The Yoga Club

by Cooper Lawrence

  At that, Olivia made a noise that sounded like disappointment.

  “Is that your echo thing again?” asked CJ.

  “No,” Olivia replied. “That was intentional. I live over there.” She pointed to the house on the other side of the Thomsons’. “My father left it to me. I’ve lived there since I was seven.” She sighed. “Come to think of it, maybe I hate this block too.”

  “Well, the house is one I wouldn’t mind having. Let’s go see if we can peek into any of the rooms,” Coco said.

  Sharing her curiosity and daring, they deliberately—and as carefully as one must, dressed as they were—strode, ostrichlike, back up the lawn till they were near the back patio.

  Just then a light went on in the house, and like a pack of dogs suddenly hearing the can opener, the four went silent and peered through the window. They turned to look at one another, all sharing the same thought. Bailey was the first to speak it.

  “At this moment the right thing to do would be to turn around and go back to the party. But we are not going to be doing the right thing here, are we?” she whispered.

  CJ chimed in. “Oh, no way. If the interior is anything like the landscaping, I must see it, if only to say that I’ve seen something tackier than Graceland.”

  And there they were, four Sarah Palins sneaking past the obsessively groomed shrubbery of the mayor’s house to look through his window like common Peeping Toms. It was thrilling.

  But it wasn’t just the oversize, Rococo-framed painting of a manic-looking harlequin clown that shocked them. Amid all the nineteenth-century-style gilded furnishings, there was the mayor, frantically moving through the room like a thief, grabbing items and stuffing them in a large duffel-type bag. More astonishing, though, was that he wore what looked like a black studded latex straitjacket, black dress socks pulled to the knee, and ugly white BVD underwear. Around his neck hung what looked like a costume ball mask, but in leather. It was quite the ensemble.

  “Um, what is all that?” Olivia asked in a loud, frightened whisper.

  “Wow, he’s really committed to this Halloween thing! Had I known he was so much fun, maybe I would have voted for him,” CJ replied.

  “You suppose he’s friends with Zorro?” Bailey cracked, jerking her head back toward the party.

  “Wait!” Coco exclaimed in as hushed a yelp as she could muster. “Who’s that?”

  A young woman lay on the Napoleon-style sofa, seemingly passed out cold. She wore remnants of leather and latex gear similar to the mayor’s, though her wrists appeared to be bound by some kind of thick black tape. The mayor was freaking out, sweating profusely; he attempted some sort of rudimentary CPR move, looking like someone who’d only seen it done on television. The body remained limp. The mayor put his palms to his temples, then hurried out of the room.

  Shortly thereafter, he returned and stood next to the sofa, staring down at the woman, seemingly perplexed. Her body was motionless. Panicked, he disappeared into an antique trunk, frantically rummaging around in it. He finally emerged holding some lengths of rope in his sausagey fingers. The group stood frozen, attempting to peer closer without moving or making a sound. They watched as the mayor dragged the woman’s body from the couch onto the Persian rug. He was breathing heavily, sweating, red-faced, and appeared to have tears rolling down his face. Or perhaps it was just sweat. Even his hair was damp. He positioned the woman on the rug, then rolled her up in it, securing it tightly with the rope he’d found in the trunk.

  The four were frozen, speechless and horrified. If the busybody gods had been smiling on them at that moment, they could have just tiptoed away and pretended it was all just an awful, terrifying communal dream. But, alas, the godforsaken car alarm went off again.

  Totally incapable of self-restraint, Olivia released a high-pitched “Woo, woo, woo, woo!” jerking the mayor out of his nightmarish task in time to see the surreal specter of four faces of Sarah Palin frozen in horror at his window.

  Three

  8:30 Yoga

  The next morning Coco was jarred awake by the sound of the coffee grinder, which was fine with her for a change. She desperately needed a cup before yoga, especially after the nightmare of the prior evening—the one she’d been awake for—in addition to all those she’d had while asleep. She needed a jolt in order to sort the whole thing out.

  As she stared down her mascara-smeared face in the bathroom mirror, the cobwebs began to clear. The four Palins had, recovering from their paralysis of shock moments after Olivia’s outburst, turned together as if on one heel and sprinted back for the Thomsons’ property. Well, sprinted isn’t exactly the right word. Considering their skinny skirts and slutty stilettos, they’d more or less shuffle-trotted across the yard, as if rushing en masse to the toilet.

  Coco recalled thinking how impressively CJ managed to run in heels. The foursome stopped just out of view of the other party guests, caught their breath, and agreed to melt into the crowd and discreetly leave on their own, as inconspicuously as possible. Numbers were exchanged, and imprecise promises were made to meet soon. That was about all Coco could remember—and then, of course, there was the dread and sadness of realizing that she may have witnessed a horrific crime. Who was the woman on the sofa? Why did she have to die? Her poor mother, father…. significant other? Coco felt sick.

  Having removed the goo from her face, Coco splashed herself with ice-cold water, almost in penance. Okay, time for coffee. Seriously.

  Sam, her boyfriend—or really, common-law husband by now—was a total coffee snob. He was particular about most things but nothing more than coffee. Coffee in their house had to be made in a French press with freshly ground, fair-trade Counter Culture beans, which had to have been roasted that week. How he could know the difference between beans ground two days or two months ago Coco couldn’t fathom, but she had to agree that the stuff was phenomenal.

  It had taken her some time to get used to Sam’s predilections. The screech of the coffee grinder first thing in the morning had been particularly grating when they first moved in together—every time she heard it she jumped three feet out of bed. Their first fight, in fact, had stemmed from Coco’s solution to the problem. She’d had the audacity to buy preground beans in order to preserve her morning peace and quiet, but she quickly got her first lesson in Sam 101: “Don’t fuck with my coffee, Princess.” He’d meant the comment to be funny.

  Sam was sarcastic and jokey about everything, or nearly so. When Coco was angry, Sam laughed; if one of the dogs was sick, Sam made a joke; if she set the kitchen on fire (which she had, three times), Sam poked fun. Somehow, though, he had no sense of humor about his coffee. So, she learned to live with the grinder.

  Sam was painfully immature in many other ways too, but that childlike behavior was what endeared him to her. On their first “sleepover,” she awoke not only to the coffee grinder but also to chocolate chip pancakes on paper plates and SpongeBob on TV. It was adorable and felt thrilling, as if they were seven and their parents had left them alone for the weekend. Well, except for the sex part.

  Their courtship was quick. Really quick. But Sam had come along as if by magic when she’d finally given up on ever finding an ideal life partner. It didn’t take long after she met him before she realized she’d found one. So, there didn’t seem to be any point to a prolonged period of casual dating. Within two weeks of meeting, they were living together. If it didn’t work, she could easily move out, she reasoned. But she didn’t, and after all these years he was her one and only rock, a comforting aspect of their relationship that counterbalanced his lack of self-confidence, propensity for the blues, and the no-longer-charming aspects of his boyish immaturity.

  In fact, after being together nearly ten years, though they’d never actually made it official, they appeared to be the ideal couple, one of the few content partnerships they knew. It was the strength of the friendship that kept Sam from insisting on making it official despite his having a “five-year plan” that included ma
rriage, as if it were some sort of commodity. Sam’s father had died unexpectedly at the age of forty-five, which had left a twenty-something Sam with the conviction that his clock was running out. Consequently, he had a list of things he had to have done in order to feel he’d lived his life to the fullest. Marriage was definitely on the list, but he was enlightened enough to realize that the relationship, not the certificate, was the important part. Their shared view on big weddings was: what’s the point of celebrating something you haven’t actually accomplished? Let’s do it up big when we’ve made it twenty years. Secretly, Coco thought, he just didn’t want to spend all that money. About certain things he was a total tightwad. But the same went for Coco, and she had no fondness for being the embarrassing center of attention anyway.

  Their relationship was in many ways solid. Sam was always one step ahead, anticipating her every need. If it were pouring down rain, she would come home to find him holding a warm towel to dry her wet hair, a hot cup of tea at the ready. Even after a long day at work, Sam would lay out her pajamas and slippers. (He claimed he only brought the slippers because the dog hadn’t yet been properly trained to do it.)

  All the attentiveness, the wonderful best-buddiness of their relationship was amazing; it was the sort of thing she’d always dreamed about. But the thrill and the spark that one had with an exciting lover simply wasn’t there. In fact, the term lover wasn’t one Coco would be inclined to use for Sam. She liked the rush of adrenaline, the thrill of newness…. In fact, what was that she’d felt as she hurried home last night and quietly snuck up the stairs? She’d had a high she hadn’t experienced in years.

  As she brushed her teeth, Coco began thinking again about the night before. What the hell? Was that real? Stopping midstroke, she walked herself through the whole thing. No, it wasn’t a crazy dream. Nor some exaggeration brought on by too much booze. But what really? Had she witnessed a performance? Some bizarre fantasy? She’d heard about couples who staged abductions or worse for sexual thrills. The mayor was into some kind of kinky behavior—his outfit (for lack of a better term) made that clear. But this was a bit beyond. So was this some kind of crime? Accident? He did seem genuinely distressed….

  Coco finished brushing her teeth and went into the bedroom to dress for yoga. The dogs—who’d come racing up the stairs to greet her when they heard the bathroom faucet—followed her anxiously, wondering if they might be going somewhere exciting with her. But she was too distracted to notice. Should she tell Sam? If it were indeed nothing, what would be the harm in telling him the whole wacky story? Then they could laugh at the absurdity of it all. However, if she had indeed seen what she most dreaded, then she would be putting him in a difficult position by telling him. What if she were liable for not reporting a crime? Or, worse, what if the mayor decided he needed to silence anyone who knew anything? Better to keep Sam in the dark until she was sure. Coco prayed it would turn out to be one of those things where you were certain you saw a UFO but then learned it was merely a weather balloon. Maybe what she saw was the mayor stuffing a big weather balloon into a sack. “Yes, that’s it,” she said to her reflection in the bedroom mirror. “A big, half-naked, dead weather balloon.”

  But still, it didn’t make sense that Coco wouldn’t tell Sam, her rock, what had happened. Her rock should know everything, right?

  Just then Sam yelled up from the kitchen, “Two eggs or one?”

  Usually he knew exactly what Coco wanted at any given moment, but she was wishy-washy about food, so he didn’t take a chance. Why waste an egg?

  “Don’t you remember? I have yoga!” she yelled back.

  Coco smiled at the thought that Sam was expected to know her entire schedule. Yoga meant just one egg. She headed downstairs.

  “Did you feed the pups?” she asked.

  “Yup,” Sam replied.

  Coco sat down to her one egg, assorted cheeses, and English muffin. She was not one of those yoga women who looked at a strawberry, sniffed some yogurt, and was full. She was an eater.

  “You got home late last night. I don’t even remember hearing you come in. What time was it?” Sam wondered.

  “After one. I thought I was going to sneak out by eleven, but Lois had to introduce me to everyone on the planet. You know how she can be,” Coco explained.

  “I’m so glad you let me sit that one out. What excuse did you give for me?”

  Coco joked, “I told them you were allergic to tedious and frivolous people in costume.” She actually hadn’t asked him because she preferred to handle business matters on her own. She neither felt a desperate need to have Sam with her at all times nor liked being viewed as half a couple. She was an independent businesswoman. Going solo reasserted her independence and strength, she thought.

  “Oh, good. I hope they understood. No, really. What’d you say?”

  “I said your back went out again. Rory has a guy he wants you to see. He made you an appointment.”

  “Aw, man, are you kidding me? So basically I’m screwed whether I go to these things or not. Next time I’ll go, since at least I’ll get free shrimp. Do I have to see Rory’s guy?”

  “I think you should. You do have back problems.”

  “Fine,” he said, then continued, “Why did you stay so late?”

  “Oh, it was so funny. Lois introduced me to three other people dressed like Sarah Palin. One was a guy, and he looked better than I could have hoped to,” she said.

  “So much for originality,” Sam scoffed and went back to reading the paper.

  “Yeah, but they were actually pretty cool and, it turns out, all in my eight thirty yoga class. I’m probably going to see them again this morning.”

  Coco finished her breakfast, scratched the pups, grabbed her mat, and prepared to head out.

  “Back after yoga,” she said as she kissed Sam good-bye.

  “Oh, wait!” He caught her. “Check this out. You and your Palin pals made the Greenwich Ledger. ”

  Coco gasped. She had forgotten about the photo. Right there on the front of the “On the Town” section were Sarah Palins One through Four. And a moose. Okay, but surely their names weren’t…. damn! Stupid slow-news town. Boldly and clearly written under the photo was the caption identifying them all, accurately, by name: “From left to right: Coco Guthrie, Charlton Jeffre Skoda, Bailey Warfield, and Olivia Barnes. Also known as Sarah Palin. Plus Moose.” Oh, no, no, no! Coco tried hard to conceal her panic. She began to realize what this information could mean for her if the mayor had seen the photo, especially if he’d done what they thought he did. But what were the chances he’d read the society page the morning after dumping a body? She was probably safe. Right? Too many variables. All of these thoughts went through her mind in a split second, but slowly enough to betray her uneasiness.

  “You okay?” Sam asked. With him, she couldn’t get away with anything.

  Coco scrambled to come up with an explanation as her stomach dropped through the floor at Mach speed. “No, no. I’m fine. I’m just shocked by how much weight I put on. You didn’t tell me I looked like John Goodman dressed as Sarah Palin. I really need to lay off those mochaccinos after yoga, huh?”

  Always use weight as an excuse, Coco thought. It’s the one area about which women can appear insecure and nobody questions them, particularly a smart boyfriend who knows to steer clear of such topics.

  Across town the mayor sat in the large mustard-colored wingback chair in his living room, the same one he had been sitting in since “the incident.” He had watched the sun rise and set from that chair many times before, but this morning was different. This morning he was worried. Really, really worried. He had no idea what the people at the window last night actually saw; he didn’t know who they were (though he assumed they were from the Thomsons’ party next door), what they knew, or what they would do. He was accustomed to worrying, but this was nauseating. Could these four Sarah Palins end his career? His life? Were these his last days as a free man? And then there was the incident
itself. It made him ill.

  These thoughts had run over and over in his head all night. Just as he wondered how to make this situation go away, or who to call, he heard the familiar sound of the morning paper hitting the front step. His paperboy was allowed up past the guard booth but not so close to the house that he could place the paper gently. Truth be told, the boy feared the mayor and was happy just to launch the day’s dispatch and be on his way. The mayor wasn’t ordinarily in a hurry to read the Greenwich Ledger, but something told him to today. His publicity whore of a neighbor would surely have had a photographer at his party. He turned to that cloying “On the Town” section—whereupon he immediately made a phone call.

  In the car, Coco let her imagination get the best of her. Would she end up like the woman rolled in the rug—if there truly were a woman in the rug? It could have been a Halloween prank. Couldn’t it have? What did CJ think? Was BlackBerry-gazing Bailey self-aware enough to realize she might be in danger? What must Olivia be thinking? Is she mimicking absolutely every sound she hears this morning? I sure as hell would be, thought Coco, and she even considered, for a moment, blurting out the sound of the car horn blaring behind her. It seemed in her pensive haze she had stopped at a green light.

  Frustrated that she couldn’t phone any of the people with whom she would soon be stuffed in the trunk of the mayor’s car, Coco sped to yoga as fast as she could. She needed answers.

  When she arrived, CJ was standing outside with Olivia, grilling her about something. Coco rushed toward them, clutching the Ledger.

  CJ saw her and kissed her on both cheeks, European style. “Oh, hey, hon, I’m getting the 411 on little miss thing here and why she was flirting with that hot guy last night.” He turned to Olivia. “Okay, so go on, dear.”