Walking Wisdom

by Gotham Chopra

  Even Tara was acutely aware of the relentless chatter coming from every media outlet. For her, Michael was not a supernova or family friend, nor the scandal-plagued enigma he had become for so many. He was Paris’s dad. The nanny who cared for Michael’s children was a close friend of Mallika’s, and would bring the kids over to play. Michael’s daughter, Paris, in particular, was awe-inspiring to Tara. Her sweetness, respect toward elders, general grace, and softness were all qualities Tara emulated. Tara had met Michael only once, an unremarkable encounter from what I recall, if only because of her impatience to wiggle away from the adults so that she could follow Paris around the house. These days, she moped around the house, wondering to herself what would happen to Paris and her brothers. “She must be so sad that her papa is not there anymore. I bet she’s crying a lot. I’m really sad for her.”

  We all felt Michael’s loss deeply. There was a solemnity and sadness. And there was also rage. Papa, in particular, was convinced, even before the coroner’s report confirmed it, that Michael’s untimely death was the result of reckless physicians who both enabled and indulged his voracious appetite for prescription drugs. Combined with his own defiance of a medical establishment that in his mind was in bed with billion-dollar drug and insurance companies, Papa became a one-man wrecking crew in the media. For him, Michael’s tragic death became a flashpoint around which to raise awareness of doctors gone wild, in this case, of a physician armed literally with a license to kill. Not to mention the drug and insurance companies that were minting blood money off the whole sordid business.

  Papa in particular saw no reason to suppress any of this conversation around the dinner table. He regarded Tara specifically as supremely mature for her age. Mallika occasionally challenged his notions of Tara’s precociousness. She reminded us all that Tara was influenced subtly by a lot of what we talked about in ways that we might not even know.

  “She’s growing up too fast,” Mallika constantly lamented, but even she knew that there was no way to truly shield Tara from the darker realities that surrounded us. It wasn’t just Papa, who at least was trying to resurrect a phoenix of meaning from Michael’s tragic demise. The rumors and details surrounding his death were everywhere. Television, the radio, the Internet, and every single magazine were in coverage overdrive. Who was going to control Michael’s estate? Who was going to gain custody of the children? Where was he going to be buried? And increasingly, was his death just an elaborate hoax?

  The specter of death was palpable in the house. It wasn’t just about Michael. A nagging paranoia reigned every time the phone rang—would it be my mother with news that Nana’s condition had taken a turn for the worse?

  All this made its impression on Tara. While Leela and Krishu managed to carry on oblivious, hidden away in their playroom, where they alternatively played and feuded with each other, Tara’s disposition drifted. When sad or hurt, her tendency was to become easily distracted and aloof. Eventually this would transform into a surreptitious defiance, the target of which was most often her mother. Mallika managed this routine carefully. She’d been warned by her friends that she needed to play this process smart, for Tara was only seven years old at the time and together they were scoping out the rules and standards by which her teens would be enacted. Candice and I regularly watched this convoluted gamesmanship and found ourselves relieved we’d had a son. I for one was no good at emotional games, too often manipulated by not just Candice, but even Cleo.

  Still, despite Mallika’s measured response, Tara could still push her mother’s buttons, driving her patience over the edge. Sumant would attempt to come to the rescue and get slaughtered in the process. For anytime he came down on his dear daughter Tara with a modicum of discipline, she turned on the tears and all bets were off.

  This evening Mallika and Tara had just tussled about Tara’s sudden about-face at attending summer camp, which was to start the following morning. Months ago, Tara had insisted that she was committed to going to a local summer camp that some of her friends were veterans of. Knowing that Tara wasn’t a fan of a lot of the activities listed in the camp brochure—notably camping and sports—Mallika had pressed Tara if it was something she really wanted to do.

  “I have to do it!” Tara had pleaded at the time.

  In defense of Tara, “had to” was indeed not what Mallika may have interpreted it to be. It was neither “want to” nor “determined to.” It was likely a peer-pressure-induced obligation that Tara had assumed she needed to meet in order to keep pace with her friends. Just from occasionally covering for my sister and running Tara’s morning car pool, it was obvious to me that peer pressure was already a real stress in her life. Whatever the case—perhaps friends had changed or some other trend had trumped that expensive summer camp—Tara was not just uninterested in the camp, all of a sudden she had stomachaches and other ailments that made clear she had no intention of showing up the following morning.

  “If you make a commitment to doing something, then you should at least try it,” Mallika advised Tara as we all sat down for our meal.

  “You shouldn’t ever try and force me to do things, Mom,” Tara told her mother with an air of attitude. It was a warning that sent shivers through those of us who sat silently at the dinner table.

  “You shouldn’t ever try and threaten me,” Mallika replied.

  The message was sent.

  Tara knew she’d crossed the line. This combined with more death conversation had left its emotional mark on her. Her eyes filled with tears. Her little shoulders slumped. “No one understands me,” she announced. “Only Cleo. She’s the only person who really listens, the only one who knows who I am.”

  With that she retreated from the dining room to her bedroom, Cleo loyally by her side. “Dada.” Krishu turned to Papa, who sat just beside him. “Tara and Cleo crying.” To Krishu, Tara’s tears were Cleo’s tears and vice versa. “Tara want treat?” he proposed.

  “No, Krishu,” Papa advised him. “Tara’s sad, but Cleo will make her feel better.”

  It was true, I thought to myself. Cleo would make Tara feel better. That’s after all what she did.

  IT WAS AROUND the same time that Tara was born in 2002 that Papa and I drove from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara to visit Michael at his home in Neverland again. I remember the drive vividly because Cleo joined us. Papa wasn’t that fond of the idea, especially since Cleo was so desperate to lie in his lap the entire ride north along the scenic Pacific Coast Highway.

  “She’s probably cold,” I informed him. “And she likes the way you smell.”

  Papa stared at me, unsure how to respond. “I’m serious.” I shrugged. “The stronger you smell, the closer she likes to be to you.”

  “What are you saying?” Papa suddenly took on a self-conscious look.

  “Papa—seriously. You know . . .” I let the words linger, unsure myself now where to take things.

  Anyone who knew Papa did in fact know what I was talking about. His special mix of Body Shop musk oil, Old Spice aftershave, Crabtree & Evelyn cologne, heavy Right Guard aerosol, and Johnson & Johnson baby powder made for a formidable and aromatic cocktail.

  “Why do you think I have the window open?”

  Papa shook his head and readjusted carefully in his seat so as not to let Cleo fall. Even though by then Cleo had solidified her place in the family, Papa was still unsure how to act around her. The fact that he tolerated her was more or less the best thing you could say about his behavior toward her. What I was witnessing at that moment was likely the most affectionate they’d ever been.

  “Do you even know if Michael likes dogs? Whether he’s afraid of them? I’m not sure you should have brought the dog,” Papa said.

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I mean, come on—you can’t be afraid of Cleo. Look at her.”

  As if on cue, Cleo exhaled heavily, flopping her head over Papa’s leg, her eyes still tightly shut.

  “By the way, you know she has a name,” I said to him.r />
  “I know her name,” he responded sternly.

  “I know you know.” I nodded. “But you always refer to her as ‘the dog’ instead of Cleo.”

  I sensed the “No I don’t” coming, but Papa held back.

  “I think if you refer to her by her name instead of ‘the dog,’ you might actually get to know her better. You might even get to love her.”

  Papa looked down into his lap. Some of Cleo’s white fur had shed onto his black pants and sweater. He shook his head. “I’m not sure you should have brought Cleo.”

  Whatever.

  Of course, I actually had no idea how Michael felt about dogs. But I had little choice but to bring Cleo along for the weekend trip since, for the time being, I was her designated caregiver. Candice remained embedded deeply in the last few months of medical school and we had agreed that until she was done, Cleo was best off with me. I was determined to show that I could be relied on, part of my strategy to reassure Candice that her engagement to me was not as much of a gamble as I sometimes sensed she thought it was. In terms of Michael, our friendship had just about hit the ten-year mark and he was now in the same category of many of my other guy friends. I didn’t really think much about their preferences or needs. I mean, seriously, what guy did?

  Michael’s life itself had settled down into a sense of normalcy—at least in the relative sense of his frenzied existence. At the time, he was a dad of two, a boy and a girl to whom he was hopelessly devoted. For the very few that he granted a glimpse inside his private life, they were privy to a doting, deliberate, and disciplined dad. It was clear to those who knew him that Michael had in essence created a family around him to love and be loved in a way that no one else could. He had already overcome one enormous scandal by that time, which, while it never even resulted in formal criminal charges, had severely tainted his image. While still highly respected in many creative circles, he was also regarded by many as freakish, a waning carnival act. Ironically (and perhaps sadly), he was not as sheltered as many believed, and hence very aware of the way that some thought of him. As a result, he had become even more reclusive, convinced that his own kids needed to be protected from the rabid vultures that were so eager to pick apart his celebrity carcass and who he believed would happily gnaw on his kids if given a chance. Getting access into Neverland—itself a shadow of the fantastical home it once was and a place frequented rarely, even by Michael—was uncommon.

  If anything, though, Michael still liked to play host to close friends at Neverland. I proudly considered myself among that group. When we arrived at the house late that night and met Michael in the main living room, we exchanged hugs and warm greetings. Then he spied Cleo. “What’s that?” he asked suspiciously.

  I had kept Cleo on her leash to keep her in check. She was hardly impressed to be meeting the legendary Michael Jackson, and instead was pulling her leash taut in an effort to get me to let her scope out the new digs.

  “It’s my dog. Her name is Cleo.” At the sound of her name Cleo looked up at me. I often said that was her one trick—responding to her name.

  “I don’t really like dogs.” Michael grimaced.

  Papa smirked.

  “You have a lion. And eat dinner with chimps. How can you not like dogs?”

  He laughed.

  “Plus—look at her. She’s harmless.” I ordered Cleo to sit, which required me to actually place my hand on her hips and push them downward. This was not yet in her arsenal of tricks.

  “Come here.” I gestured to him. Michael inched forward hesitantly. I kept one hand on Cleo’s hind and the other now wrenched to her collar. “She’s actually very friendly,” I lied.

  “No she’s not,” Papa warned.

  I shot him a look. “Well, she’s not,” he said under his breath.

  “She reads people really well,” I offered. “If you’re friendly, she’s friendly. If you’re, you know, shady and nervous, so is she.”

  I turned my attention back to Cleo. “Good dog, Cleo . . .” This had become Candice’s and my new strategy—positive reenforcement before Cleo actually did anything. Generally she did something wrong, so the traditional approach of rewarding her was wayward for us. We were—to say the least—open to new and creative ideas.

  I instructed Michael to place his hand in front of her snout so she could smell it. He did so cautiously. “I’m really not into dogs,” he reiterated.

  Papa sensed a dramatic moment. “Confronting fear with love is the way toward healing.”

  What he said, I thought to myself.

  Meanwhile Cleo was clearly wondering what was up. I could tell by the way her body had tensed under my grasp. She was whimpering too in a way that only I knew was not a harbinger of good things to come. But Michael was already closing in and by the time I tried to jolt Cleo’s head away it was too late.

  Perhaps sensing Cleo’s souring affect, Michael jerked his hand back from her. Seeing this, she reacted predictably by snapping at him with her diminutive jaws. Michael, legendary for being light and agile on his feet, leaped backward, sideswiping a regal piano on which sat a series of portraits. Unsteadied, the portraits clattered and tipped, the first one plummeting toward the ground.

  Instinctively I reached out to catch the silver and glass frame to stop it from shattering. But in doing so, I let go of Cleo’s leash. Michael froze for a beat, staring at Cleo, realizing now that she was free. Likewise she glared back at him, staring him down and waiting for his next move.

  “Don’t move,” I urged him, slowly putting the picture frame back on the piano. By all accounts, you’d think we were dealing with a runaway tiger. A real possibility at Neverland. But it was too late. Cleo’s snarl had spooked Michael. He twitched and Cleo pounced. Michael nimbly dodged her thrust and took off, charging from the living room to the elegant library across the hallway. Undeterred, Cleo ripped right after him, yelping at the top of her lungs.

  “Oh shit!” I bellowed, and took off after the pair of them.

  “I told you so.” Papa shook his head.

  AFTER AN ELABORATE RACE through Michael’s mansion, I finally came upon the pair in one of the kids’ cluttered playrooms. Cleo had Michael cornered. As a result, he had climbed atop a sturdy wooden table where Cleo couldn’t reach him. She, meanwhile, was yapping at him, snapping her small jaws and hopping from side to side with her tail wagging furiously as she waited for him to come down from his perch. She was not trying to scare him, rather was eagerly waiting for them to continue their game of chase. Considering the circumstances and the backstory of Michael’s fear of dogs (which I’d later learn), he certainly couldn’t be expected to identify the subtle difference in Cleo’s intentions, but I most certainly could.

  When Cleo intuitively disliked someone, you could see the emotion fully envelop her. When she had bad intentions you could see them almost overtake her entire frame. She stiffened up with anxiety. Her neck and jaw became rigid with suspicion and wariness. She’d plant herself to the ground for stability and snap and growl, making clear her venom. On the other hand, when she felt playful, her body filled up with a very different type of emotion and energy. Her small frame still tensed up rigid and jittered with nervousness, but to me, she looked and felt totally different. Instead of planting herself into the ground, she’d leap from side to side like a welterweight getting ready to spar. Her tail wagged in spasms as if she couldn’t wait for what was next. And most notably, instead of the ominous growls and barking, she’d emit what could only be described as a different sounding type of growling and barking.

  In this case, as Cleo raucously awaited Michael’s next move, I knew she was eager for more entertainment. As I tried to scoop her up into my arms, she danced around, agilely eluding my grasp. What fun, she must have thought. Everybody is getting in on this wild game.

  “It’s okay,” I reassured Michael. “She just wants to play with you.”

  He glared at me, terrified. “She’s crazy!”

  On cue, Cleo bac
ked away, revved her engine, downshifted, and started for the table. About two feet from it, she leaped from her hind legs toward the surface of the table. Michael’s eyes widened with a mix of terror and disbelief. He wasn’t the only one. Never in her life had I seen Cleo make such an astonishing move. Maybe, I wondered, she did know he was the legendary Michael Jackson.

  Fortunately for us all, I did manage to harness little Cleo. She wriggled and squirmed in my grasp, craning her neck to kiss and lick my face gleefully.

  “See,” I told Michael, “she’s all excited and happy.”

  He stared at the pair of us, shaking his head, as if we were aliens. Ironic, I thought, considering his reputation. “Honestly, Michael,” I assured him. “Cleo is really harmless. She’s just . . . you know . . . different.”

  Yeah, different—that seemed an appropriate description. Or special. I shook my head, correcting myself. “She’s not like other dogs really. Or any that I know.

  “Whatever,” I said to Michael as we got back to the library, where my father was waiting for us. “Cleo does things her own way. She lives in her own world.” I shrugged. “If it freaks some people out, so be it.”

  Michael smiled, the first smile in a while. “In that case,” he said, “we probably have a lot in common.”

  ONE OF THE THINGS that Michael and Papa had in common was that they were both serious night owls. Ask my father and he will confess that he spends the hours between ten p.m. and four a.m. switching back and forth between sleep and meditation, occasionally turning on the lights (to my mom’s great annoyance) to read a passage in one of the half dozen or so books he keeps stacked beside his bed or make a note (or write a book—I kid you not) into his BlackBerry. Likewise, over the years, whenever I visited Michael, I noticed that often our creative sessions happened in the dead of night. If he wasn’t working in those hours, Michael liked to screen old movies, wander around his house, or even go for walks outside in the darkness. Quoting the famous Simon and Garfunkel song, Michael once told me that he preferred the night over the day because it was in the sound of silence that he found his own creativity and “heard music.”