arms up to the sky, and the cymbalists performed a final crash. He turned to face me, removed his hat, swept it before him, and bowed so that his long, red hair swept my doorstep.

Then there was a split second of total silence, except for the breathing of the musicians who had played the wind instruments. Cars were stopped on the street. Some neighbors and even the Japanese were watching from a distance. They all broke out into hearty applause, whistles, and bravos. The bandleader smiled gleefully and passed a note to me.

“Thank you. Thank you all. That was very nice.” I waved at the band and the audience and opened the note. It said: Happy Birthday! Look at our new house next door. Love, Rick.

I stepped outside, and the band members parted to allow me to pass through. Next door, I saw a bow the size of a compact car upon the framework of the new roof.

“Phone’s ringing!” Chloe shouted from inside. I ran to answer as the band struck up another number.

I didn’t recognize the caller ID. “Hello?” I said into the phone.

“That’s a great old song, isn’t it? Miracles by Jefferson Starship. Remember our song?” I hung up on him.

“Look!” Chloe called from the doorway. “You’ve got more company!” The band had begun to disperse, and Chloe was waving at someone who was sitting in a car stopped on our road.

“Look at that, Sister. It’s Meadow and her new boyfriend.”

“Meadow?”

“Yes, Meadow, my friend. You read her cards.”

It was a jeep with a surfboard on the roof. The young man who was driving honked the horn, and Meadow smiled widely and waved wildly. It looked like a black, possibly leather, bikini was hanging around the rearview mirror. The boy honked again, gave the double thumbs up, and drove away.

My early work, a shot-in-the-dark prediction, was direct on target, but I didn’t have time to savor the moment because Shirley drove into the driveway.

“This is a busy place,” Chloe said.

“It’s time for my next reading. I’m late. Chloe, would you do me a favor?”

“I owe ya.”

“Please go upstairs to look after Foofie. Bring her a bowl of water, find an old towel in the laundry room, and take a few dog biscuits from the pantry, and let me know if she starts screeching really loudly, okay?”

“Love to,” she twittered like a small bird and bounced up the stair.

Shirley and Precious were wearing coordinated outfits; Shirley, a red plaid cape, befitting Sherlock Holmes, while Precious wore a canine version of the coat with a matching hat tied with strings under the chin. Shirley’s eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and she obviously had been crying. Precious looked moody with a big mat in her beard.

“Good afternoon! Come on in. Sorry running a little late. Heh heh—the band just left,” I said, gesturing her to come in.

“Yes, there was quite a traffic jam on your street, or we would have been here sooner. I really need to talk with you.”

“Okay, then, let’s go. I could use some tea first, though, how about you?”

“Have you got any whiskey?” she asked matter-of-factly.

“Whiskey? Oh. Ummm. Sure I think there’s some here somewhere. I’ll take a look.”

“I need a drink. My tranquilizers aren’t working.”

“Hang on a minute.” I went to the bar and found a bottle of Scotch, still in the box with a bow on it from some Christmas. I opened the bottle and poured the brown liquid over ice, then fixed myself an iced tea and took our drinks to the kitchen table.

“He’s been too busy to see me all week.” She took a slug of the drink. “He doesn’t even have time to talk to me on the phone. He says he’s overloaded with work, but I think he’s trying to avoid me. You told me that we would have great things to discuss today. Things are worse than ever.” I poured more whiskey into her glass. She downed the drink. “I think he might have another woman,” she added.

I got up, threw my iced tea down the kitchen sink, poured Scotch into my glass and took a swig. I nearly gagged, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and said, “Be patient, Shirley. Everything takes time. It took years to get into this situation.” I took another swig, then another, which went down somewhat easier this time. I could feel the Scotch warm my body. “It will take time to get out.” I pushed the bottle of whiskey toward Shirley. “Shirley?” She was blurry.

When I focused, I found her, still seated, but facedown, arms out-stretched, dead asleep and snoring on the table. Precious was asleep in her lap. “Shirley? Shirley?” There were two of her. I patted one of them on the back, but she didn’t move.

I took another swig straight from the bottle this time, trying to remain calm. Jessica’s costume wasn’t finished, I had to go to church, and I needed a manicure before I went out with David. And what about poor Foofie? All this was not on the to-do list. Who could know?

“Just rest a while, Shirley. You look a little tired. Call me if you need something,” I said. I drank one more shot of whiskey and got very tired too. The kitchen floor looked inviting, so I lay down and passed out under the kitchen table.

I opened my eyes and realized where I was. I sat up slowly and crawled out from under the table. Shirley hadn’t moved. I wondered how much time had passed. I looked at the kitchen clock. It was three o’clock. Was it still today? Had I missed church? I had a headache. I began to panic.

I ran up to the studio. Chloe was asleep on the sofa. “Chloe! Chloe!”

She rubbed her eyes. “I’m sorry. I must have dozed off for awhile. How did your reading go?” she asked.

“Uh. Progress. Yeah. We had a little progress.”

“Oh! See the puppies! There are two of them. There’s one white one and a black one with a white spot on her forehead. Come see!” she exclaimed. In the closet, Foofie’s labor was in temporary remission, and two tiny puppies were cuddled up to her, sleeping peacefully.

I saw the firecracker costume, nearly completed on the table, and realized that Jessica and Lupe had not come home from Sharon’s where the kids were playing before trick-or-treating. It’s still today!

“Chloe, could you do one more thing for me before you go home? I am running late for an appointment, and Jessica’s Halloween costume just needs a few staples to be ready. Would you mind?” I implored, pointing toward the incomplete costume. My head was pounding.

“Not at all. I’m in fine arts classes at school. I love crafts.”

“Well, the stapler is right there on the table. If you would just roll the cardboard into a cylinder that would fit around Jessica, and staple it, and cut some eyes out so she can see, and push the circle with the rope hanging out the middle a little way into the top, it will be a firecracker.”

She looked at the parts for a moment. “That will be so cute! No problem. I can do that, easy.”

“You have to wait ‘til Jessica’s here, though, to size it–to figure out where the eyes go, and how big to make the cylinder.”

“Gotcha.”

“Thanks, Honey. Call your mom, though, and tell her you’re all right. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” I hoped. We exchanged a quick hug, and I bolted off, fearing I would be late for my date with destiny at the church.

Shirley was still dead asleep at the kitchen table when I passed by. I tapped her shoulder. “Shirley? Come on Shirley.” I tapped her more firmly with no response. I picked her head up under the chin with both of my hands and shouted with my face close to hers, “Shirley!”

“Hmmm?” she gurgled.

“You’ve fallen asleep. Come on. At least sleep on the sofa. You’ll be a little more comfortable.” She stirred a bit, held her head up, and dropped it back on the table with a thud.

“Come on, Shirley. You can do it.” I worked her shoulders like the boxer’s trainer ringside. “Come on, Shirley.” I pulled her up under the arms using all of my strength. Partly stumbling and somewhat being dragged, she staggered to the sofa. Head bobbling, she collapsed into a slumped, supine position. I helped her lay back and pulled her legs onto the sofa, put a pillow under her head, and covered her with a blanket.

Nothing could stop me now. It was the point of no return. I had important work to do.

PART FOUR

THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE

I

Running through the house into my bedroom despite my headache, I dashed into the bathroom and closed the door. Deftly, quickly, I applied theatrical makeup, and pulled on a hooded sweatshirt and jeans. I snatched the bag I packed the previous night and fled to Hoopty the Volkswagen. I was running late again; I’m always late. A series of doubts and worries filled my mind. What if the car didn’t start? What if Frank dropped the bag and someone else found it? What if I got caught? Why was I not an accountant?

I drove to Century City, parked, and walked into the mall, carrying the bag. I entered one of the department stores, disappeared into the bathroom, locked the door, changed into my disguise and returned to the parking lot. I hailed a taxi that was waiting just outside the mall entrance.

“Please take me to Holy Trinity Catholic Church on Santa Monica Boulevard,” I instructed the driver. Traffic was light, and the cab pulled up to the door of the church in less than one half hour.

A tiny elderly nun, draped in a black veil, face framed in a starched white wimple, and her body shrouded within a long black habit, emerged from the taxi. She was bent over, one shoulder held higher than the other, suffering from scoliosis perhaps caused by decades of devotional praying over the rosary. She clutched a tattered green canvas knapsack to her body, and made her way cautiously through the open massive oak doors of the church, walking unsteadily, leaning on a cane. Once inside, she dipped her aged, tremulous hand into the marble basin of holy water on the wall and crossed herself.

It was a wonderfully eerie, old gothic church—musty with age, dimly lit, adorned with intricate, antique, leaded-glass windows that threw random prisms of light here and there. There were gilded porcelain and wooden effigies swelling with memories of spirits past and present, their celebrations and their sorrows. The omniscient, massive, black oak timbers supporting the soaring gable roof had absorbed the laughter and tears of generations of congregants, from the fragrances of wedding and funeral flowers to the tallow of candles burned in prayer. They represented thousands of souls, present and departed.

Tonight the immense sanctuary was dark, illuminated only by hundreds of white votive candles lit by recent visitors, each with a unique collection of troubles, praying for love, health, guidance, mercy, safety, fulfillment, and forgiveness. It was quiet, except for the far off sweet sounds of the choir and a pianist practicing in a distant room.

The little old nun hobbled to one of the scratched oak pews in the rear of the sanctuary, placed her bag on the floor, and knelt with difficulty to pray. She kissed the large gold cross that hung from the end of the rosary around her neck. Her lips moved slightly in silent prayer, and she touched each red bead with trembling, gnarled arthritic fingers. After several minutes, she looked slowly, piously behind to see if her habit had covered her shoes.

Curiously, such a brittle woman could turn her head around like an owl. I had forgotten to buy special shoes. In the Foofie-in-labor, Shirley-dead-drunk-in-the-kitchen crunch, I brought the shoebox that I thought contained black hiking boots, but unfortunately, it held red snakeskin pumps with four inch heels instead. I chose to wear the pumps as opposed to the rhinestone flip-flops that I wore to the mall before my nun transformation. While looking back and modestly covering my eff me pumps, I noticed our old parish janitor closing the massive doors at the chapel entrance. What if he locked me in? I never thought of that!

On my knees, I prayed that I was doing the right thing, blackmailing a federal judge. I prayed for forgiveness, if I were not doing the right thing, and prayed that the red snakeskin pumps would go unnoticed. In either case, I prayed that I wouldn’t be caught or punished. Then I crossed myself and leaned upon the cane to stand, slowly. The old janitor walked past, nodded, and left the chapel from the door behind the altar.

I lifted the worn knapsack, clutched it to my body, and shuffled to the knave to the right of the altar. At the statuary, I pulled a few pennies from the change purse in the knapsack, placed them in the slot on the wooden box and lit a candle. I crossed myself, and prayed for a moment, then turned to toddle across the chapel. I paused before the high altar. As the nun stooped from age, I bowed my head and crossed myself again, too old to genuflect. Although crooked and hunched over, I again managed to peer this way and that, here, there, and everywhere through my tiny bifocals. There was no one else in the church. The chapel had become silent, except for the sound of my own shuffling feet on the black slate floor, and the thud of my cane every other step.

After the prayers, I felt protected. My fears were diminished, replaced with adrenalin. It was almost done. The elderly nun stopped before the antiquated mahogany confessional. When I opened the brittle, old wooden door, it creaked and echoed loudly throughout the church. I was startled and jumped. My heart beat wildly. I looked around the chapel to find nothing to fear. Reassured, I peered within the dark, moldy cubicle. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but then, under the priest’s chair, I saw a brown paper bag! I crawled under the chair, grabbed the sack, and threw it into the knapsack.

It was difficult to refrain from kicking up those red snakeskin pumps and doing a happy dance. It was everything I could do to restrain from looking into the bag to see if the contents were indeed money, not some old Priest’s lunch leftovers, but I could not delay. I was extremely close to a perfectly executed crime, and there would be time to celebrate later. The old nun hobbled somewhat more nimbly, yet quietly and quickly, back toward the church doors. I prayed that they weren’t locked, but just as I reached for the immense door handle, the door was pushed opened by someone from the other side, almost knocking me down. I was horrified, suddenly illuminated by the sunshine that flooded in. I shielded my eyes, clutched the knapsack, and panted.

“I am so sorry, Sister!” said a tall man. I stepped back, and he stepped in and closed the door. When my eyes readjusted to the light, I saw that he was the new young handsome priest that recently joined our church to assist and learn from Father John. “I almost hit you with the door. Are you okay?” I just stood there clutching my knapsack, trembling.

He insisted. “Can I help you? Let me take that for you.” He reached for the knapsack. I gasped and snatched it closer. “Sister, I’m new to this church, and I believe we haven’t met. I’m Father Thomas,” he said, extending his hand. I noticed that with each sentence he was talking louder, perhaps assuming that I was deaf or something. I stood frozen. “What is your name?” he asked loudly, yet gently. I shook my head from side to side. Yes, deaf, I’d go with that.

“I see from your habit that you are from another order, perhaps from France. Are you from France?” He shouted.

“Oui,” I shouted back.

“Well, then welcome. I wish we had met under better circumstances. May I make it up to you by inviting you to join me with nuns from our church? In a few minutes we will have cake and coffee and study together.” I shrugged, hoping to indicate that I was deaf and didn’t speak English. I pointed to the door, and stepped toward it. He backed away pushed open the door, and allowed me to escape.

“Can I drive you somewhere?” he hollered at my retreating form as I ran miraculously like a track star to catch a taxi.

I returned to the mall for my car. Forty-five minutes later at home, I found that Shirley’s car had not moved. I also noticed that it wasn’t the car she usually drove. Perhaps it was a rental. Maybe her car was in the shop. Chloe’s car was still there, too. The Japanese construction crew had quit for the day, having chopped my trees into firewood, stacked neatly next door. A dump truck was parked in front, full of limbs and branches. Nothing otherwise appeared suspicious or unusual.

After I closed the garage door, I stepped from the car, carrying the heavy knapsack. Soon, in privacy, I would finally be able to look at the contents. I opened the door a crack and listened. I heard Lupe washing dishes in the kitchen.

Still dressed as a nun—reason being, of course, so that I could say it’s Halloween if asked—I slipped in unnoticed. I tiptoed to my bedroom and closed the door, dropped the bag on the bed, opened the flap and finally looked inside to view my trophy. It was not a priest’s leftover lunch. It was money! All money. There were stacks of twenty and ten-dollar bills bundled and wrapped in paper bands. I flipped through a bundle, smelled the crisp paper and fresh ink. It was lots of real money. Lots and lots of cold hard cash. I could pay the electric bill! Buy groceries! Happy days are here again! I threw off my habit, kicked off my pumps and did my happy dance. And Cassandra said this was going to be the most difficult day of my life. Hah! No remorse, I was Bonnie without Clyde. I had executed the perfect heist.

But this day was not over. There was much more work to be done.

II

Pressed for time, I changed clothes quickly and headed for the kitchen. Jessica and Lupe were eating macaroni and cheese. Shirley was still sound asleep on the sofa with Precious curled up at her feet.

I went upstairs to check on Chloe and Foofie. Chloe was sitting quietly on the floor gazing into a large cardboard box with a hole the size of a basketball in the middle. She was startled when she heard me walk in.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“Three puppies and counting!” Chloe exclaimed. “I made this box for them.”

“I see. Thank you. It’s a perfect birthing box.” There were old towels on the bottom, Foofie’s favorite bone, a water bowl and a bowl with biscuits. There was an old blanket covering the box. I couldn’t have taken better care of Foofie and her puppies myself.

“You should have seen it! I have never seen puppies being born before. One minute Foofie was licking her first two puppies, and then she stopped. She turned around and around, and then she lay still for a minute and the tiniest one was born—that one, with the white spot on its chest. Oh, look in the box.” She pointed at Foofie. Foofie was staggering slowly in circles with her back arched. “That’s just what she did just before the last puppy came. She’s going to have another one soon,” said Chloe.

Foofie seemed agitated and protective of her three newborn puppies, which were wet, closed eyed, and wriggling around sniffing for her.

“It is such a miracle,” I whispered.

Chloe nodded, not taking her eyes off them. “Do you think I could have one?”

“When it’s old enough, sure, if that’s okay with your mom.”

“I know she’ll say it’s okay.”

“Well, then, you can take your pick. By the way, you’ve been here all day, Chloe. Have you called your mom?”

“Yes, and she knows I’m here with the puppies.”

“I have to go out for awhile, but I’ll ask Lupe to help if you want to go home.”

“If it’s okay with you, I’d rather stay until the last puppy.”

I kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks for taking such good care of Foofie and the puppies. We really needed you today. I gotta go again for now. Later.”

Back in my bedroom, I opened the knapsack again, and re-examined the contents. It was all still there–clean, crisp, and fresh. I flipped through a stack of twenties, and another, and a stack of tens, smelling them, feeling them, and counting them, but there was no time for reverie. I realized my face was still covered with makeup, and I rushed to clean up. The doorbell rang. I had no more appointments scheduled, so I guessed it might be an early trick-or-treater. The bell rang again and moments later the visitor began to rap loudly on the door. I didn’t have time for company. I was already running late to dress for dinner with David.

I flew to the door, but Lupe got there first and had already opened it. A gentleman wearing a tan trench coat stepped into the foyer with his back to me. He was a white man, over six feet tall, and moderately obese. He had long bald grey hair—bald on top, long upon his coat collar.

He turned when he heard my steps, and I saw his face. I gasped and my heart stopped beating. This was the venerable judge whose opinions and decisions had caught mass public attention in the news. His was the 60-something-year-old face that I had contemplated and meditated upon. It was the Honorable Federal Court Judge Frank Sullivan. He was unmistakably the man from Shirley’s photographs.

“Hello?” I said with my mouth, but my demeanor must have said, “Just one moment. I’ll run back in my bedroom and give you back all the money, and on your way out, could you please get Shirley off my sofa and give her a ride home?”

“Hello. Are you Sister Barbara?” he implored.

“Sister Barbara? Uhh. Why?” I stammered back.

“I must see her! I have some terrible problems and I don’t know what to do. I was driving around, thinking about suicide, confidentially, when I saw the sign there in the yard.” His dark blue red-rimmed eyes searched mine urgently, and then he hung his head, crinkled his already deeply lined face, squinted his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m desperate! I need someone to talk to! Is she in?” Tears began to flow, and his huge shoulders rounded and heaved with each deep sob. His wrinkled clothes, crumpled tie, and tangled hair made Frank appear as though he hadn’t slept in days. He was unshaven, and his baldhead glistened with sweat.

What were the odds? Why me, God? I steadied myself to speak. “Ahem—I am Sister Barbara, and I wish I could counsel you, but unfortunately you have caught me at a bad time.” I listened closely for signs of life coming from Shirley on the sofa. This was the Moon card from the Tarot. Unforeseen perils. Gee-whiz, why didn’t I counsel myself?

“Please. Just give me a few minutes. Just a few minutes of your time is all I ask,” he begged.

“I’m sorry. That’s impossible. I have a dinner engagement that I need to get ready for, and—

“My whole life is at stake. I’m pleading with you.”

“And my dog is having puppies in the room up there where I do my readings, so—“

“I love animals. I breed Chihuahuas. Let me take a look. This is just what I need to take my mind off my problems.” He took off his crumpled coat, shoved it at me, rolled up his sleeves and charged toward the stair.

Lupe marched past followed by a darling, two-foot firecracker. “Have fun!” I called out. “Be safe! You look scary! I love you.”

The firecracker growled. Poor Jessica. What did she know? She had only been grapes before. Precious barked in response.

Frank turned back down the stairs. “I thought I just heard a Chihuahua bark.”

I had heard it too. “No, my dog is a poodle.”

“Hmmmmph. Sounded just like a Chihuahua.” He headed toward Precious’ bark in the family room.

I gasped, grasped his forearm, and pulled him back. “No. No. The dog and the puppies are up those stairs. Just go on up, and I’ll meet you there in a couple of minutes.”

I walked swiftly to the sofa where Shirley lay curled up, snoring and drooling. Precious stood at Shirley’s feet on the sofa, snarled, growled, and barked again. I picked up the Chihuahua, grabbed a steak bone from the fridge and put them both in the garage. I took the stairs two at a time, tripped on the last one, and caught my shin. I limped into the room where Frank had already discovered Chloe—thank God for Chloe—who was proudly showing the puppies.

“She had four puppies,” explained the canine midwife. “Foofie had a hard time with the last one. She was so exhausted. I pulled it out of her! I got hold of its head, and I just knew I had to help. She cleaned them all up, and I gave her a little bit of food. She wasn’t very hungry, though. Look how beautiful they are!” she squealed.

The puppies were one squirming heap, blindly searching for position, and Foofie was licking them clean.

“Look at that. They’re adorable. Look at that tiny black one with the white star on his chest,” Frank said softly. Foofie raised her head. He stooped down, reached inside the box, stroked her head, and scratched her neck. “Good girl, you did a great job.” Frank had a lovable way with dogs, an admirable quality.

“Well, I guess we won’t be needing any help with the puppies then. Bye. Thanks a lot, anyway,” I said and gave Frank a gentle push toward the door before he endeared Foofie and me even further, at least until I spent the blackmail money.

“I only ask for a few minutes,” he pleaded again.

“Please, sir. Come back another time. I don’t think I would be able to give you the attention you deserve tonight,” I responded firmly.

“I’m here now. Please. Look, a minute has already passed. We could be nearly finished by now rather than still discussing it.”

I turned to Chloe. “I think Foofie and the puppies will be fine, thanks to you. Would you mind if I spoke to this gentleman privately?”

“Sure. You’re welcome. It was great. I loved it! Well, happy Halloween.” She kissed my cheek.

“Happy Halloween.” Chloe bounced off.

“Please, have a seat on the sofa,” I said to Frank, “but remember, I only have a few minutes”.

“Thank you—a few minutes—I promise.” He took a seat gingerly.

I lit candles that had recently become standard, and sat across from him. “Look into the candle flames and clear your mind,” I said. But it was my mind that needed to be clear. I had three minutes to say something that would inspire and impress Frank and convince him to go away.

I found it hard to focus, but I forced myself to study Frank’s face. It was drawn and colorless, except for the purple bags that swelled under his moist, bulbous eyes. Sinister lines around his mouth told of years of condemning hardened criminals, first as a hotshot prosecutor and then from the bench. He had the composite face of the men he had pardoned, sentenced, or sent to death row and the tough, duplicitous man that he had become. We had crossed paths for some inexplicably important purpose. It baffled me, but I knew that I had to proceed.

“Someone is blackmailing you,” I said in a most mystical voice.

“Ahggghghghghggghhfffff! My God! You are clairvoyant!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, I am,” I said cryptically.

“Who is doing this?” he moaned.

“I don’t know.”

“Why are they doing this? Is it for revenge?”

I considered for a moment. “No. I don’t think so.”

“For political reasons?”

“I’m sure not.”

“Then why?”

“To make you a better man in the end. To set you free from your inner turmoil.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know.”

“Will the press find out?”

“No. I don’t think that will happen.”

“Is there something I should do?”

“Ummmmmm. No. I think the present difficulty has passed.”

“But what about Shirley?”

“Shirley? Let me think for a moment.” I lowered my head and looked at my hands that were folded on my lap. I inhaled deeply and exhaled. “Yes, Shirley. What about her?”

“I’m afraid to call her.”

“Why?”

“My phone might be tapped.”

“No one is tapping your phone. No one is following you. Just call her. There will be no scandal or further extortion as you fear.”

“How do you know?”

“Look, Fra–” Ohmigod I almost slipped and said his name. I coughed. “Excuse me. Look, frankly, tomorrow will be a much better day for me. I really am pressed for time.”

“No—please—just another moment. How can I be sure that the blackmailer won’t stalk me?”

“Okay. You want to be absolutely certain? Well, then, I’ll do magic. That’s what I’ll do, and they’ll go away forever. I will do that for you if you come back tomorrow.”

“Magic? What do you mean by that?”

“Witchcraft. I’ll do witchcraft on the blackmailer and they’ll leave you alone forever.” So, I would be doing witchcraft on myself. This was getting extremely complicated.

“No kidding? Witchcraft? Will it work?”

“Will it work? Did you ask me will it work? Of course, it will work. I can read minds, can’t I? Blackmailers are easy. Poof. They’ll be gone. One or two of my powerful spells and I’ll reverse their evil energy to defeat them.”

“Will your ESP tell you the identity of the perpetrator?”

“Possibly.”

“How much do you charge for this service?”

“For you? Let’s see. I picked up a pencil and paper and did a little figuring. That’ll be—let’s see—two plus eight carry your one. One thousand dollars. Cash only please.” My prices were going up.

“One thousand dollars? Is that for a session or number of hours? How is that calculated?”

“For one week. Then the problem should be resolved.”

He considered for a moment. “I don’t know what alternative I have. I certainly can’t call the police. Well, okay then, you’ve got the job.”

“Thank you. Now, you must not mention to a single soul that I am doing this work.”

“Of course.”

“I mean, no one. You must not tell anyone. It will reverse my work and empower your enemies tenfold.”

“I won’t say anything to anyone. I promise.”

“Can you come back around four o’clock tomorrow afternoon?”

“I’ll be here, and thanks for seeing me. I’m sorry I made you late for dinner. Maybe I can make it up to you and take you out to dinner sometime.”

“Oh, no, thanks, though. I never mix business—you know. By the way, what’s your name?”

“Frank.”

“All right then, Frank, see you tomorrow.” I led him downstairs to the door and handed him his coat. He stepped outside, and I held my breath. Just a few more seconds, and he’d be gone. I prayed that Shirley wouldn’t wake up.

He stepped outside and turned back, “Oh, I’m sorry, but do you think I could use your bathroom before I leave? It’s a long ride.”

Just then, I heard stirrings coming from the family room. Shirley! Ohmigod! He stepped back into the house and I handed his coat back to me. I shoved him down the hall, herded him into the bathroom, and shut the door. Just down the hall, my bedroom door stood open where the bag of money and my nun’s habit were in plain sight. I ran into the room, threw them under the bed, closed the bedroom door, and then raced down the hallway. Frank was still in the bathroom.

I heard simultaneous sounds of Frank flushing and Shirley staggering into the kitchen. I was beginning to get nervous.

I ran to the kitchen. “Oh, boy. Can I have some water?” She slumped into a chair put her elbows on the table and cradled her head in her hands.

“Water. Sure.” I filled a glass and handed it to her. My hands shook so violently that water spilled over the sides.

“What time is it? I must have dozed off,” she said sleepily.

“Yes. Uh. Shirley, could you please just sit back in your chair and close your eyes?” I was still holding Frank’s coat.

“What?”

“Sit down. Close your eyes, and don’t say a word. It’s been a stressful day for you, and I have a surprise.”

“How fun. A surprise? You are always so sweet. Ow. My head really hurts. My eyes are closed.”

“Don’t peek okay? Promise.”

“Promise.”

I took my white porcelain Rosenthal wedding gift vase from the credenza in the hallway and ran down the hall to Lupe’s room where we also keep gift-wrap. I tore a sheet of flowered paper off the roll, mashed the paper around the vase, and wrapped one extremely long piece of Scotch tape around it.

When Frank emerged from the bathroom a few seconds later, I was holding the vase and his coat, standing at the front door.

I opened the door and said, “No more time. Not tonight.” He opened his mouth to speak. “Shhhhhh. Foofie finally fell asleep.” I pushed him out and handed his coat to him.

“Good night. See you tomorrow,” I whispered.

“Do you think I could just–”?

“Absolutely not. Just go home now, and before you know it, tomorrow will be here, and you can come right back.” I closed the door, locked it, and immediately returned to the kitchen.

When Shirley heard me come in, she sat up upright in the chair with her little bony fingers still held over her eyes. “Barbara?” she asked excitedly.

“What?”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

She took her hands away from her eyes and looked at me expectantly. “Oh! Yes. The surprise—heh—heh.” I gave her the package.

“Why, thank you. But what is it for?” she asked, turning it over in her hands.

“It’s just a little something to cheer you up. It’s not much. Really just a thought.”

She removed the crude wrapping, found the vase and turned it upside down surreptitiously. “‘Rosenthal,’ wow. This is nice. This is really nice.” Yes, it was. It was one of my best wedding gifts.

I touched her arm. “Shirley, please don’t worry. You’ll hear from Frank soon.”

“Why do you think that I haven’t heard from him?”

“Just give him a little time. For now, we will sit and wait.”

“That’s the hardest thing to do.”

“I know, but we must try, and now you must excuse me. It’s past time for me to get ready for my engagement this evening.”

“When should I come back?”

“How about next Wednesday at one? And next time, let’s spend our time working instead of sleeping, okay?” She flushed.

“By Wednesday we should see some results.”

“I hope so! I’ll see you then.”

I brought her Sherlock Holmes cape from the hall closet and she suddenly gasped.”

“Precious? Where’s Precious?”

“Oh—gosh—I’m sorry. The door kept opening with people coming and going while were resting, so I closed her up in the garage with a steak bone.”

“Oh, thank you. That was considerate of you to keep my Precious safe.”

III

As soon as Shirley and Precious drove off, I ran to my room. I only had twenty minutes to dress for dinner with David. I didn’t have time to wash my hair, but I finished washing my face (and the stage makeup from around my hairline) and put on fresh makeup. I had already set my clothes out the night before, even panty hose.

I took one more peek into the moneybag and smelled the money. It was true. It was still there. I wrapped the money inside the nun costume and shoved them between the headboard of the bed and the wall. I wadded the grocery sack that had contained the cash and shoved it high into the flue of my bedroom fireplace.

And voila! I was dressed, fluffed, buffed, and ready to go, all in nine-teen-and-one-half minutes. I checked myself in the mirror. I had selected a clingy black silk camisole and long matching skirt, black peau de soie sandals and a small black Swarovski crystal bag. The future Mrs. Doctor David Horowitz would look like this.

The doorbell! I touched perfume behind my ears, upon my décolleté, and between my thighs, just in case. When I flung the door open, David looked me up and down and wolf-whistled between his teeth.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said, presenting me with a large, mounted fish that he carried under his arm. I looked into its marble eye. It was too heavy to hold with my arms outstretched, so I brought it close to my body and hoped it didn’t snag my dress.

“It’s a largemouth bass, and the first fish that I have mounted. Yes, by golly, and he gave me quite a battle deep-sea fishing in Florida. I want you to have it. Happy Birthday,” he said proudly.

“Thank you, David. I don’t have anything like this.” I heaved it onto the chair in the hallway. “How sweet you are to remember my birthday.” Cassandra’s divination ran through my mind. David would say something—something unforgivable. I had to be cautious. We had to get through this evening.

“Well, are we ready?” David asked.

“All ready.”

We drove to the restaurant, listening to music shuffled through his iPod. “By the time I get to Phoenix, she’ll be risin’ la la la.” I watched the roadside pass by. The conversation was comfortably light and boring, about the traffic, and the weather, and reforming dental insurance. We arrived at the restaurant in no time. David left the keys with the valet, opened my door, and took my arm. He was so strong and comforting and handsome.

“I’ve never been to this restaurant before,” I told David as he ushered me, “but I’ve heard about it.”

“I’ve been here only once myself, and it was superb. I hope you like it.”

The future Mrs. DDDH said, “I’m sure I will. I remember that you have quite the reputation as a connoisseur of fine food. This will be great.” I gazed up at him, smiled adoringly, hugged his arm, and marveled upon my own apparent complaisance. However, it was difficult to focus on any conversation because I remembered the warnings from the Tarot and remained wary of Cassandra’s predictions.

We took an elevator to the top floor of the building and made simple conversation that I cannot recall. The elevator door opened. The carpet was plush and deep dark red. On the far side of the restaurant were windows, covered by heavy red draperies, tied back with large gold tassels. The draperies were partly open, about as far apart as I can hold out my arms. Through the windows I could see the lights of buildings. Everything was as Cassandra had predicted! I felt sick to my stomach. I wanted to run away. I wanted to defy destiny.

The waiter seated us. David was talking to me, but I wouldn’t allow myself to hear what he was saying. I avoided looking at him or about the room. I hid behind the menu but wasn’t reading it. What horror was in my immediate future?

“Barbara, the waiter would like to take your order,” I heard David say, snapping me back to consciousness.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” I said when I noticed the waiter and the pâté he just placed on the table. Composing myself, I asked the waiter, “are there any specials tonight?”

He spoke of soups du jour and Cornish game hen. “Do you have anything en croute?” I asked.

“Yes, the salmon.”

“I’ll have the croute, please hold the salmon,” I said.

“Barbara, he’s been asking for your drink order.”

“Oh, sorry. I would like Sprite.”

“Sprite. Thank you, Madam.” The waiter left.

An elderly group at the next table was receiving their fruit plates. David studied the plates as they passed by, and said “Oh, that looks good. I might have that.”

The elderly couple overheard David and nodded approval.

“I’m vegetarian, did you know?” David said as I spread pâté on a cracker.

“No, I didn’t know that you were vegetarian.” Vegetables! What safe conversation.

“I’m working to become fruitarian. That’s my goal. Actually, I do eat mostly fruit, but I must admit that I sneak a few nuts or steamed broccoli now and then. But then I feel so guilty.”

Now even speaking about vegetables seemed like dangerous territory, so my mind raced to another subject. “What do you do to keep in such great shape?” I asked David harmlessly, as I put the cracker into my mouth.

“I skip.”

“Skip?”

“Yes. That’s what I do. I read about it in Flex magazine. The article said that running is too high impact, and that walking is not strenuous enough. It advises skipping. I skip five miles every day.”

At that, I caught my breath involuntarily. In doing so, the cracker lodged in my throat. I couldn’t swallow it. I couldn’t spit it out. It wouldn’t move. At first, I acted as if nothing was happening, trying to remain chic for David, but I couldn’t breathe. I fought for life-giving breath. I panicked and tried to suck in air, but I began choking loudly.

My heart ached and pounded as though it would jump from my chest, and I saw visions of David skipping through a sunlit flowered meadow, dangling a fruit basket, wearing only headphones, small dick and hairy balls bouncing in slow motion cadence with each movement. I desperately wanted to breathe. I wanted to see Jessica again. But there was no air and I began falling. I searched for something to hold onto, but I fell and fell like through an elevator shaft, then stopped. I stopped for a microsecond before a tunnel. I was afraid, because I was far from home. I didn’t know where the tunnel led, or the way back, but the tunnel drew me in. It was the only way to go, so I stepped inside, and it drew me in further. Then it swept me away. Further and further. Deeper and deeper.

Prisms of colored, refracted light, like an ocean of snowflakes, surrounded and swirled about me. I felt suspended as if floating in water and washed toward the brilliant radiance at the end of the tunnel. Glowing waves of energy drew me closer to the intense light of purity and such beauty that only a poet could justly describe.

I lost all fear, engulfed in comfort, peace, overwhelming joy, and love. Misty images took shape as human forms that I finally distinguished. One at a time, I saw my grandmother, and her mother and hers and Mother Mary, and my favorite cousin, Robbie, who was killed in a car accident the night of his senior prom. They held out their arms, greeted me, but didn’t touch me. Somehow I knew if they just would touch me, I could stay with them.

My grandmother, my mother’s sweet mother, who used to bake cinnamon buns and hold me and read bedtime stories said, “When it is time for you come home to heaven I’ll meet you again, but you have not finished your work on earth. You are needed there. Go back. Heaven is not ready to receive you, and earth cannot let you go.” I didn’t want to go back.

I was coughing and gagging and aware of pain in my throat when I realized that I was not in heaven. I was alive. My eyes were open, I think, but I couldn’t see. I could hear some sounds, and then saw blurry faces. I became aware that I was lying on the floor, and forced myself to full consciousness. David was leaning over me wearing pâté all over his face and sport coat, and I never wanted to see him again for the rest of my life.

Waiters, waitresses and patrons of the restaurant were circled around and gaping. “Back up! Give her some air! Give her some air.” Two guys at a nearby table were looking up my skirt. I thought they were gay. Hmm. I struggled to stand on rubber legs and declined help from David. The maître d’ pushed his way through the gapers and took my arm. He looked relieved when he realized my reincarnation, probably feeling exonerated from legal liability.

I pulled myself up to my full five-foot-four inches, extricated myself from the maître d’, and walked to the ladies’ room feigning the dignity of the Queen at her coronation.

The restroom door closed and I looked at myself in the mirror. I saw The Ten of Swords. The end of delusion. The Eight of Cups. Disappointment in love. There was only a little pâté in my bangs. Other than that, I looked all right. I washed my bangs in the sink then asked the attendant for some paper on which to write this note: ‘David, I have taken a cab. Don’t worry. Thanks again for the fish. Fondly, Barbara.’ I ripped that one up and wrote: ‘David, I have taken a cab. I’ll call you. Barbara.’

The maître d’ was hovering outside the ladies’ room, and I asked him to deliver the note. I took the elevator down and stepped outside to luckily find a waiting taxi.

IV

“Do you know the way to The Screamin’ O?” I asked the driver.

“Sure do, Ma’am. It’s the hottest club in town.” He pulled away from the curb with a screech, and we were there within minutes.

There was a long line to get in and a twenty-five dollar cover charge. The people in line were local beautiful beach bums, couples of all sorts, a small group of young women wearing jeans, tans, and foul language, and various wannabes sporting grunge or bling and too much cologne. And a business group wearing nametags. I was the only single.

Some exquisite, mysterious elites arrived curbside via extended-long Hummer limo, and bodyguards led them around the line directly into the club, heightening the excitement of those standing in line. They all may have been hired actors. This was Hollywood.

It was my turn. I paid twenty-five dollars, and the bouncer stamped my hand. Impressed by the high cover charge, I looked into the club at the standing room only crowd.

Then the doubts engulfed me. Scott was obviously a more successful artist than I. I thought about my own artistic efforts and about how they lay on display for free, naked, and about the soul-sucking, carcinogenic criticism. I thought of the possible worthlessness and silliness of my artistic efforts, my waste of time and energy, and the guilt the waste instilled. But I also thought about the sheer joy art brought me. One will do anything for the art she loves.

While I weaved my way through the crowd, searching for a seat or even a place to stand, the beautiful people laughed and danced between tight tables to a catchy number. Finally a seat vacated along the wall in the very back of the club, and I grabbed it, grateful to disappear. Through the crowded, dimly lit room, I observed Scott performing with his band on the stage. He was singing from his heart, in a place all his own, and he was one with the throng of people. He surrendered to his art and gave it all to his audience. The place was packed and pumpin’.

Scott probably didn’t even remember me, I thought. I was embarrassed that I manufactured a romantic, naïve, desperate fantasy that I had something to offer someone like him, or that he would have a real relationship with someone like me. But I had come this far and couldn’t just sit there spellbound going wah-wah by myself forever. There was no possibility that Scott could even know that I was there. I wanted to stand out from the crowd. I considered writing a note and asking the waiter to deliver it to Scott.

The couple at the corner table next to mine interrupted my thoughts. They were standing so close that they bumped my chair, kissing, rubbing all over one another, not seeming to notice that they were not in bed. His hand was under her skirt. Her leg was wrapped around his waist. She sure is limber, I thought. I wondered if she were a dancer, or a Yoga instructor, or an undercover cop. I was impressed and appalled, but she didn’t care. I knew that she and I could never be good friends.

So I looked straight ahead. Winding his way through the crowd, quickly heading my way was a dark, Hispanic-looking man, his eyes fixed on me. As he came closer, I saw that he was handsomely dressed in black pleated pants and soft tight-fitting black sweater.

“Mees, Iyam Rodrigo,” he said, using that r-rolling I love. “Weel you dahns weeth me?” he asked politely.

“No, thank you.” I wouldn’t look at him.

“Oh, but why?” You are too preety to be alone.”

“No, thanks, really.” I glanced at him and saw his large silver and rhinestone belt buckle.

The couple at the next table were still going at it. I looked at him.

“Do you like to dahns?” he asked seductively. He snapped his fingers and moved his hips sensually to the music, trying to arouse me.

“Yes, I do like to dance, but I would not like to dance right now,” I answered, pretending to be disinterested.

“Would you like a dreenk?” He stepped closer. Apparently he had succeeded in arousing himself if nothing else.

“No, thank you,” I said again.

“Why? Thees ees a bar.”

“Because my husband wouldn’t like it,” I lied.

“Oh, your husbahnd? I understahnd–but your husbahnd ees not here.” He shrugged, held his hands out, palms up, and looked from side to side.

“Yes, he is.”

“Oh? He ees here?” He backed away and looked behind him. “Where ees he?” My eyes fell, then remained fixed on the couple at the next table. The woman was a real wet mess, now squirming in puddles on the table from overturned glasses. The man was standing between her legs and they were kissing wildly. Rodrigo’s eyes followed mine. Oh, nooo.” He shook his head slowly in disbelief. “Nooo.”

“We’re having marital problems.”

“He ees keesing ahnohther wohmahn! Ahnd you cannot haff a dreenk weeth me?”

“No, he gets very jealous.” Rodrigo was persuasive.

“Do you know that tonight ees very special at The Screamin O? Last Saturday of month ees dahns contest. Tonight ees Samba.”

“You sure seem to like to dance.”

“I love to dahns, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Everybahdy here knows Rodrigo. I always am the best dahnser.”

“Really?”

“Would you be my partner tonight?” he asked, rolling those R’s.

“Uhhhhhh–” He seemed so impassioned.

“Do it. Do it,” said the little voice in my head.

“I know you want to say yes. Say eet.”

“Well—“ He was becoming attractive.

“Well?”

“Yes. I will be your partner for the dance contest tonight,” I blurted.

“Thees ees wonderful. I am very exciting to be your partner. You won’t be sorry. I weell sign up, and come bahck for you. Contest starts in one hahlf hour. Oh, I’m sorry, what ees your name?”

“Barbara.”

“All right, theen, Barbara, Rodrigo’s partner, I come back in twenty minutes.” He walked a few steps, then turned, and said, “Dreenk lots of water. You will be sweat.”

He was actually quite charming. Cute. When he walked away, I appraised his long legs, wide shoulders, and muscular butt and noticed that others did the same. He stopped for a moment to talk with a tall brunette. He shook his head as if to decline. She looked disappointed. This had the potential to be very interesting.

The ex-prospective Mrs. Doctor David Horowitz ordered two extra dry martinis and sucked them down. I had never before tasted a martini, but twenty minutes later when Rodrigo returned, I was all id and ready to ‘dahns’. Rodrigo slid into the chair next to mine and kissed me on the neck. It felt great.

“You weel hear heem call our names, and theen we go to the dahns floor. There are four ohther couples tonight, but we are the best.” Then we began kissing on the lips.

“And now our last couple. Rodrigo and Barbara!” Scott announced.

There was a spotlight on us. Rodrigo jumped up, bowed, and waved to the crowd. They began to chant his name, clap, and cheer. I heard, “Barbara! Barbara!” within the roar. I remained seated, arched my back, opened my black crystal handbag, removed a tube of bright red lipstick and a compact mirror, and applied the lipstick slowly, generously, demonstratively. Rodrigo turned to me, postured himself, and took my hand. I threw the lipstick tube over my shoulder onto the floor, drew my leg from beneath my skirt muscularly and provocatively, and pointed the toe of my black four-inch-heeled shoe. I took a wide exaggerated step down from the stool, stood tall, and shook my hair away from my face. I was channeling Carmen Miranda, dancing with the stars.

The crowd roared and whistled, and we took the dance floor with the four other couples. Rodrigo threw his handsome profile to the sky and puffed up his chest. He looked down into my eyes, put his arm around my waist and we bowed. The crowd roared. He took my hand in his and held it tightly above our heads. The music began, and we tilted our faces up and pressed them together. Rodrigo’s touch, the guitars, the drums, Scott’s sexy voice, and martinis controlled my body. I responded to every vibration and followed Rodrigo’s strong lead. He twirled me and he stomped. He was the bullfighter. He was my adamant lover. I teased. He raged. I enticed. He succumbed. And then, in our dance, we made love. At the end he brushed the back of his fingers across my cheek, down my neck, to my cleavage, and he dipped me. I no longer possessed a spine and my hair brushed the floor. The spectators roared their appreciation. The crowd jumped to their feet, clapping and whistling, and even the wait staff joined in chanting, “Barbara! Rodrigo! Barbara! Rodrigo!”

Rodrigo pulled me up, and we bowed. Many threw the flowers from the vases on their tables, hats, even a room key and a pair of ladies’ panties. For me, the room was spinning.

Scott returned to the microphone and said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s obvious that you have chosen Rodrigo and Barbara as the winners of our dance contest! Come on up here, you two,” he beckoned from the stage. Rodrigo took my hand and led me up the stairs.

“Congratulations. That was quite a dance routine,” Scott said in his deep, raspy, showroom voice.

“Thank you,” Rodrigo and I panted together.

“But was not routine. It was from the heart.”

“Rodrigo, I see you have a new partner.” Scott pointed the microphone at him.

“Yes. Thees ees the first time Barbara and I haf dahns.”

“How often did you and Barbara practice your routine?” asked Scott.

“Never.” He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, dripping with perspiration.

“Never?”

“Right. It just come from the heart.”

“Is that right, Barbara?” He pointed the microphone at me.

Still trying to catch my breath, I huffed and puffed. “Absolutely, and Rodrigo,” I said, looking at him admiringly, “that was a beautiful way of saying it.”

“Barbara, I didn’t know you could—I mean—where did you learn to dance?” asked Scott incredulously.

“From Carmen Miranda,” I deadpanned.

“Heh heh. That’s cute. Have you ever been a professional dancer?”

“No.”

“Tell us about yourself. What do you do?”

“About what?”

“Uh. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m an oracle.” Scott cringed involuntarily.

“I see. And how long have you known Rodrigo?”

“We just met tonight.”

“How about that. Is this your first visit to the club?”

“Yes. It is. Very nice, club by the way.” Some patrons whistled and applauded.

“What brought you to The Screamin’ O tonight?”

“A friend told me about it.”

“Well, I’m glad you came. Well Barbara and Rodrigo, here is your prize money of one thousand dollars. Five hundred dollars each! Barbara, I hope to see you again soon.”

“Thank you very much,” I said.

“Yes, thank you. Eet was our pleasure.”

Rodrigo and I accepted the envelopes and stepped from the stage.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, that was quite a performance. Let’s give them one last round of applause. And now, everybody, let’s get up and dance!” The band resumed playing, and the crowd began to dance and talk among themselves.

We returned to our table, and Rodrigo picked me up, hugged me, and twirled me around. He put me down and said, “Less dahns more”.

“Rodrigo, you are an incredible dancer.”

“No, eeet eees you.”

“You just made me look good. All I did was hang on.”

“Let’s go. I love theees song.” He took my hand and stopped for a moment to quickly down a glass of water.

I wanted to stay, but I retracted my hand and pleaded, “no, no, I can’t. It’s getting late, and I have to go home to my daughter.”

“You cannot leave now. Not without just one more dahns.”

“I can’t stay.”

“Well then, please, here ees my card. Will you call me?”

‘Rodrigo Santiago Francisco Ramirez Escort Service,’ the card read. My mouth dropped open, I caught my breath and gawked at him.

“Don worry. I don charge my friends, and most pipple aroun the club dohn know. I work a lot with old ladies on the cruise sheeps, just dahnsing. I make theem very hahppy.”

“That’s sweet, Rodrigo. I’m sure they love you.” Who was I to judge?

“So you will you be my dahns partner another night?”

“I’d love to dance with you again. Sure. I’ll call.”

He led me through the crowd outside into a waiting taxi. The wind blew across the ocean and drove a heavy rain.

V

I dashed quickly into the cab, soaked and shivering without a coat. I was jubilant to go home. Cassandra was right. This had been the most difficult day of my life, but I survived. I checked my phone for messages. It showed three missed calls from David. No other calls. It was eleven-forty-five. The phone rang, startling me as I returned it to my purse. Caller ID did not identify the caller.

“Hello?” I answered.

“This is a collect call from the Beverly Hills City Jail. If you accept this call, please say ‘Yes’ now,” said a recorded voice on the other end of the line. Oh no. Oh God, please, I can’t take anymore, I thought to myself. There were only fifteen minutes left in this terrible day.

“Yes,” I said, fearing the worst.

“Hello, Meesus Barrbarra?” It was Lupe, breathing fast and speaking frantic Spanglish that I couldn’t understand. “O Dios. Terrible!” Something horrible had happened. I became immediately, completely sober.

“Lupe. Please. I can’t understand you. Please slow down. Tell me in English, if you can. You’re scaring me to death,” I said, trying to remain calm, or at least to appear so outwardly.

“The firecracker for costume no good. Bomb squad.”

“What? There was a bomb? Where? Where are you?” I asked.

Lupe was crying and gasped for breath. “Yale.”

“Where’s Jessica? Is she okay?”

“Yes. She is with the lady.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. Yale.”

“I’m coming right now. Don’t cry. I’m coming to get you and Jessica. Everything will be all right. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Lupe would never do anything wrong.

“Driver. Take me to the Beverly Hills City Jail, please, and as fast as you can.” It was raining heavily, but there was no traffic and we arrived at the jail in minutes. I paid the driver and rushed through pouring rain and mud puddles in the parking lot, through a heavy metal door marked ‘Entrance’. I bolted to the reception window.

Through the small hole in the bulletproof window, I said, “I’m Barbara Barett. You have my baby. Where is she? Why are you holding her and my housekeeper here?” The attendant glanced up from her computer monitor. I wondered if I had alcohol on my breath, ran my tongue over my teeth, and stepped back from the window. The clock on the wall behind the receptionist said twelve-o-four. I was safe, or so I thought. “Where is my baby?”

“Ah, Miss Barett. Don’t worry. She is out of harm’s way in our family room in the custody of one of our social workers.”

“Why in the world are you holding a baby in jail?”

“She and an accomplice were reported in a bomb threat.”

“Accomplice?”

“Yes, Guadalupe Lopez.”

“Bomb threat?”

“Yes. One of your neighbors was alarmed by your daughter’s disturbing costume this evening.”

“This is outrageous. Where’s Lupe?” I demanded.

“We did a background check on her, found that she is a legal immigrant with no warrants and no criminal record, and released her also to the family room. They can go home with you if you will show me your driver’s license or a picture I.D.”

I opened my tiny evening handbag. In the bag were a small mirror, a tube of lipstick, a credit card, five folded hundred-dollar bills and a twenty. I wasn’t driving this evening. No license.

The attendant observed the contents of the purse, and narrowed her eyes. She scrutinized my rain-soaked hair, my sopped, clinging, limp, black, silk dress, and Jacqueline Bisset nipples.

“Excuse me for a moment, Mrs. Barett. Please don’t leave,” she said before shuffling quickly away from her post.

“But–but it’s after midnight,” I protested.

The receptionist turned back and observed the clock. She gave me a questioning look and said, “That clock is five minutes fast. I’ll be back in a few minutes. You may take a seat if you like.”

What hell awaits me now? I became aware of my surroundings and scanned the room. There were five other people seated. A black woman wearing a blonde wig, leather miniskirt, and fishnet stockings over long, long legs, knobby knees, and huge feet. She nodded and smiled under-standingly. I recognized her. She was Bryan, the receptionist from the psychiatrist’s office.

Next to her, hiding behind a newspaper, was a gentleman wearing expensive looking black hound’s-tooth trousers and black crocodile shoes. In another bank of modern metal and black Naugahyde chairs sat a young bleary-eyed man with long tousled hair wearing a T-shirt and a sport coat with jeans. He gave me a little toodle-doo wave. Two seats from him sat a young, thin, perfectly groomed brunette. She looked me over and turned her head in apparent disgust. The room smelled of Pinesol and ‘Passion’. In the corner of the well-lit space lived a large potted palm with sickly yellow-green fronds that reached to the ceiling. This must be a slow night at Beverly Hills City Jail for the rich and famous, probably due to the inclement weather. This same jail was also Tommy Lee and Pamela’s, and Bobby and Whitney’s point of embarkation into hell, to name just a few.

I took a seat next to the man behind the newspaper and caught a look at his face. He was a famous black comedian. I leaned forward and whispered to the woman beside him, “Don’t I know you from the psychiatrist’s office?”

“That’s right, girl. What’re you doin’ in the joint?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m just here to do a little community service work.”

“Same with me!” The man peeked from around his paper. I asked if I could borrow the employment classified ads, and he handed them over, wordlessly.

Before I could start my job search, the attendant reappeared with another woman. I stepped up to the window and whispered through the hole. “You have incarcerated my two-year-old baby and my housekeeper. What could they possibly have done wrong? This is tantamount to kidnapping. Where is my baby? I want to see her immediately!” I hissed.

“Miss Barett,” said the tall, heavy, kindly looking woman, “would you please step through that door on your left and allow me to ask you a few questions?” She gestured toward a metal door that led to a secured area.

I tried pleading. “Please let me see my baby. She is probably afraid. This is a terrible way to treat innocent citizens.” I tried threatening. “I’ll have a word with my good friend, the Honorable Frank Sullivan about this,” I said ominously. She was not impressed.

“Jessica and your housekeeper are together, and your baby is asleep in a comfortable clean bed. We must identify you before we release them to you. It’s customary procedure for their protection,” she explained with authority. “Please step through that door into my office.” She reached under the desk, pushed a button and the freshly painted grey heavy metal door opened with a sickening hollow clang. I walked through, and the door closed behind me automatically with another clang. Bright ceiling lights glared upon a highly polished black and white linoleum floor and hospital-white hallway. This was the Three of Swords from the tarot. Tears. Separation. Political strife.

“Please follow me,” she said. We walked halfway down the corridor past closed unmarked doors to an office fronted with one-way glass. The door was open, and I followed her into the room. “Have a seat, please” she said politely.

She sat across from me at her desk. She put on her reading glasses and read from a paper she withdrew from a file folder. The clock on her desk read twelve-twenty. “I am Frances Thomas, the evening supervisor here, and what is your full name, please?” she asked.

“Barbara Victoria Barett.”

She wrote it down. “Miss Barett, since you don’t have identification with you this evening, I will do a very quick background check on you which will allow me to release your daughter and—” she read from the document, “Guadalupe Maria Lopez in a short time.”

“That sounds reasonable. Thank you.” A few moments passed.

“Do you know your driver’s license number and your social security number, Miss Barett?”

I told her the numbers, and she recorded them. “May I ask why exactly my baby and Lupe were arrested?” I demanded to know.

“Certainly. They were not arrested, only taken into custody. It seems that a neighbor of yours—let me see,” she read again from the file, “a Mrs. Eleanor Grigsby was frightened by Jessica’s Halloween costume, and a team of officers answered her 911 call of possible terrorism.”

“Everyone knows Mrs. Grigsby is senile. She also walks around the neighborhood lost and thinks she’s Eleanor Roosevelt. She has suffered dementia for years.”

“She also suffered a stroke this evening just after her 911 call and has been hospitalized.”

“Oh no!”

“Miss Barett, that was a very cute costume, but we must consider the time we live in. In accordance with Federal Security Laws, the bomb squad was required to clear Jessica and Lupe.”

“That seems somewhat harsh. There were mummies, witches, Draculas, and Freddie Krugers out there, and you believe that Mrs. Grigsby was frightened by my two-year-old’s firecracker costume?” I was getting agitated.

“It was the growling firecracker Mrs. Grigsby told the paramedic just before she collapsed.” My poor baby. She was only grapes before. I should have told her firecrackers don’t growl. I’m too caught up with my new job. I’m a working mother. I’m a single, working, terrible mother. Maybe I’m unfit. Maybe they’ll take my baby away. The evening supervisor continued, “I agree with you that these are very unusual circumstances, but the law is the law. Now let’s work on following protocol and dismissing this. From the information you provided, I will be able to verify your identity,” she said, turning to the computer on her desk and keying in the data. She peered at the screen. She typed again. She read from the screen. She printed something. While it was printing she said, “Public records confirm that you are indeed Barbara Victoria Barett.”

“Thank God.” I stood up. “Now where’s my baby?”

“Not yet. I need Jessica’s birth certificate to prove who she is.”

“What? You know I wouldn’t carry that with me.”

“We can verify Jessica’s identity from hospital records.”

“Come on, Frances. Why do we have to go through all of this?” I begged.

“It’s regulation, to protect children. Bear with me. It won’t take long. Do you know the hospital and the date of your daughter’s birth?” I gave her the information she required. Again she keyed into the computer and searched.

“The hospital records indicate that you, indeed, are Jessica’s mother. “You may now proceed to a short meeting with the social worker in charge of your case. Just wait here a moment. I’ll send her in.”

“The so—“

She interrupted me. “It’s just routine. You have progressed to this point. Don’t worry.”

In a matter of minutes a dowdy woman arrived wearing a pink blouse, brown jumper, and dirty white canvas shoes. She had tattoos on her neck and a festering blister on her hairy upper lip.

“How do you do, Miss Barett? I’m Brenda, and I hope I will be able to get you, Jessica, and Lupe home soon.”

“Same here,” I replied.

“Miss Barett, I hope to resolve this quickly. I know you want to take your daughter home. Just tell me, how much have you had to drink tonight?” The Ten of Swords. A legal battle lost. Defeat in war.

“Nothing.” I resisted a gasp and looked her in the eye. I must remain calm. I had answered truthfully. It was twelve-thirty A.M.

“Would you submit to a breathalyzer? We cannot release your daughter and Miss Lopez into your custody if we suspect that you are under the influence of alcohol.”

“Well….” My mind raced. What time was it when I drank the martinis? I remembered reading somewhere how many hours it takes for the body to dispel alcohol.

“Would you allow a breath test?” she asked.

“A breath test? Why?”

“Miss Barett,“ she shifted positions in her chair, chose her words carefully, and looked past me, “you smell of alcohol. You were driven here by taxicab, and… the way you are dressed. It is the job of the State to be certain that the minor child is released into a safe environment.”

“My dress? I have been on a dinner date,” I protested, offended.

“A dinner date? With?” she probed excitedly.

“I don’t think I have to answer that question.”

“Would you mind if I took a look in your purse?”

“Why do you want to look in my purse?”

“For drugs, Miss Barett, or for large amounts of cash. You should have no problem with that if there is nothing to hide. A blood test is also in order.”

I couldn’t let her look in my purse. She would find the money I won in the dance contest. “I would like to exercise my right to call an attorney. I will not subject myself to any tests or further questions. You have kidnapped my daughter and my housekeeper and are accusing me without warrant or reasonable cause.” This was the worst day of my life, and far beyond anything I could ever imagine. I would never doubt Cassandra again if I could just get out of this.

“As you like. I tried to keep it simple. Please follow me.” She rose, and I followed. As soon as her back turned, I breathed into my cupped hand. My breath smelled stale with a tinge of vomit. Inculpable.

She led me down a dimly lit corridor, turned a corner and opened a metal windowless door marked Video Room. Blinding fluorescent light suddenly washed over us. She entered, and I stood just outside. “Come in, please,” she said sweetly like the witch to Gretel.

“May I make a phone call? I want to call my lawyer.”

“Certainly, but please come in,” she insisted.

I stepped into a classic windowless room as seen on Cop TV: cement blocks painted bright white, one wall striped with a red chart all the way to the ceiling, scaled off in one inch increments and a grey cement floor with a drain in the middle. A desk and two chairs were in one corner, a video camera in another, and another corner was enclosed by a floor-to-ceiling celadon green curtain, like a dressing room in the doctor’s office. There was a line of lockers near the dressing room. Brenda opened one, pulled out a wire basket, and slammed it on the desk.

“Put everything in your possession into this basket,” she ordered.

“I will do that, but my telephone has my lawyer’s number in it, and I would like to call him first.”

“You may make a short phone call while I ask the attendant to find some appropriate clothing for you to wear for your stay with us.” She exited the metal door, and turned the lock with a hollow clang. My cell phone showed very low battery. I pushed the buttons to the address book and placed the call. It rang, once, twice. What if they kept me here and Jessica is afraid and without me? What if they take Jessica from me? What if Mrs. Grigsby died or was impaired? Please be there, Harvey, oh please, I prayed. Three rings. Harvey was an old mutual friend of mine and Rick’s.

“Hello,” he answered groggily.

“Harvey, this is Barbara.. I’m sorry to wake you, but this is an emergency. Can you hear me?”

“Uh. Yes. Hello. I can.”

“I only have a minute. My baby, my housekeeper, and I are in the Beverly Hills City Jail.” I heard him jolt up and knock something from a table.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing?”

“What are you accused of?”

“Prostitution, public intoxication, illegal use of drugs, and terrorism have been mentioned, and maybe involuntary manslaughter if she doesn’t pull out of her coma.”

“Manslaughter? Who?”

“Mrs. Grigsby.”

“Who is that? What did you do?”

Brenda was back, holding a bright orange jumpsuit. “Miss Barett, I need your attention.”

“What’s going on now?” Harvey asked.

“Miss Barett,” she repeated, louder and impatiently. I was her hamster.

“I’m afraid I have to ask you to hand over your belongings and change clothes so that we may continue with the routine testing procedure.”

“Testing me for alcohol and drugs, I think.”

“Are you under the influence of anything?”

“I don’t think so. Not now.”

“Were you drinking earlier?”

“Yes.”

“How long ago?”

“About three hours.”

“Can you walk a straight line and say the alphabet backwards.”

“I think so.”

“Let her take a video. Stay calm, and do as well as you can. Don’t talk much or allow any other tests. I’ll have you out of there in less than an hour.”

“Miss Barett. Put your possessions and your clothing including your underwear in the basket, and put this on now.” She threw the suit in the basket and shoved it in my direction. “Your things will be sent to the lab.” She stalked over to the green curtain and yanked it open. “Change in here. You can leave your shoes on. Let me see them. Do they have laces?”

“No. Straps.”

“Then leave them on.” She sneered insidiously at the sight of the four-inch heels. “I’ll be back in three minutes.”

I picked up the basket, walked into the changing room, pulled the curtain closed, and began to cry. I placed the basket on the floor, and put my purse, telephone, five-hundred dollars plus one twenty, a tube of lipstick, a compact mirror, a credit card, my puny diamond earrings, and my birthstone ring that my grandmother gave me into the basket. I pulled the camisole I was wearing over my head and used it to wipe away the tears that streamed down my face and neck.

When all of my clothes and belongings were in the basket, I stepped into the huge orange pants and put my arms into the sleeves of the jumpsuit. The words ‘Beverly Hills City Jail’ were printed in large black letters down one leg, and this one-size-fits-all would fit a behemoth. The elastic at the waist drooped below my rear, and the crotch was below my knees. I stooped down and rolled the cuffs over and over until they were finally above my dancing shoes.

Brenda reentered the room with a folder, presumably my file, and another woman who resembled Attila the Hun, wearing a police uniform. “We must protect the child,” said one to the other.

Attilia finished setting up the video camera. “Ready. Walk to the red scale on the wall and stop,” barked Attilia. The pant cuffs unrolled and I was stepping on them, so I hesitated for a moment and pulled them back up over my shoes. “Come on! Let’s go!” she demanded. I continued rolling up one cuff while hopping and dragging the other pant leg behind. Could they possibly have known that I blackmailed Frank? Is that what this was really all about?

“Stop there. Don’t move. Look straight ahead.” Atillia snapped a blinding flash photograph. “Now the right profile.” Another flash. “Now the left.” Flash. “Turn to the front again.” Flash. Flash. Little black and purple dots floated about the room. I hoped that Attilia was a better photographer than whoever took Nick Nolte’s mugshot.

“Walk over to the black tape on the floor, then walk a straight line to the tape directly across the room.” I was temporarily blinded by the flash and stumbled on the pants again.

“I can’t see,” I protested.

“Miss Barett, let’s quit playing. Just walk to the tape. This is standard procedure.”

I pulled the pant legs up again and held them this time above my knees. The heels made a sharp clicking and scraping noise on the cement floor. I stopped at the first line, took a few deep breaths, and began cautiously, placing one foot in front of the other. I tottered a bit after the first step and hesitated to regain my balance.

“You’re having unusual difficulty with this, Miss Barett,” she said, sounding pleased.

They knew I would come here for Jessica and Lupe. Was this a set up? They didn’t even have to pick me up. The black dots dissipated, and I continued, like an aerialist on the high wire. I made it across without another mishap.

“Okay. Now recite the alphabet backwards,” ordered Atillia.

“Z. Y. X. W.” was easy. I recited the end of the alphabet song forward silently, and then continued, “V. U.” and so forth. Thank God she didn’t ask for me to explain the Pythagorian theorum.

“That’s it!” barked Atillia. She turned off the video camera, plodded across the room behind the desk and bent to pull something from a lower drawer. The thought crossed my mind that she had a bit of pent up hostility and was taking it all out on me. Then she emerged with a sinister smile and slowly pulled on white rubber gloves. I caught my breath. She moved toward me like the wicked witch ready to season Gretel. I gasped and stepped backward until trapped by the cement wall.

“Where is the evidence?” she snarled. A maniacal expression contorted her countenance, and she appeared as though she hungered for me, marinated in ground glass and centipedes.

“What evidence?” I shrieked.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Come on,” she thundered.

Where was Harvey? He said he would be here in less than an hour. He should have been here by now. The tears were unstoppable. “There is no evidence. I don’t even know what I’m accused of,” I cried, sobbing.

“You can confess, or you can be searched. It’s up to you.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

The metal door suddenly unlocked and opened. It was Frances. “We’re not quite finished,” Attilia barked.

“Her lawyer’s here. She’s been released. Take the basket with her things to the lab,” said Frances.

Attilia’s expression became that of a disappointed, mentally ill, little farm girl whose mother suddenly called from across the barnyard. “Put that chicken down and stop wringing its neck. We’re having pork chops for dinner.”

“Come with me,” Frances ordered me. I gladly followed her through the corridors to her office where I found Harvey waiting. He rose from a chair, and I rushed to him and clung to him. I had known him since he had red hair and freckles. Now he’s gray around the temples, wore coke-bottle-thick eyeglasses, and a red beard. He was smart, sweet, and prominent. Frances left seemingly in a huff and slammed the door behind her.

“Boy, am I glad to see you! You came just in time, Harvey.”

“I’ve been here for twenty minutes. It took them a while to process your paperwork,” he said, peeling me off of him.

“Can Jessica and Lupe and I go home?”

“Yeah, probably in just a couple more minutes. They’re filling out more paperwork, and they’re going to give you a date to appear before the judge.”

“Appear before the judge? Why?”

“Don’t worry. The only charge that stuck was public intoxication. How did you do on your sobriety test?”

“Best as I could. I was completely sober, but I stumbled a little because of these shoes and these long pant legs.” I realized that I was standing on them again, and they trailed two feet behind. I stood on one foot and pulled up the pant leg to reveal the shoe.

“That would make it pretty tough to walk. When the judge sees your video and if he thinks you look sober, he’ll even drop the public intox charge.”

“Do you know how Mrs. Grigsby is?” I asked.

“Her daughter called the police department and said that Mrs. Grigsby is well and back home, and she dropped the charges.”

“Thank God.”

“There was no stroke. She had only fainted from an overdose of eating glue, so no worries there. But the FBI is going to impound the things that they took from you for awhile.”

“Why?”

“I guess they’re looking for drugs. Seems like you looked suspicious and had a lot of cash with you.”

“I won five hundred dollars in the dance contest at The Screamin’ O.”

“Did you tell them that?” he asked.

“No.”

“Stay here a minute. Let me see if I can get your things back.” He walked out of the room and around the corner toward the front desk. He reappeared a few minutes later and handed me a brown paper bag containing my belongings and a paper to sign. “Sign this paper, and let’s get out of here,.” he said. I went back to the locker room and changed back into my clothes.

The social worker showed us to the ‘family room’ where Jessica and Lupe were waiting. Lupe appeared exhausted and horrified. Jessica looked very sleepy, but otherwise was just happy to see me. She toddled my way, wearing the red long underwear that she had worn beneath her costume. I ran to her, picked her up, kissed her face and inhaled her sweet sweaty fuzzy puppy smell. She pulled away slightly and pointed a little chubby index finger at my damp, wrinkled, black cocktail dress.

“Pretty,” she said.

“Thank you, Baby. I love you! It was for Halloween.” I promised myself to burn that dress and those shoes first thing in the morning.

“Did you get lots of candy?”

“Candy,” she affirmed.

“Is all okay?” asked Lupe.

“It was all just a bad mistake. Everything’s okay. Mrs. Grigsby’s okay. I’m sure she’s sorry this happened. We can go home.”

Jessica put her arms around my neck and nuzzled her face into my chest. “I hungy,” she said. From this most difficult day of my life I learned the most valuable lesson. I knew that as long as Jessica and I had each other, we were rich. Everything else in life was gravy.

PART FIVE

THE END ALMOST

I

It seemed as though I had just fallen asleep for a short time when I heard a soft tapping sound. The sound became incorporated into a nightmare in which my teeth fell from my mouth onto a prison floor as Attilia bounded toward me with stuffing for my body cavities. I heard the sound again, opened my eyes, and sat up to listen more closely. It could have been the cat, but I didn’t have one. There was a rustling in the bushes below the window and then plink. Something hit the window. I checked the clock. It was three A.M. The most horrible day of my life was officially over, so I wasn’t terribly afraid. The bushes rustled loudly and twigs broke, possibly beneath the weight of some large animal. Another pebble, tapped against the windowpane making a soft clink.

I crept out from beneath the covers and peered through the window into the darkness. There was a man in the bushes outside my window! He bent down, picked something up, and tossed it. For a split second as it struck the glass, I could see it was an acorn. Then I saw his face when he looked up. He had lots of dark curly hair. It was Scott. I breathed a tremendous sigh of relief.

“Open the window,” he whispered loudly.

I opened the window and straddled the sill, half inside and half out. The air was sweet and fresh, and the stars danced in the sky. The breeze blew my hair across my face, and I brushed it back. I leaned my back upon the window frame, dangled one leg outside, and hugged the other knee.

“Hi,” I said. He looked so handsome in the moonlight.

“Hi, Carmen Miranda.”

“What are you doing?”

“Throwing acorns at your bedroom window.”

“Why?” It was like a fairy tale.

“Because I want to see you.”

“Here I am.”

“And I want to be with you.”

The man I had longed for climbed through my bedroom window held me in his arms, and covered my face and neck with kisses. The rest I will leave to your most vivid romantic and erotic imagination.

Then I turned my backside to him and nestled in close. He put his arms around me. I could feel him breathing in the scent and softness of my hair, until his breathing was slow and rhythmic. Just before I fell asleep, I realized that the window was still open. Moonbeams skipped about the room. The intoxicating, sensuous fragrance of gardenias from the garden below permeated the cool evening breeze. I drifted into a deep dreamless sleep.

The sun was up and a visitor’s impatient ringing of the doorbell awakened me. I climbed over Scott, turned back to kiss him softly on his sleeping lips, and found my robe. Leaving my warm bed, feeling chilly, I wrapped the robe around my body and scampered down the hall. Shirley was waiting at the door with Precious in her arms.

Both were wearing their usual matching ensembles and harried expressions. I opened the door and allowed them to enter. Precious immediately jumped from Shirley’s arms and ran up to the studio.

“Foofie had her puppies last night,” I informed Shirley. “Precious must want to take a look.”

“Frank called last night after I left here and he wants to see me tonight. I’m sorry to just barge in, but I wanted to talk to you before I see him. He sounded so strange on the telephone.”

“I’m so glad, Shirley! I knew that you would hear from him. I’m sure that everything will go as it should now.”

“Do you have a few minutes?” she asked.

“Well, this isn’t the best time, but I can see you for a little while. Come on in.”

After many cups of tea and much reinforcement, I finally convinced Shirley that she and Frank were headed on a positive course. Just give it more time, I implored. When she finally seemed stable enough to leave, I moved quickly to usher her out. Frank’s appointment was at four! At my front door, she thanked me repeatedly and called for Precious. “Precious? Precious!” she called throughout the house, but Precious did not come. “Precious! Precious!” Shirley cried out again. Lupe and I called and clapped our hands, also without result. We searched throughout the house, Precious was not to be found. Upstairs, downstairs, in all the closets and under all of the beds. No Precious.

We discovered the kitchen door slightly ajar and the garage door open, thus taking our search outside. Precious was not in the garage or in the yard. We called her name, looked up and down our road, all over the neighborhood, and inside the house again. We asked the neighbors. They looked around their houses. Over an hour passed, and still no Precious.

Shirley fell to her knees and cried. Lupe and I embraced her. “Why? Why punish me? Precious is all I have. Just my little dog,” Shirley wailed. She called the police and was referred to animal control where, in tears, she filed a missing dog report. We finally gave up looking and she went home, sobbing as she drove away, despite my pleas to drive her.

I went upstairs, and made some reward fliers for missing Precious. Jessica, Lupe and I went all around the neighborhood, tacking a hundred or so on trees, fences, and stop signs. When we returned I found Scott wandering around the house wearing his T-shirt and jeans from last night, looking for everybody.

“What’s all the commotion?” he asked, following me into the kitchen.

“Oh my God! What a morning. I’ve got to get some tea and toast.” I put the kettle on and popped bread into the toaster. “Shirley’s dog ran away, and we still can’t find her.”

“Who’s Shirley?”

“My customer. Do you like tea or coffee.”

“I could really use a cup of coffee, thanks,” he answered appreciatively. “Did you look under the beds? That’s where my dog always hides.”

“We looked everywhere. Even all around the neighborhood. I’m worried. Shirley loves that dog so much.”

“I’ll bet you find her.” He put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. “It’ll be okay.”

“Coffee’s ready. Cream and sugar is right here if you like that. I have to make something for Jessica for brunch. Poor baby hasn’t had anything to eat with all of the excitement. You can join us if you like,” I said.

“I’m in. What are we making?”

“I don’t have too much time, cause I have a four o’clock appointment, but we can mix up a fruit salad and some pancakes.” He stepped right up and was happy to help. Jessica was a perfect angel, finished her brunch, and played cowboy on her rocking horse in the family room. Scott brought dirty dishes to the sink, then played cowboy with Jessica while I finished washing the dishes. I joined them to watch Jessica’s budding equestrienne talents.

We talked for a long time, about ourselves, our families, and our love for music, art, and food. I did not mention my visit to the City Jail. We talked about where we had traveled and where we wanted to go. His sense of humor inspired mine, and we made each other laugh. We kissed and we laughed and talked until Jessica began to bombard her horse with the cushions from the sofa, so Scott picked her up and we kissed her too.

I loved to see him laugh. In fact, I discovered that I loved everything about him: his looks, his body language, and the sound of his voice, his intelligence, and quick wit. I should allow myself to fall for him, body, mind, and soul. He was my friend and my lover. Only moments after he left, I thought of something I wanted to tell him the next time we were together.

II

It was time to meet with Frank. I took a pot of tea and croissants to the studio for him and straightened the room a bit, lit candles and burned incense as usual, began to play Celtic meditation music, and collected my thoughts. He was punctual, as I knew he would be, and followed me obediently to the studio. He looked better than the last time I saw him, wearing a bright white golf shirt and khaki pants. His hair was combed neatly, and he had a little color in his cheeks, but I sensed his anxiety and wondered if he could sense mine.

“How are the pups doing?” he asked as I poured cups of jasmine tea.

“They’re incredible. They all have little personalities already. One little girl keeps getting pushed away by the others, so we watch her to make sure that she gets enough milk.”

“Those puppies were the cutest newborn puppies I’ve ever seen.”

“No way. And you breed Chihuahuas, so I know you’ve seen lots of puppies.” It was just a little banter.

“No, I mean it. They are exceptional. The mother’s a poodle, but what was the father?”

“I don’t know. Foofie was never outside alone. We take her to the park, but she’s always on a leash. I can’t figure it out.”

“They’re so cute.” I saw kindness that I didn’t want to see behind Frank the Hammer’s, shadowy eyes. “They’re so little, their bodies look Chihuahua. I’ll bet the father is a Chihuaua. Chihuadools! Poodlehuauas! They’re so precious,” he chuckled.

Chihuadools? Poodlehuauas? Precious? A chill ran down my spine. “Well, let’s get to work Frank,” I said, getting down to business.

“Let’s do it. I’m ready.” He put his teacup on the saucer and sat back in the chair with his feet square on the ground and his hands on his knees. “Oh. Wait a second. I have your money.” He shifted his weight to one large hip and pulled out his wallet. He counted out ten one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them to me. I put them in my pocket.

“Thanks, Frank.”

We meditated together, although I must say that my heart wasn’t in it. I had to deliver the message that would put this strong, domineering, influential man on notice that his life was in shambles. Decades of hypocrisy and immorality had caught up to him. I studied him as he meditated with his eyes closed. His aura was not bright. The pallor of a man about to be hanged had befallen him. I must proceed.

“Frank?” I asked suddenly. His eyes popped open.

“Yes?”

“You were sent to me for a reason,” I said ominously.

“I’m glad I found you.”

“Frank, you have lots of personal work to do. You’ve made a lot of mistakes.”

“When you were meditating, did you find out why I am being blackmailed?”

“Yes, I am certain that I know.”

“Why?”

“I told you before—to make you a better man. Everything happens for the good. You will come out of this like a new man.”

“I don’t get it.”

“There are universal laws that you have broken, and you must accept responsibility and change your life.”

“What are you talking about? Tell me, what did I do?” He sat forward.

“I won’t be specific, but universal law tells us that all of our actions, good and bad, are returned to us. We reap tenfold what we sow. Life is like an ocean. All things ebb and flow, touch and respond. One can accomplish much more with good than with evil, and we are responsible for knowing the difference.”

“Barbara, do you know what I do for a living? What I have done for thirty years?”

“Sure, Frank, you’re a judge. I saw you on Larry King.”

“For twenty years before I became a Federal court judge, I sat on the bench as a criminal court prosecuter for the Ninth District of the State of California. I listened to the pleas of madmen and to the cries of their victims. I saw the worst of men and sent those devils to death row or life imprisonment in San Quinton, the toughest prison in the United States, where inmates throw their own excrement at the guards when they bring food to their cells. Every day I look over my shoulder and wonder if this is the day that one of the thousands of threats against me is carried out by some crack head street gang member, or by one of the prisoners himself who by some legal loophole is back on the streets. I haven’t been working with Eagle scouts. I’ve been protecting you, Sister Barbara, so you can sit up here safely in your prissy yoga outfit and ‘teach me about life’.”

“You have lost your way and justifiably so. You have fallen off balance, but you can be healed if you would just—”

He interrupted. “I have given my life as a servant to the people of the State of California. I am a victim of the criminal who is blackmailing me. That’s the only reason I’m here.”

“Please listen to me. The blackmailer is gone. That person will never harm you. You were brought to me because you are suffering great pain, Frank, and if you will listen, you can find peace.”

But he chose not to hear me. He was not an advanced soul. He would not evolve. No words of mine could communicate the foreboding darkness that surrounded him or alter his vile vision of mankind and its manifestation living within him. Poor Frank was on a collision course with Providence, and there was nothing I could do about it.

We finished our session, and were still talking as I walked him to his car. I suggested some books for him to read and that he eat right and get some exercise. He buckled his seat belt and started the car. He thanked me shallowly, gave a little wave, and backed down the driveway. I waved back as I watched him leave. I heard a sudden sickening thunk and a yelp and a screech. Frank threw the car into park, flung the door open, jumped out, and ran around the back of the car. We looked under the right rear tire. It looked like a tiny fuzzy bloody smashed stuffed toy. When Frank saw it, he screamed, horrified, “That’s Precious!”

“That’s disgusting!” I cried and quickly threw my sweater over what remained of the dog. There on the pavement, on my driveway, that moment, Precious Winters departed this dimension.

III

Here, I am inclined to conclude my story, for even I myself find it difficult to believe what happened in the end. However, since you were concerned enough to read this far, I feel a responsibility and a certain comfort as with a loyal friend. I must go on to tell the rest. You may judge for yourself its credibility and my sanity.

Frank and I were still standing over Precious’ mangled corpse when Lupe came running toward us. “Qué pasó? Qué pasó?” she yelled, her eyes fixed on the tiny, still lump beneath my sweater.

“A little dog es muerto. We must bury its body in the pet cemetery next to the parakeet, Dinky,” I choked.

Frank was paralyzed with horror, staring at the remains and gnawing the second knuckle of his right pointer finger.

“Come back into the house with me. Let’s talk a bit more.” I touched his arm, took him by the elbow, and eased him away from the scene of the horrible accident. He followed zombie-like to the studio. Once we were seated, I didn’t really know what to say or why I had asked him to return. I felt overwhelming accountability and an obligation to deliver some message of condolence and offer some sense of reason.

“I ran over a little dog. I think it was a Chihuahua. It looked like Precious!” cried Frank, shuddering, panting erratically, and holding his head in his hands.

“Let me meditate for a moment,” I said.

Remembering my first aid training from eighth-grade science, I recognized that Frank was in shock. “Are you cold?” I rubbed his shoulder and asked him gently. He nodded affirmatively. I took a blanket from the sofa and wrapped it around him. I thought and thought and finally said, “Frank, you have just experienced one of those times that we mortals can’t understand. It doesn’t seem fair. Why take that little dog? What did that little dog do wrong? Don’t blame yourself, Frank. Just don’t blame yourself. It was her time.”

Now I find it most problematic to describe the following occurrences since it all bewildered me, to say the least. Before I do so, I should establish that I was never prone to hallucination. I did not use prescription or recreational drugs or imbibe alcoholic beverages. I do not tell tall tales. I hereby put my exemplary (except for one incident of extortion) reputation at risk, to explain the inexplicable.

I began speaking to Frank slowly and soothingly and compassionately. I placed my hands over Frank’s hands, which were clasped on the table between us. I opened my mouth and shaped my lips to speak, but words wouldn’t come. I heard a loud sound like water rushing, and my ears popped. Then I heard nothing.

I tried again to speak. I knew what I wanted to say, but I became aphasic. Suddenly a presence entered the room. It was a force that overpowered me. I had just placed my hands over Frank’s hands. I was conscious that I was sitting forward in the chair. In a nanosecond I knew precisely what I looked like, because I was not in my body. That’s right. My soul or essence, my conscious self, was simply not contained in its vessel, but instead floated directly above, watching. Although detached from my physical form, I didn’t feel threatened. I was quite comfortable, not like Linda Blair and Captain Howdy. I was happy, safe, and suspended above, curiously witnessing the scene below. Ethereal. Yes, that describes it well. I was etherealized.

Furthermore, I felt totally exonerated from responsibility to Frank. I knew, telepathically, that whatever took over my body was competent to counsel Frank and would return my body in good condition. My sole soul obligation was to drift above and observe.

From above, I saw myself. My lips were moving but not matching the words I was trying to say, as if I were watching a foreign film. The entity that controlled my body had its own body language. It was masculine. My body sat with arms crossed, feet square on the floor, planted as if to ground the entity. The look in my eyes was not mine. They were my eyes in the physical sense, maintaining the same shape and color, but they emitted a sharp vibrating laser of light straight into the eyes of poor, shell-shocked Frank. A golden glow emanated and pulsated about my entire removed being.

This is probably just a dream, I thought, so I began to experiment and then to play. I pulled my arms in a butterfly stroke and moved forward. I gave another pull and another and was propelled with such speed that I closed my eyes and cringed, thinking that I would knock my head into the bookshelves. Instead I passed straight through them, and it didn’t hurt at all. I swam back and forth through the bookshelves, again and again. Then I experimented with a dog paddle stroke that swept me further upward until I was suddenly through the ceiling and the attic above the roof flying in the sky. Again, I felt no pain. I kicked my feet and spun my arms in a circular motion and somersaulted in the air, truly enjoying myself. While frolicking in the sky above, I suddenly heard my body’s voice thunder, and I swam quickly back into the studio to investigate. The deep, booming voice caused the floor and windows to vibrate. The sound of my body’s breathing was like the wind itself. When it exhaled, papers flew off the desk and the force propelled my spirit into the attic. When it inhaled, I was sucked back into the house just above my body and Frank. I held on to the chandelier, although it swung violently.

“Frank? Frank Sullivan? Son of Edith Slutkowski and Frank Sullivan Senior?” my body roared. The words coordinated with the lips this time.

Frank retracted further into the chair and literally shriveled and shrank. He became smaller and smaller. His head and body dwindled slowly, and his flesh began to wither until he was the size of a newborn baby, like a tiny apple doll in a fetal position on the chair.

“Stop sniveling and look at me. Let me look at this disgusting creature on his day of revelation! Hold your head up! Look into my eyes, Frank!” the voice emanating from my corporeal body thundered. The voice was deafening, deep, and masculine. It caused the house to rattle so violently that I lost my grasp on the chandelier and was thrust back through the roof by the velocity of the sound. I composed myself, swam through the roof again, and regained my position.

“You can no longer escape the consequences of your work against me! Take a long, intense examination of your life now. Free yourself from the imprisonment of debauchery and selfishness and from eternal condemnation in hell!”

Frank pulled his skeleton arms away from shielding his infantile skull, crept deeper into the chair, pulled himself into a half-sitting position, and faced the Messenger. His lips quivered, his body trembled spastically, and he sputtered in a tiny voice, “Yes, sir. I will do whatever you want me to do.”

“You must correct your prejudice against those who appear before you in your court.”

“What have I done?” he asked in a teeny, tiny voice.

“You believe all men are guilty, Frank. You have sentenced innocent men harshly, and if not for my intervention, you would punish more.”

“I’m sorry,” stammered itsy bitsy Frank.

“And you must end the tumult in your home. Frank, brace yourself and prepare to hear what I have traveled through time and space to say.”

“Whatever it is. I am ready.” His wee teeth chattered.

“Frank, son of Frank, son of Fernak, son of Henry, son of Henry?”

“Yes?”

“Your wife has been the mistress of the President of The United States.”

“Esther?” He asked in his teensy-weensy voice.

“Yes. Esther, your wife.”

“With the President?”

“That is what I said.”

“Why?”

“Satan has diverted the President’s attentions to undermine his work, impacting everything from national security to the economy and world ecology.”

“What am I to do with my unfaithful wife?” he asked, a little bolder.

“You must exorcise the demons that possess her.”

“Huh?”

“Just before midnight on this night, you must pretend that you have fallen asleep. Then, at the appointed time, you must exorcise the demons.”

“How?”

“At the exact stroke of midnight you must whisper the word ‘Chief’ three times, and her body will be cleansed from the devil.”

“Chief? Why Chief?”

“Because that is her nickname for the First Executive Officer, the President of the United States, the Commander in Chief.”

“Oh.”

“But do not be angered. One night she drank wine and became drunk and was possessed by a minor spirit from ancient Mesopotamia.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You won’t understand, Frank! You are a very lowly soul. Just do what I say!”

“Alright. I’ll trust you. I’ll do everything you say. Is there anything else?”

“Yes, there is more. You will never see Shirley again. I will not allow it. From this day you will practice justice and fair play and your life will be devoted to the poor, the defenseless, and to the innocents, reversing your bigotry, bias and scapegoat decisions that have ruined lives for thirty years.”

“But—” Frank whimpered.

“It is said. It is finished. Do what has been commanded.”

Frank regained his posture. He slowly recaptured color and flesh. His limbs extended and his body inflated slowly. Finally, his legs reached the floor and he exhaled deeply. Realizing he had returned to his normal state, Frank gathered himself up rapidly. He jumped up and pushed his chair away so hurriedly that it tipped over. Running for the door, he stopped and turned. “Thank you, Barbara. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

As the clamor of Frank descending the stairs diminished, I, still suspended above, was getting extremely anxious to return to my body. Just when I thought it was my turn for my body, I saw my physical self reach for the telephone, dial it, and recline backward in my chair. My body put its feet up on the table and smiled, ear-to-ear.

“What’s up my sleeve now?” I asked myself.

“Hello?” A woman answered the phone.

“Hello? Esther? Esther Sullivan? Daughter of Sarah and Edgar Weiner?” The Thing in my body said in my voice.

“Yes?” Esther answered as if she had just heard news of a win from Publisher’s Clearinghouse.

“You must see me immediately so that I may enlighten you and send you toward your correct path to Karma.”

“What? Who is this?”

“This is the voice of the intellect of a million souls. But, that matters not.”

“Are you trying to sell something?”

“I am calling to give you something. The truth about your husband, Frank.” Its voice was losing its human quality.

“My husband?”

“Frank, the one with the mole on his posterior!” It raised Its voice.

“Where are you?” Her voice trembled.

“686 Winding Lane in Beverly Hills.”

“I’m on the way.”

I saw myself return the receiver and rest back in my chair. I noticed that I have a smug, satisfied expression. My arms are folded across my chest. Just a little while longer. We are waiting for Esther, I was informed telepathically.

It stood and enjoyed the physical plane, stretching, then straightening, twisting and turning. Then It walked through the door leading to my small balcony, stepped outside, and gazed into the blue sky and the heavens. It breathed the fresh air deeply, seemingly lovingly, and searched the sky in reverent wonder for five minutes or so.

It returned to the room, sat, and folded our hands on our lap. It sat erect, closed our eyes, and extended our head backward toward the ceiling. It was praying! Moments later what I witnessed was miraculous and divine. The entire being became crystallized. It shone white, and then became prisms of light and color. I felt that it emanated the most exquisite dimensions of life—the essence of art, music, poetry and love. It was recharging—connecting with God.

Time and space lapsed until I became conscious that It had returned to my human form, and there was a woman sitting in the seat that had just been vacated by Frank.

The woman resembled Shirley physically, although not pathetically flamboyant like Shirley. She didn’t have bright pink cheeks or mink trimmed clothing. She had bright white skin, naturally rosy cheeks, and was older and heavier than Shirley, although of similar slight bone structure. Her face was full, round, and matronly, and she wore her hair in a short, dull reddish bob. Her dark, green, cotton dress seemed old, was loose, soft, simple and lovely. Her bare legs were sturdy, unlike Shirley’s birdie legs, and she wore brown Crocs. Her bright blue eyes were wide with fear, naïve, childish, yet they were experienced, complex. What were the secrets behind them?

Her grocery cart would contain meticulously chosen whole wheat bread, bran cereals, juice, fruits and vegetables, fish, and chicken. Perhaps she had been a schoolteacher or nurse before she married Frank. She was the type of woman who remembered everyone’s birthday, loved Christmas and weddings, would watch sunsets, feed ducks, take long walks, and pretend that everything was okay at home with the kids no matter what.

She leaned forward nervously and gripped the generic brown handbag that rested on her lap. With a deeply furrowed brow, she examined the room furtively and then directed her full attention to The Messenger.

She raised her hand to her mouth in an attempt to conceal her periodic involuntary gasps. I can only imagine her feelings, given the fact that she was speaking to a person looking like me with glowing eyes and a baritone voice who summoned her using knowledge of her husband’s butt mole.

“Why did you call me?” she asked.

“To speak about your husband.”

Esther flinched at the deep impressive voice and the omnipotent countenance, and shivered.

“The message will alter your life and elevate the world to which you are connected.”

“What are you?”

“I AM,” It bellowed.

“You are?”

“Yes.”

“You are what?” Esther’s voice was barely audible. Her back was pressed tightly against the back of the chair and her feet were planted firmly on the floor. Her forearms were likewise planted on the armrests, with her hands clamped around the armrest like one strapped in, about to be executed, and her expression coordinated.

“I am the Messenger of the universal truth and the universal law.”

“Oh,” Esther sputtered.

“I have traveled through time and space to bring a message from the Most High.” Esther gripped the chair even tighter. “Prepare yourself for what you are about to hear. It will require utmost human strength, but fear not. Through this tribulation you will survive and grow. It is the way!”

“And, it’s about Frank?”

“Yes.”

Her facial expression became that of an astronaut at mach four. “I am ready. What is the message?”

“Your husband is having a love affair with the President of the United States of America!”

“Oh my God!” She screamed at the top of her lungs, clutched her heart, and slid to a heap on the floor.

“Get up. You will not be weak. You will not!” The thunderous message seemed to have an electrical effect. Esther’s hair stood straight on end and the lights in the chandelier rattled, then dimmed, and became bright once more.

She picked herself up slowly and crawled back into the chair. She straightened her dress around her and attempted to fix her hair. The shoulder pads of her dress had popped out and were hanging by threads just above her breasts. Her body shook spastically as she lifted her head to meet the eyes of the Messenger.

Through thin blue, quivering lips, she said, “This must be a nightmare.”

“This is getting really good,” I thought. “They’re both doing it with the President. What about Shirley? No wonder God sent homeboy, but will I ever get my body back?

“You will not doubt this truth, for you will receive a sign.”

“What will the sign be?” She drew forward and listened intently.

“Tonight you shall go to bed at eleven-thirty. You will pretend to sleep, but you will pray. In your prayer you must ask for the sign and it will be given. As the clock strikes midnight, while you appear to sleep, he will call ‘Chief’, the name of his love, three times.”

“Chief?”

“Yes, Chief. This is his nickname for the Chief Executive Officer of the United States of America.”

Esther clasped one hand over her mouth and the other across her body, cradling her stomach. She rocked slowly, back and forth, and shook her head from side to side. “What should I do?” she wailed.

“You will follow your inner spirit and continue on the journey of your soul.”

I, hovering above, became immediately overcome by a strange, warm, tingling sensation. I spun around to check my pants, fearing that I had lost control of my bladder. I heard a low chord humming softly at first, growing louder and louder. Whirling lights appeared, followed by bright dots, like one would see instantly after having a picture taken with an extremely bright flash, like when I was in jail. I felt warmer yet, and more of the tingling sensation, somewhat like how I felt during my near death experience. I was really tiring of warm tingling sensations. Then I was suddenly cold. I felt as if I were being poured into a centrifuge, spun around, and then dumped out.

First I felt my legs filling with warmth, with blood and with light. Next, I became reunited with my arms, and then every part of my body until I heard a loud ‘pop’ and found myself seated at my desk with Esther wailing in the chair across from me.

“Hi,” I said, happy to hear my own voice again, and wondering where the body Bogart went.

Esther began retrieving the contents of her handbag but kept a watchful eye on me all the while. She collected everything that was dropped, returned to her chair and closed her purse. She studied me curiously and finally said, “You look different”.

“This evening has been quite draining.”

“Even your voice is different. And your eyes—why, they are—human.”

“I often become passionate about my work.”

“Yes, you sure are. So, I got the message.” She was becoming calmer. “I know what I’m supposed to do tonight. Is there anything else?”

What an act this was to follow. “I sense that you understood the intervention.”

“Yes.”

“So. Uh—well—what’s your sign?” I shot glances about the room, making sure It was gone.

“My sign?”

“Yes. You know. Pisces? Cancer? It depends on your birthday. I’m a Scorpio,” I offered warmly.

“Oh, yes, I know what you mean. I was born in January.” She appeared interested.

“That’s nice.”

“In Scotland,” she added. She looked at me expectantly. There was a prolonged silence. “And so?” she finally asked.

“I guess that just about does it. You can just go on home and get ready for tonight. Do whatever you normally do. Have dinner. Read the paper. Take a bath. Then let it all happen.”

“I will do that.” She rose and tucked the shoulder pads back into her dress. “I certainly thank you for this unusual afternoon. I know that you told me what you are, but I forgot to ask your name. The sign outside says, Sister Barbara. Are you ‘Sister Barbara’?”

“Yes, that’s me.” I stood and reached for her hand. We shook.

“Then, Sister Barbara, should I see you in the future so that we might discuss tonight’s outcome? This will be a trying time, and I would like to have your advice.”

“Oh, well—ummmm—I’m not accepting any new clients right now.”

“See her!” said a booming voice that Esther apparently couldn’t hear.

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?” I asked It telepathically.

“See her tomorrow!”

“Let me see if I can squeeze you in.” I turned the page and leafed through my appointment book. “I recommend first thing tomorrow morning. How about nine A.M.?”

“I’ll be here. Good by, now. Wish me luck.”

“You were promised strength tonight. You will overcome the turbulence and arise to a better life,” I answered, attempting to plagiarize Its style.

IV

She left me exhausted. I poured a glass of red wine and drew a hot bath. I added Dead Sea salts and my favorite oils of rose, jasmine, sandalwood, violets, osmanthus and Indonesian patchouli into the tub. As I lay soaking in the deep fragrant, soothing bath and sipped the wine, I slowly released the anxieties of the day. Nearly asleep, I inhaled the cleansing steam and exhaled the troubles.

My eyes fluttered open when I heard a songbird just outside the bathroom window. I looked through the window to the garden to see the little bird sitting in the ancient, enormous oak that I loved, the one tree that had survived being chopped down, probably because of its immense size. The tree cast its shadow to shade this house from hot summer suns, stood before this house to protect it from storms, and was witness to my life. The tree had a spirit. It was there long ago and would be there long after I died. It was something that I could depend on.

I inhaled the mist from the bath oils, slid deeper until just my face was above the whirling waters, and studied the natural beauty of the oak—its giant, rough grey-brown trunk and symmetrical spiral of strong lower branches. I thought about how my imagined children, unborn siblings of Jessica, would have played there.

I tried to burn the image in my mind, then wished that I could render the tree on a canvas so I could catch forever the sunbeams and the shadows on the deep rich bark and its colors of burnt umber and gold. And the grey squirrels at play and the cry of the jaybird and the fresh scent of clean fragrant moss and earth would somehow not be lost. On the ground under the tree between gnarled roots that were as large as some of the branches, I saw something new. It was the fresh grave of Precious.

I began to weep. My heart and soul cried, and I was consumed by fear. I felt guilty and terrified to face whatever punishment lay ahead as retribution for my recent sins. I pulled myself with great effort from the tub, and dripping and cold, wrapped up in my big old peach-colored terrycloth robe.

Anxiety continued to engulf me. My heart was pounding. I had difficulty swallowing and struggled to regain control of myself. I focused on breathing slowly and deeply. After a few cleansing breaths, I detected a familiar fragrance that pervaded the air. My mind immediately associated the sweet scent of gardenia with Cassandra, my mentor and friend. She would help me. I rushed to the telephone.

“Hello?” Cassandra answered on the second ring.

“Cassandra, this is Barbara. Did you send gardenias?”

“Schpatzee. I know what is happeningk. I haf seen ewrythingk. This is wonderful! You must come to my tent this eweningk.”

“What did you see? How did you?”

“I will tell you that when I see you. Come then. Be here at elewen fifteen, just before the time when Frank und his wife go to bedt, yah?”

“You know about that?”

“Yah. Yah, of course. I tell you when I see you.”

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

“Gudt bye until then.”

I tried to take a little nap, but it was impossible. I watched the minutes tick by. At one point, I considered calling Sharon, but decided against it. I knew how the conversation would go. She would answer after four rings, as always.

“Hello?”

“Hey! Hi! How was your birthday?”

“Oh, just another birthday. I got the blackmail money from the judge, went out with David for dinner and had a near-death experience. David is a skippin’ fruitarian, and we are finished. I won a dance contest at The Screamin’ O, but the bomb squad arrested Jessica and Lupe, so I bailed them out of the city jail, barely avoiding a full body cavity search because they thought I was a crack ho. Scott spent the night and left just in time before the judge that I blackmailed came over for a reading, and then he accidentally killed Shirley’s dog. I was possessed by the Messenger of the Most High who busted Frank and Shirley because they were having a three-way with the President of the United States. And now Frank’s wife is banging the Pres, too. Oh, and I cried about my tree. So what’s new with you?”

Deciding against calling Sharon, I crawled into bed and snuggled down under my softest, most comforting blanket to watch a little television. The phone rang, and I jumped to answer. I must have fallen asleep. I answered sleepily.

“I see you Schpatzee! Get outzen the bedt undt come ohwer!” Cassandra ordered.

I slammed the phone down, threw on a T-shirt and jeans, and hopped in the VW. I found a parking spot easily and hurried down the pier. At this hour of the night, most of the people were leaving. The ocean water lapped lovingly about the pier, and my heart raced while my tennis shoes picked up the pace. I broke into a dead run along the boardwalk. People stopped to look at me curiously. Had I forgotten my purse? Lost my child? I felt a mist of salt water on my face and smelled the fishing boats and the popcorn and hot dogs on the midway.

Cassandra’s tent came into view. I had been here over the years during times of despair, but tonight it looked different. An eerie glow surrounded it, creeping from beneath, and shimmering above. I slowed my pace, and paused momentarily as I approached. I caught my racing breath, wiped my nose, smoothed my hair, and entered.

Hundreds of white candles were burning and the flames cast fabulous dancing light and shadows around the tent. Cassandra rose from the table where she sat reading an over-sized, worn, black leather-bound book. She threw open her arms and greeted me.

“Ah! You are here!” She looked like an angel. Her magnificent hair, her golden red crown, fell about her shoulders. Her green eyes sparkled like stars borrowed from God. She wore a diaphanous, white gown that fluttered to the ground and billowed about. A luminescence surrounded her. I had never seen a more beautiful woman. We embraced, and kissed on both cheeks.

Then she turned and stooped to open a trunk on the floor. From the trunk she pulled a gown that resembled the one that she was wearing. “Hurry, Schpatzee! We haf wery little time for the inwocation. Put this on,” she exclaimed, while quickly, but carefully, extending the delicate gown over to me.

She returned to her table, usually used for Tarot card readings and covered with brightly colored silk cloth. Tonight it was covered with white starched linen and held two tall, stout, white pillar candles in ornate heavy brass holders, with a portrait of Christ on a gilded easel between them, an incense burner, a red cut crystal wine decanter, a large vase-shaped clear glass bottle, a crystal ball, and the great leather book.

“Go. Put on the dress,” she directed. Cassandra opened the book, faced the altar, and began a mantra. “Ama, Ama, Azarak, Ama, Ama, Zamilak, Ama, Ama, Cernunnos, Ama, Ama Aradia!” Obediently, I walked to the other room of the tent, and changed into the gown.

“Ramma Agni, send the Light to me. Ramma Agni, send the Light to me!” Cassandra chanted intensely as I folded my T-shirt and jeans neatly and placed them on a chair.

I returned to find Cassandra on the opposite end of the tent, standing barefoot with her back toward me, before a wall of burning white candles reaching from floor to ceiling. She threw her head back, and her hair blazed golden colors reflected in the candlelight. She swayed in a clockwise motion with her arms raised to the heavens, waving a wand with a long sparkling white crystal on its tip. Her energy field, the glow surrounding her, shimmered white-gold light.

Smoke from the incense smelled sweet and mysterious and lifted, curled, and swirled above Cassandra’s head, forming magical shapes in shades of purple, turquoise, green, and yellow that danced in the candlelight. I heard faraway musical refrains, reverberating in crystal fineness. The sound was so rich that I could almost touch it. A sublime harmony of the senses washed over me. I heard many voices join and begin to sing and fill the air with the sound of harps, flutes and other instruments that I was unable to identify. Cassandra and I were alone. I searched for mechanical sound equipment.

“Do you hear the music?” I questioned timidly.

She ignored me, and still facing the candles, she lowered her arms and clasped her hands as in prayer. “I ask for your blessingks, guidance, und grace, Holy Spirit, upon these inschtruments which I use in thy name.”

Busy at her work, Cassandra picked up the clear glass bottle. She moved in a circle along the inside perimeter of the tent, sprinkling the contents of the vessel as she walked. Then she dipped her fingers in the bottle and crossed herself, dipped her fingers again and passed the sign of the cross over me. The liquid was holy water.

“The music is really nice. Where is it coming from?”

“Salt und water, power to thee. No schpell nor unknown purpose be! In the name of the Father, the Son, und the Holy Ghost. God, Adonoy, protect us und keep us. Amen.”

“Cassandra, may I interrupt you for just a moment? I have a question about the choir and the musicians.” I lifted the white linen tablecloth and looked under. There was nothing there but a box of Christmas ornaments. I knew what was in the box because I had taken the Christmas tree down and placed the ornaments under that table.

She answered, “Loudenspeakers there are not. Spirits, yah, of the great musicians und their fine voices und they play to honor you.”

“Spirits? I am hearing sprits of musicians?”

“Yah.”

“In other words, the music is played by a band of dead people?” I asked incredulously.

“Yah, und playingk beautifully. I haf not heard such a performance since I was ordaindt. It is perfect. I am so happy with the attendance.”

“Attendance?” I peered through the heavy incense. A double row of empty steel folding chairs encircled us. Where did they come from?

“Yah. I vas worriedt when I first calledt them that many wouldn’t be with us tonight. Mr. Lennon was reincarnate early this morningk, und many of them are at that gig.”

“Gig?”

“Well, celebration, yah. Mozart is not here und of course Mr. Lennon couldt not attend. But there is Mr. Beethowen.” She pointed to a corner of the room where there was one of many empty armless chairs. “Mr. Van Beethowen, you know, did not care so much for the music of Mr. Lennon, anyway.”

“Ludwig Van Beethoven is sitting there in that chair right there?” I stammered.

“Yah. Und he should be. He is my eighth cousin.”

“Cassandra, I don’t know about all this.” Perhaps she was mad or suffered severe senile dementia.

“Yah, it’s true, and many other great musicians are here too! You will see soon. Musicians haf exalted spirits und they would not haf come here if they did not believe in you. I am so very proudt, daughter.”

“Thank you. Thank you all very much,” I said to the chairs, humoring poor old Cassandra.

“Yah. Gudt. Very gudt. Now we will continue the initiation.”

“What initiation?”

“Yours, Schpatzee. Now say, ‘naught I see, come to me’.”

“No. I don’t want to,” I whispered.

“Yes. It is the time. They must go soon.”

I attempted to leave, but Cassandra stepped on the train of my gown. She stood firmly, crossed her arms across her enormous bosom and insisted, “You must now receive the powers.”

“Cassandra, I really love you. You are like a mother to me. You know that. But I don’t think I can do as much as you think I can, and I don’t want the responsibility.”

“I know what it is that you think you know. You think I pooped my cork.”

“Popped your cork?”

“Yah.”

“Not at all,” I lied. Cork, or no cork, she was still psychic. “But, I think that there are probably lots of other people out there who would love to receive the powers.”

“But they are unacceptable.”

“And, this is just all too sudden. Let me go home and think about it for awhile.”

“No, now is the time for your initiation. You are the destined one. I love you, Daughter, but you must grow. You must be without me soon. You must accept your birthright. You are to reach others. Say the words, Daughter. Say them now. ‘Naught I see, reach out to me.’”

“What do you mean I will be without you? You told me once that you would never leave me.”

“I must leave you soon on the physical plane, but my spirit will be with you always. Say the words you must say, so that I may rest. My work is nearly ower. Say, ‘Naught I see, reach out to me.’” She held my hand, waved her other at the ceiling, and bowed her head. The invisible orchestra struck an inimitable ecclesiastical chord.

I closed my grip tightly on Cassandra’s, bowed my head, and blurted, “Naught I see, reach out to me!”

In the microsecond that followed a blinding flash of light, and crash of thunder shook the tent. It was so intensely bright and deafening that it rattled the pier beneath the tent and extinguished all of the candles. I was afraid, and I turned my head away, my knees became rubbery, and I almost fell, but Cassandra continued to hold my hand tightly.

I covered my eyes in trepidation. Cassandra held me through aftershocks until the tent became completely quiet and totally dark. I peeked through my fingers. A high chord was struck, ever so softly, and on each candlewick, a tiny blue glow appeared. The volume of the chord became stronger, and a slight blue spark emanated from the base of the candlewicks, which sputtered slowly into a strong, flickering, blue and yellow flame. The room filled with hazy clouds of violet, red, and yellow.

As soon as I could focus, I saw that the room was now filled with transparent misty people. Some were sitting. Others were standing in groups or alone. Some wore recently modern formal attire; while others wore clothing from eras past, and others were dressed in white robes or dresses similar to Cassandra’s. “Cassandra, I can see them! I can see them!” I shouted excitedly.

The apparitions were playing instruments and singing. The music reached a crescendo. Then they put their instruments down and spoke in inaudible murmurs amongst themselves.

“There’s Ludwig Van Beethoven! He is right there!” I shouted, pointing at a ghost wearing a black tuxedo with tails, white shirt and red bow tie. “Who is he talking with?”

“Schtevie Ray Vaughan is the other guy. Yah, Schpatzee, they are all here for you today.”

“Elvis! Elvis! Cassandra, there he is!” Just as suddenly as they appeared they were becoming faint, and difficult to recognize, but I saw Bing Crosby, Mamma Cass, and Rosemary Clooney walking off together. And Sinatra and Nat King Cole! Joan Baez blew me a kiss. They all left the tent, disappearing down Santa Monica Pier.

“Don’t go! Elvis! Frank! Ludwig! Please! Encore! Please!” They became more faint and more, as I struggled to see them. Irving Berlin and Maria Callas heard my call, stopped for a moment and waved before they evaporated. Dean Martin was last to be seen. He took a puff from his cigarette, and held a martini glass, as if to give a toast, gave me a wink and a smile, and faded away.

“Thank you! Thank you for coming!” I cried into the night from the flap of the tent. The humans waiting in line for the Ferris wheel gawked.

Cassandra began to recite what I instinctively recognized as the benediction. “Gentle Goddess, powerful God, we are your children now und always. Your voice, Great Mother, und yours, Great Father speak within us, as they do in all creatures. Here at your altar, which stands between the worldt of men und the realm of the Almighty, do we open the door to our hearts for your blessingks.”

She turned to me and she said, “Congratulations, Schpatzee. You are now an Angel on Earth.”

“Cassandra. I am without words. I am so sorry that I didn’t believe you.”

“That is natural. We are all afraidt to be born und afraidt to die. The few of us who are calledt to rebirth are always afraidt also.”

“I wanted to hear them play again. Cassandra, it was such a short time that I could listen to the music after I understood what was happening.”

“Schpatzee, one day you will find your Schpatzee, und you will know. Und someday you will know that it is the time to call them to play for her. Und you will hear them play again at my funeral.” I was speechless. I had purpose.

V

“But now, we must hurry. Now, you may see the work that you haf done.”

She pulled me toward the linen-draped table to the crystal ball. We sat together and leaned forward to peer inside. “That which was orderedt by Godt has been accomplished. Just watch.”

Shadows and lights swirled and glimmered inside the crystal ball.

“The hard work is ohwer und it is time for our fun.”

I gazed deeply within the glittering ball until the darkness dispersed completely to reveal Frank and Esther in bed with their backs to each other about a foot apart. Cassandra and I exchanged glances.

At first Frank and Esther appeared to be sleeping, but on further assessment, I observed that they were peeking. Thankfully, they were dressed in clean conservative pajamas without exposed skin. This crystal ball also had sound and Frank began making rhythmic, deep-breathing noises which Esther mimicked. They were really going at it, breathing in, breathing out rather exaggeratedly. A grandfather clock chimed midnight—the witching hour.

“Chief! Chief! Chief!” exclaimed Frank.

Esther bolted straight up into a sitting position and let out a deafening scream. Frank screamed like a little girl and jumped out of bed. They looked at one another, aghast. At that we lost our picture. Cassandra and I laughed and laughed, a sidesplitting, glorious, healing victorious laugh.

“Perfect!” Cassandra cried with glee and clapped her hands.

“What now?” I asked.

“Most of this work is finished, Schpatzee. You haf a little more work tomorrow, but then, this job is finished, und you will be calledt upon. I am so happy for you, so pleased with you, but go now und rest for tomorrow.”

I changed my clothes quickly and returned to ask, “Cassandra, what was all that about your work being over?”

“Oh nothingk to worry about.”

“No, I am worried. It sounded very serious to me. What were you talking about?”

“It is time for me to retire. That is all. I go to Florida in March to be with my mother.”

“To be with your mother? I thought you meant–“

“I know what you thought. I always know. But that is not correct. I go to my mother.” We talked as we walked to the door.

“Cassandra, you tricked me.”

“Yah, the Elders toldt me to.”

“Well, I’m glad. I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”

“You where born for this, und you know, now, I tell you always the truth. You haf lots more work aheadt too, Schpatzee, and it won’t be easy work, but you will do it well. You will get better and better and you will be okay.”

“I lived through the worst day of my life. Now I can do anything,” I said.

“Yes, you will” she answered. We hugged for a long time.

She stood at the door of the tent, and watched me as I started down the pier. I stopped turned, and said, “How old is your mother?”

“Well, Mother was just one hundredt und one this month.” She nodded. “Yah. Getting oldt!”

PART SIX

THE RESURRECTION

I

I returned home to discover that the Japanese had destroyed the garage while I was away. Mr. Yabu was loading up his truck with used brick.

“Hi, Mr. Y, how’s it goin’?” I asked, cheerily.

“Long, hard day today, missus.”

“I can see that. Gee, I think you put in twelve hours today. Why are you working all by yourself?”

“My son got hurt today.”

“Your son works with you? I didn’t know that.”

“When he’s home from college, he works for me.”

“How did he get hurt?”

“He hurt his back from carrying heavy bricks.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“There’s always water and sodas and stuff in the fridge. Help yourself, anytime.” The refrigerator that had been in the former garage was now sitting on the bare, concrete floor.

“Thank you, that’s very kind.”

“You’re welcome. Good night, Mr. Yabu. I hope your son gets better.” I walked into the house.

I found a note from Lupe by the telephone that Mr. Rick came over and ‘borrowed’ the television from my bedroom. I ran to check Jessica and was relieved to find her asleep sweetly in her crib, surrounded by scents of baby powder, lotion and peach shampoo, cuddling her beloved pink blanket, lying on her tummy and sucking her thumb. I knocked on Lupe’s door softly and found her safe and sound writing her weekly letter with its small check tucked inside to her mother in Mexico.

Exhausted, I retreated to my bathroom, washed my face, patted it dry, and opened my eyes to look in the mirror. My face! I had that look of freshness that was unique only to Cassandra. The wrinkles around my eyes were diminished. My eyes were brighter and wiser. I had regained my happiness. ‘An angel on Earth,’ she called me. Wow.

I pulled off my jeans, threw them on the floor and dropped into bed, and fell fast asleep in my T-shirt and panties. I slept deeply and dreamlessly and awoke hours later, hearing a knocking from far away. It was daylight, and the knocking seemed to be coming from my front door. The doorbell must be broken. I jumped out of bed, grabbed my jeans from the floor and stepped into them as I ran.

The great thing about sleeping in your clothes is that you’re already dressed when you get up. It also cuts down on laundry loads, which helps against global warming.

As I stumbled to the door, I remembered my appointment with Esther, and also remembered what Cassandra advised me that I had a ‘little’ work to do today. I rushed to answer the door: refreshed, confident, untouchable knowing that I now possessed magical powers and had already lived through the worst day of my life.

Esther was at the door. She held her fist ready to knock again. Standing on the porch next to her was Shirley, smiling radiantly, dressed in a turquoise green suit with a mink collar. Behind them was a woman that I had never seen before, who was sobbing as though her heart were broken. My first inclination was to slam the door, lock it and move to Canada, but I did the right thing. I faced the group on the porch.

“Good morning everybody,” I said.

“Good morning,” answered Esther and Shirley. Esther was wearing a warm-up suit under a rumpled rain jacket. Her expression was that of someone who had just been involved in a train wreck.

“It happened! Just as you said!” Esther cried, thankfully oblivious to the presence of others.

“Yes, I know.” I responded slowly, studying Shirley to determine whether the two women knew one another. Then I saw movement in Shirley’s arms.

Oh, my God, this could not be! It was impossible. This had to be a dream. Wearing a turquoise mink collared coat, and very much alive, Shirley held the previously deceased Chihuahua dog, Precious.

Shirley nuzzled her pet and exclaimed, “I found Precious crying on my doorstep at dawn this morning! Poor little doggy was shivering, soaking wet, and full of mud. I just couldn’t wait to tell you! I know how worried you were,” she said.

“Oh, Shirley. Oh! I’m shocked—happy for you—ahh—” I muttered.

“I don’t know what I would have done without him. I can’t imagine why he ran off like that.”

I sized up the reincarnate canine. Him? He? Precious is a male? “Precious? Precious?” I called, hoping that this imposter would not respond. Instead, the little dog perked up its little ears and wriggled frenetically.

If this was Precious, then what is buried in the back yard? I asked myself. Or worse case, being the recently invocated one, what if by some sophomoric whim I had irresponsibly resurrected Precious, Dinky and all lost pets? I stepped onto the porch, and looked down the street, one way then the other. To my relief, I found that the block was not overrun with revived dogs, cats, hamsters, turtles, and hermit crabs.

The unknown woman standing behind Shirley and Esther blew her nose loudly into a shredded wad of tissues.

“May I help you?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Gasp. Snuff. Hiccough.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m Elizabeth Bozwell. I’m sorry to bother you, but I live in the house on the corner.” She indicated the place by pointing. “My little Chihuahua is missing,” she choked, “and one of the neighbor kids said that there was an accident in your driveway last night.”

“Yes. There was.”

“I think it might have been Napoleon.”

“Napoleon?”

“My Nappie!” she sobbed.

This was just too bizarre. I couldn’t believe my eyes or ears. I felt a little dizzy. The group standing on the porch began to spin around. I felt faint and nauseous. I steadied myself by holding the porch rail, and slowly lowered myself to sit on the top stair. I put my forehead on my knees. “Excuse me a second, please.”

“Where is the dog that was killed?” asked Elizabeth.

I couldn’t lift my head, just rested it on my knees. What had I done now? I tortured myself. I had stolen the body of a dog that I didn’t even know. “Go ahead and faint,” said the little voice from far away. “You deserve it.”

But I didn’t have time to faint. I heard some commotion in the street, car and truck doors slamming, and people talking. I picked my head up slowly to see Mr. Yabu and his crew approaching.

“Excuse. Excuse, please. Porch going today,” instructed Mr. Yabu.

“Have you identified the body?” Elizabeth pressed further.

I dragged myself up, hand over hand by the porch rail, steadied myself, and approached Mr. Yabu.

“Mr. Yabu, I am glad to see you,” I said.

“I am here for the porch.”

“You can have the porch, but would you do me a favor?”

“Favor? What favor?”

“Do you have your shovel?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Would you please bring the shovel to the backyard?” I asked. He nodded affirmatively.

I turned to Elizabeth Bozwell and said, “I thought that the dog that was killed was Precious. See, that dog.” I indicated, pointing to the dog in Shirley’s arms. Elizabeth noticed Precious for the first time. “We buried the dead Chihuahua in the back yard.” With that information, the woman wailed with fresh fervor. I led the somber group to the new grave, beneath the old oak tree next to Dinky. Mr. Yabu followed with the shovel.

“Dig here, please,” I directed Mr. Yabu to the fresh pet resting place. Elizabeth howled, and tears welled in the eyes of Shirley and Esther.

“I’m sorry,” Shirley said. Esther said the same to Elizabeth and they all held one another. Only five minutes and ten scoops of dirt later, Mr. Yabu exhumed the dog. He opened the crude wooden box and pulled away the burial cloth. It smelled really bad.

“Napoleon is dead! Oh God no! He is gone!” Elizabeth screamed and collapsed.

“Nooooo!” Esther fell to the ground, wrapped her arms around Elizabeth, and rocked her like a baby.

“I think I have found an arrowhead,” exclaimed Mr. Yabu, examining it, holding it between his thumb and forefinger and rubbing dirt away.

“That’s very sad,” Shirley said to me, as Precious and she nuzzled and made their way back to her car.

Elizabeth and Esther continued to hold each other and followed Mr. Yabu, who acted as pallbearer, and carried Napoleon’s body to Elizabeth’s car. He placed the little coffin into her trunk. “Very sorry,” Mr. Yabu soothed, as he walked away. Elizabeth, Esther and I embraced. Shirley placed Precious in the back seat of her car, and joined us. We nearly sang Kum Ba Yah, my Lord. Mr. Yabu threw his shovel into the bed of his truck.

“Who was that fascinating man?” asked Shirley.

“Yes, who was that?” asked Esther.

“He was so gentle, and so masculine,” said Elizabeth.

“That man?” I said, and pointed to Mr. Yabu as he loaded his tools into his truck.

“Yes, that one,” Shirley nodded.

“That’s Mr. Yabu.”

“Ahhhhh,” they said.

I followed Shirley to her car and we said our good-byes. Precious stood on its hind legs in the back seat with its paws against the window as the car backed down the driveway. I glimpsed a Precious penis. Shirley stopped, rolled down her window, and said, “That was a man, right there, that Mr. Yabu.”

“He’s a hard worker,” I nodded.

“I would love to build a hot tub in my home. Would you ask him to call me?”

“Sure. I’ll ask him. He’s reliable. Oh, Shirley, by the way–I heard you call Precious ‘him’. Precious is a male?”

“Yes. He’s a male.”

“Has he been fixed?” I asked.

“No. He’s not. I thought I might breed him? Why?”

“Oh, just curious.” I remembered Frank’s comment about Foofie’s puppies. Poohuahuas, was it? Chihuadoodles? I’ll worry about that tomorrow. “Glad you have him safe and sound.” Shirley blew a kiss, waved and drove off.

Elizabeth, still in tears, also drove away.

Esther was standing at her car, door open and waved for me to come over to her.

“About last night,” Esther said. “It is over between Frank and me. I must go on with my life.”

“Yes. You are exactly right. Do you want to come in and talk?”

“Really, Barbara, I am exhausted. Can we make it another day?”

“I understand. Just call me.”

“I will. Tell me about that Mr. Yabu.”

“Yes?”

“I like him. Would you please give him my number? My hot tub has a leak.”

“Sure, Esther.” Her face looked old in the morning sun, but her eyes dazzled blue.

Mr. Yabu headed quickly in my direction, taking the greatest strides possible for a man who is five-foot-four in stature.

“So, you are here for the porch?” I asked him.

“No.” I will not take porch. I just find out. Mister Barett checks bounce again. I work no more for Mr. Barett. But, excuse me, I must know, who were your friends, those beautiful women?”

“What beautiful women?”

“The one in the raincoat, and the one with the dog like the dead dog.”

“You must be talking about Shirley and Esther.”

“Shirley and Esther. Ahhhhhhh.”

“I will give you their telephone numbers. They said that they would like you to do hot tub work for them.”

“Please give me the numbers today, because I cannot work here tomorrow, or ever again. Mr. Barett cheat me.”

“Sure, call me later this afternoon, and I’ll give them to you.” Mr. Yabu hopped into his truck and drove away.

II

There was no time to deliberate the meaning and consequence of what transpired. I heard the sound of a powerful engine coming down the road, and saw a large red heavily-chromed motorcycle pull into the driveway.

David Horowitz dropped the kickstand with the heel of his black boot and dismounted. He pulled his helmet off, straightened his black leather jacket and stepped backward to examine his bike. He walked around and around. He breathed on the rear view mirror, and polished it with a cloth that he pulled from his pocket, and then examined his teeth. He polished the body of the bike, walked around again, found a spot on the spoke and was working on that when he noticed me.

“Hello there!” he exclaimed.

“Hi. What’s that?” I pointed at the motorcycle.

“That. Well that’s my new hog, Baby. And I have you to thank.” He smiled widely, strode toward me, picked me up and hugged me.

He put me down, held me at arms length, and exalted, “You have changed my life, beautiful, wise woman.”

This was not the David that I knew. He wore jeans, a tight white T-shirt, and a diamond in his left ear.

“I’m growing my hair for you until it’s long enough for a ponytail. What do you think?”

“You look really happy, but, David—” Had he become possessed?

“When you almost died on your birthday, I realized how much you mean to me. Then I thought about things you said, and I saw myself, and I didn’t like what I saw.”

“I only said that I would like a Sprite.”

“No, before that—the day that you asked if I would ever wear an earring just for you. It was a metaphor. I was a geek, Barbara. I was stagnant and I didn’t enjoy my life.” He took a deep breath. “I left dentistry,” he said, stoically.

“David, how could you leave all of your patients and your hard work? You love dentistry.”

“Because there are more important things. People in the world have unclean drinking water. Millions have HIV. I’m leaving for Africa tomorrow.”

“And you are doing this because of me?”

“Yes.”

“God bless you.”

“And you.”

“There’s something else.”

“What?”

“When I come back, will you go out to dinner with me? I like hamburgers.”

I hugged his strong neck and kissed his handsome face. He revved up his bike, mounted it and disappeared down the street. And he did look good. Mmmmmm mmmmmm mmmmmm. Just as I turned to walk back to the house, a car drove into the driveway. The late morning sun was bright and blinding, making it impossible to identify the visitor.

I squinted in the glaring sun as a man got out of a car that I didn’t recognize, a green Volvo. It was Scott, wearing a dark suit, white starched shirt, and red silk tie. His hair was cut short, and his earring was gone. He wore dark socks and shoes that tied. “Well, look at you. Where’s your briefcase?”

“It’s in the back seat.” He pulled me close to him and held me tightly and we kissed briefly on the lips.

“How do you like the car?” he asked.

“Beautiful. Sturdy car. What’s going on? Why the suit?”

“Well, Baby, just wait until you hear this!”

“Tell me. What is it?”

“My life has changed overnight.”

“What happened?”

“The other night I was working at the club, and it was a slow night. Everybody was watching the football game, I guess, so the club was empty.”

“You coulda called me.”

“So, the band and I are playing to nobody, practicing, and hanging out. You know?”

I nodded.

“Then this guy walks in and sits at one of the front tables. When the set was over, I didn’t have anything else to do, so I walked over to this guy’s table and we started talking about nothing.”

“Ummhmmmm.”

“He told me that he was a day trader, and that he has made a fortune. He was a young guy, maybe twenty-five or so, and said that he lives in Dubai and summers in Bali.” Scott flipped his hair around the way he used to, but now it was short and didn’t flip.

“Not bad.”

“He said that it was his first trip to the U.S. to check out a few American companies, so I happened to mention that somebody I know just invested in Galaxy Electronics. I thought nothing of it and went back on to do another set.”

“Go on.”

“The owner of the club told me later that I had been talking to Prince Fasil Abdul somebody and I thought, wow, Prince and everything, but there are a lot of princes over there and I just forgot about it.” Scott waved his hand in the air, and I noticed the rubber bracelet he used to wear for the troops was gone.

“Yeah?”

“Well, the next morning, the Prince bought Galaxy Electronics. The stock went up ten points. He figures he made twenty five million dollars over night, and came back and offered me a job!”

“Whew. That’s pretty fast.”

“Damn right about that, and there’s more.”

“What?”

“You are looking at the assistant administrative officer of Galaxy, who reports all activities directly to the Prince.”

“That’s really weird.”

Weird? No, that’s great. How do you like my suit?” he asked.

“Nice. It looks good. What about your music?”

“Speaking of weird, though, do you know what’s weird?”

“No.”

“When I met the Prince, he was wearing a dark suit, custom shirt, big cufflinks, nice tie. You get the picture.”

“Umhmm.”

“And sunglasses. It was dark, but he had on sunglasses.”

“That’s not so weird, I heard Arabs do that so you can’t read their eyes.”

“No, I haven’t gotten to the weird part yet.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“When he came to the club the second time, he brought his lawyer and his accountant with him, and they were all wearing sport coats, white T-shirts, jeans and an earring.”

“I guess he liked your style.”

“It’s crazy, ‘cause I think he’s buying the club.”

“I didn’t know it was for sale.”

“Since I quit, the owner said it’s time for him to get out of the business.”

“So, you’re going to give up your art just like that?” I questioned, befuddled.

“Well, for awhile, I will.”

“I thought you and music were inseparable. It was your gift, and that you shared it with people to make them happy.”

“Don’t you understand what an opportunity this is?”

“I can’t understand how you could change like this. I loved you the way you were. I thought we had so much in common.”

“Barbara, I was living dreams, trying to hustle albums that never made a hit, but this opportunity is real.”

“That’s what I loved about you. If you abandon your art, then you were never the man that you professed to be.”

“My art will have to wait. This isn’t how I planned to say it, but it’s you that I want. There. Now you know. I love you and want to give you everything you deserve.”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“More than your art?”

“I love you more than anything else.”

“Then you have been a fraud.”

“A fraud? You’re calling me a fraud, Sister Barbara?”

The perfect appropriate saying popped into my head. “The true artist will let his wife starve, his children go barefoot, his mother drudge for her living at seventy, sooner than work at anything but his art.”

“George Shaw never met you, or my mother. So will you?”

“What?”

“Will you marry me?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I will not let you give up your music for me. Art is a jealous mistress. It would never work. I could never replace music in your life, as you could never replace art in mine.”

“There’s room for both. We can work it out. Are you saying no, or are you saying never?” He stepped closer and put his hand under my chin, and gently pulled my face upward toward his. I avoided his eyes. “You are more beautiful every day.”

“I’m saying no.”

“Then, that’s maybe.”

We looked square in the eye. “Tell me you love me,” he said.

“I loved who you were,” I whispered, and we kissed what I knew was goodbye.

He drove off as quickly as he had arrived and I stood there long after his car vanished. I turned and walked slowly down to my mailbox and found a few advertisements and some bills and picked up the newspaper from the grass where the boy had thrown it. I looked forward to resuming a normal life.

I saw a shiny red BMW convertible pull into Rick’s new driveway. The passengers were looking in my direction when they drove up. Rick stepped out of the car, walked around and opened the door for a woman. I recognized the very tall, blond woman that was Rick’s secretary while we were married. Although she could not speak a word of English, she was Miss Sweden, I remembered. They saw me see them and looked away.

Lupe opened the door when she saw me coming up the steps, and asked, “Would you like a glass of fresh iced tea?”

“Yes, please.” And I thought I would make an appointment at the salon this afternoon. My hair and nails hadn’t been done since Christmas. “Lupe, do you know that it will be Thanksgiving in a week?”

“Oh, sì. I can’t believe it is here already. And soon it will be Christmas!”

While driving to the Salon, my mind wandered from thinking about Thanksgiving, then Christmas soon after, where I might be and what I might be doing. I switched the radio on, and searched for my favorite channel, and realized happily that I no longer feared hearing old familiar songs. I reflected on the recent past. Shirley and Esther first came to mind. Were they destined throughout eternity to love the same man? And Frank? Would he live out his life imprisoned by the negative energies of the corrupt men he sentenced and penalized?

I wondered about Scott and David, and whether they would find themselves.

And me, Sister Barbara? I loved a man, my husband, as much as one human could love another. That love died, and I survived with no regrets about an episode of my life that I would never wish to relive but would forever cherish. Will I find my destined love? Only the future would reveal. I had been reborn, understanding that deeper meanings lurk beyond the immediately visible.

I was in such deep thought, that I was startled to find myself already at the salon. There was a parking spot right in front, and I eased the Volkswagen in between a Lexus and a Mercedes, relieved from worry about possible door dings inflicted by the riffraff.

It was always a treat to visit Rick Chavez, the charismatic hairdresser to me and the rich and famous. It was fun to imagine just what personality I might meet. Just who would I meet today? One day Academy Award winner, Anna Leah Anchora was sitting next to me! There was a restaurant around the corner where housewives of Beverly Hills meet and greet, and I loved to go there sometimes after my hair was done.

People passed inside and out of the busy salon, and I scooted through the open door. The salon welcomed with mirrors, orchids, granite, and fine works of art, as well as photographs signed with love by celebrity patrons.

One person was in front of me at the reception desk. While waiting, I appreciated the beautiful floral arrangement on the desk. The large, white bouquet was contained in a heavy, cut crystal, red vase. The flowers were fresh, and although their fragrance was mingled with that of shampoos, conditioners and mudpacks, I recognized the overpowering sweet scent of gardenias.

A hairdresser greeted the customer ahead, and I became first in line. The cute receptionist said, “Well, hello, Mrs. Barett, we haven’t seen you in a long time.”

The man to my right paying his bill looked up, and a lady who passed by wearing aluminum foil in her hair, stopped. They recognized each other.

“Frank?”

“Shirley?”

And then they recognized me. “Sister Barbara?” Frank and Shirley cried in horrific unison. I made an about face and exited the shop at a dead run.

THE BEGINNING OF THE SEQUEL

In a matter of minutes Lupe and I transferred three small suitcases into the trunk of the Volkswagen, which unlike this page, is in the front. There was one last belonging that I could not abandon. We removed a few screws from the sign, my shingle, which had been in the front yard and lashed it to the roof of our old green car with multiple bungee cords. ‘Sister Barbara, Tarot reader and advisor,’ it announced to the sky.

Lupe and Jessica sat in the back seat and Foofie and the puppies rode shotgun in their cardboard box as I put the car into reverse.

When we got to the freeway Lupe handed out turkey salad sandwiches from our Styrofoam cooler. We headed east. For the mountains and we were happy. And that is where I end my story for now.

SISTER BARBARA RETURNS

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