“Tucson.”
Did that make sense? Maybe he didn’t contact Payton but he wanted to be near her?
“I’m not done. One of my guys found a street kid hyped up on meth so don’t take it as gospel, but he saw the picture of your kid and said he left Tucson to head to the west coast. Something about working the land.”
I wrote down the old New York address Helms provided and thanked him for the information.
“You’re still in Italy?”
“For a few more weeks. Why don’t you come over and report on that story I’m scooping out for my documentary. The way some men still treat their women like shit over here.”
“Think I’ll have to pass for now.”
“How about the cheese. Showing more cheese?”
“Gouda or smoked havarti?”
“You know exactly what I mean. Skin.”
I hung up, wondering who would prove to be the real villain, if we were ever to investigate the Italy story. In describing discrimination in Italy, Jack Helm’s had just used the words ‘their women’.
Chapter Thirty-Five
A Simple Meal
MY STEPS SLOWED as I entered the lobby of The Centre. I felt bathed in an inexplicable abundance of love. Protection. Hope.
While true I hadn’t returned Dr. Coal’s phone calls for weeks, I had read a few of his many published works. I’d gone to sleep with his books for as many nights.
Dr. Coal sat on the floor of his office with two young boys in front of him. He motioned me in as the boys scrambled up and disappeared behind me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said.
“No way. Those kiddos were just getting ready to give up on me. They wanted movie money and they realized they weren’t getting it from me.”
I remembered the play equipment on the grounds. I’d never seen a single child there. But I guess these boys were too old to play on swings and slides.
He laughed and at once I felt at home, but just as I began to sit on the floor next to him, a seating style I thought I might enjoy in my more comfortable attire, Coal stood up.
“Have you had lunch?”
“No. I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Come, then.”
For a swift moment I regretted the offer because as his protocol had suggested, I wore sweats. Designer sweats, mind you, but sweats nonetheless. Nothing suitable for a lunch date.
Oh god, I thought. A date? That wasn’t it at all. I had to get that idea out of my mind.
“My assistant has prepared lunch and he always makes enough to feed the entire Pacific Rim.”
“Assistant?” I wondered if the offer of lunch signaled there would be no private session with me. I worried that it might.
“You’ve not met him? Sorry, I thought everyone around here knew Armand. Sent to me straight from the heavens. He’s my right-hand man. He takes care of me and he takes care of the business part of The Centre. The financial stuff that drags me down, to be honest. He takes the load off me so I am not polluted with the physical world and that helps me stay in the spiritual world I much prefer.”
We hadn’t discussed this spiritual side of him although I sensed it was deeply rooted. His philosophies revealed themselves slowly in the context of his numerous published discourses. His teachings evoked the aura of the ‘good journey’, whatever that meant.
I realized we had crossed another path. A physical one that led directly to his private home. Butterflies again emerged in my stomach, but these were born out of ancient cocoons that hadn’t been disturbed in years. A man of mystery always got the best of me.
A screen door served as the only barrier to the large building.
“A minimalist?” I teased.
Harlan roared with laughter, “Well, I do have a real table and real chairs to take meals upon.”
The space was quite similar to his office. Dhurrie rugs, pillows, and a single futon in the corner. The only luxuries appeared to be a wall of leather bound books and dozens of lit white candles atop patina-aged brass that formed an altar of sorts.
In an obscure corner, a man stood behind a kitchenette, slicing avocados and tomatoes still on the vine. I could see the garden of edibles more clearly than the man, and I could smell a simmering soup. Rosemary and lemon. As for the man, all I could see was a long and braided black ponytail.
Dr. Coal set the table for two, along with a soup tureen and platter of avocado-topped bread slices. He excused Armand for his immediate absence. “He had another engagement. You’ll meet him another time.”
We dined in silence for an excruciating time. For me. Dr. Coal seemed as if he was oblivious to me and more focused on inhaling the distinct aromas. I liked that. He appreciated excellence in simplicity.
“All fresh ingredients,” he finally said.
I kept glancing at the wall next to us. It was solid rock and an odd interior material for California, I thought. A large teak door in the middle of the wall closed off what had to be the bulk of the massive building.
“It’s our Hall of Records,” Coal said, as if reading my curious mind.
“What do you mean? A library?”
He laughed. “Yes. A massive library. Our central nervous system, remember?”
“May I see it?”
“No. No one sees it.”
My eyes swept to the floor in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. That was presumptuous of me. I guess it’s my journalistic nature.”
“I find your inquisitiveness to be adorable. Now, then, do you mind if I do some of my doctoring, even over lunch?” he continued. “It’s hard for me to disengage from my patient relationship with you.”
I felt relief shimmy down my shoulders to my spine and maybe somewhere below that. “Sure.”
“Our brief discussions have already shown progress. They’re open. I like that. You know you are on a path and I hope you agree it’s a healthy path. We’ve certainly managed to analyze your life’s crisis points. You’ve made some new decisions which include not wanting to continue doing the same things which result in the same outcomes. Now it’s time to move on. It’s time to fill up the void we’ve created.”
“Void?” I felt great. Coal made me feel great. I didn’t suffer a void for the first time in years.
“You’ve rejected old values. Old dogmas. You’re giving up a past belief system that everything you love is taken away in death. This is huge. But you’ve created a void. You’re starting to take away all that bad and you need to fill it up with goodness.”
“I don’t understand,” I admitted while remembering something similar Brock had told me.
“Take this home with you,” Coal said as he handed me a thick booklet from the side of his dining chair. “It’s a paper I wrote last week and you are the inspiration.”
He must have seen me cower.
“Don’t worry. It has nothing to do with Lauren Visconti. But somehow after our first meeting you made me realize it’s relevant now, more than ever, and it was time for me to put my thoughts into writing.”
“It isn’t exactly light reading, is it?” I laughed as I accepted the huge document.
He did not return a smile. “It explains our therapy practice in detail. I only wish you could live here at The Centre, but of course that won’t work. This will give you a booster shot into a new world.”
“I’ll read it this week. I promise.”
“Yes. You will.
“And come to our gathering dinner this month. We’re having a special celebration. You’ll enjoy yourself. One of my patients works at a nature preserve where they treat injured gulls. We have the honor of releasing the healed ones. And it’s the fall harvest. You won’t walk away hungry. Not in your stomach and not in your soul.”
Dr. Coal made me smile.
“That’s new. I haven’t seen that before,” he said.
“What?”
“A full smile. Natural and unforced. You wear it well.”
I admit I think I
felt some sexual tension. Maybe I was just getting my act together. Finally. Dr. Coal was helping me. I thanked him for the impromptu lunch.
Coal called out after me as I left. “Hey, Lauren, I like the sweats!”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Farm
SIXTY FIVE ACRES, and the blaring horn sounded throughout all corners. It signaled roundup time.
Workers dropped their tools, along with all conversation. They collected what bushels they had already gathered and placed them into the giant bins located on every four rows of crop. They then proceeded to flood toward the farmhouse and the platform in front of it. All of them.
Dr. Coal stood before his people in the grandeur of pure white linen. The long sleeves, the hem of his tunic and the flowing pants all swayed in the gentle breeze. The image projected a mortal man engulfed in gliding white doves. His dark sunglasses protected him from their sins, as he often reminded them.
A mere hand direction by Dr. Coal and his audience praised the gathering with a resounding and unanimous, “Yes!”
Coal sat down. His followers immediately bowed their heads. No murmurs could be heard. No shuffling of shoes. Only silence. Even the birds and the winds seemed to respect the need for a calm quiet.
“I am happy today. Our fellowmen, Abraham and Juan fell ill. It was God’s will. They cheated God. They cheated all of us. They did not provide their tithing. They stole our food and we were hungry. They rested even as we worked. They were weak. They had fallen but they came to recognize their sins and they paid their penance. They are healed.
“I have promised you healing. All the medical care you need you can find right here with me.
“There shall be no thievery amongst you. No sins of the human flesh, the mind, or the spirit.
“Some of you may think to defy my laws. Think again, for these are not my laws. They are the laws of your soul and your very being. Therefore they are God’s laws. Think how we could heal the aching world if only they knew our secrets. You are blessed. I am blessed and I bless you.”
Designated helpers began the ritual of chanting.
“Bring forth your tithing and your weary bodies from an honest day of work and you shall save yourself from the destruction of this earth.”
Coal rose from his chair. The chanting subsided and heads were bowed once again.
Coal disappeared behind the veil of white stage draping.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Centre Gathering
AFTER NAGGING, BROCK finally agreed to go to The Centre for their Saturday night feast.
We toured the grounds, now decorated with white tablecloths and chairs and tables laden down with colorful edibles. Blooms from plentiful scalloped gardens competed with the scents of baked goods to enchant the evening air.
Dr. Coal appeared from behind a draped-off cabana, the kind you might find at the beach resorts. Our eyes immediately met, except for his sunglasses that shielded his. He pulled the curtains closed again and headed toward me with an elegant gait, like a Triple Crown champion horse might prance to enter the gate for yet another victory.
Again, I thought he reminded me of someone.
After a long embrace he said, “I hoped you would join us tonight.”
A mass of people had congregated on the lawns at The Centre. Instantly I noticed they all wore jeans and a similar type of denim shirt. While I was smart enough not to wear heels knowing I would be traversing the lawns, everything else about my attire screamed inappropriateness. My white dress was short and cut to fit every curve.
“I guess I overdressed,” I said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You are a breath of fresh air. Besides, we look like a couple,” he laughed, raising his arms so the breeze could catch the sleeves of his white tunic.
Brock stepped forward, ensuring his presence didn’t go unnoticed.
“Dr. Coal, this is my friend, Brock Townsend. Brock, this is Dr. Coal,” I said.
“Oh, yes, the baseball giant,” Coal said. “Good to have you here, Slugger.”
Only I could detect the hairs rising on the back of his neck, but Brock made nice. Sort of.
“The name Slugger is usually reserved for batters but I guess you don’t know much about professional sports.”
“You’ll excuse me,” Coal said, and slipped away.
“Tell me again why you dragged me to this thing,” Brock mumbled as he sifted through the crudités.
“Because all my good friends are busy,” I answered.
“Thanks. Two insults in less than three minutes. Doesn’t Carly live here?”
“She has a place here, yes.”
“A place?”
“She still has her home in Bel Air. She just prefers to live here for now.”
“I thought you told me this was a family picnic thing,” Brock said.
“Sure.”
“Well excuse me for noticing but where exactly are all the kids?”
Without wasting any time, Brock signaled me to follow him to the main food line, ever the athlete with the hearty appetite to match. Colorful bowls lined the first table with assorted fruits—plantains, blackberries and papayas. Another table offered corn, snap peas, broccoli and cauliflower. The third displayed baskets of cracked wheat and pumpernickel bread, pitas, and tortillas, and a huge wooden bowl of pecans. Brock looked on to the last table, offering large apple pies and cakes.
“I hoped maybe we could get caught up with one another over a decent meal,” Brock said.
“What’s wrong with this meal?” I asked.
“It’s weird, Laurs. If anything, high protein diets are still hot, but there is barely a trace of protein laid out here. Not exactly a health cult,” he roared.
“Is there a problem here?” a woman cutting pies overheard Brock’s complaint. The six-footer backed away from the table. “No problem,” he said. Brock took my arm with his free hand and escorted me away.
I looked at the trays of drinks being served. Carrot and orange juices. No wine.
“See what I mean?” Brock whispered. “Something’s definitely weird around here.”
“You’re just used to being around athletes and their stinky cafeterias and swanky groupie-filled bars. And you need more protein in your diet than most people.”
“People need protein to think,” Brock grumbled. He picked at the food on his paper plate before tossing it into a nearby trashcan.
We walked around the grounds a bit more while waiting for the release of twelve injured birds that The Centre community had rehabilitated. I kept trying to spy Carly in the crowd but with no luck.
We passed Coal’s house. The screen door was closed but we could see a man dressed in black standing erect just inside and looking back at us. I smiled at the man, but what he returned to me was something more like what you’d expect from the Royal Guards at Buckingham Palace. Not exactly congeniality. I thought I caught a glimpse of a long black ponytail. I wasn’t certain.
“What’s in there?” Brock asked.
“The director’s residence is in the front. A records room of some sort is behind it.”
“You mean it’s Dr. Coal’s house?”
“Yes.”
Brock smirked.
From our position, both of us could see the small space dedicated to the living quarters and the stone wall that sealed off the rest of the building. The man with the ponytail was gone.
“Must be some kind of hall of records,” Brock said. “I don’t want to spoil things, Lauren, but this place gives me the creeps. I can handle being called ‘Slugger’, but not from a slug. He appears to be some shepherd of mental health but it looks more like mind control to me. Let me take you back to Malibu.
“Idiot,” he continued to mumble. “Batters are sluggers.”
The flap of strong wings and short screeches of freedom sang out from behind us as the birdcages opened. The once injured gulls swept across the grounds, each one guided by instincts to fly west toward their beloved ocean.
Brock clutched my arm again to take me back to Malibu.
I kept thinking about the odd familiarity I felt when seeing Dr. Coal. Something. And the man with the braided ponytail.
And then I decided I liked a good mystery.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
A Brother, Bullshit, & Braids
BROCK MADE HIMSELF at home, opening my refrigerator in search of protein. Not thrilled to find it almost empty, he finally settled on a slightly aged package of sliced roast beef and my specialty—moldy cheese. I filled the wine glasses, knowing he’d like some of his protein from alcohol.
Brock had been enjoying his best season ever. I didn’t know much about baseball but I loved to hear him talk about his passion. His true and only passion. Brock’s eyes lit up like a seventeen-arm candelabra when he got any chance to jabber about his favorite subject.
I didn’t have to say much about CoverBoy. He subscribed. He bought extra copies before he boarded the team plane. I hadn’t told him much about any hint of trouble. He knew the deal. Hate mail arm-and-arm with accolades from readers. Surely he received the same type of reactions from his fans when he was playing a game.
After he devoured the meat and the glass of wine, we headed down to the beach. Immediately a sociable Golden Retriever indicated he was up for a game of fetch and my baseball hero sure knew how to pitch. Brock spied a suitable stick and the game began.
We moved down the beach with each throw of the stick. Sometimes Brock complained about his shoulder, but only when he wasn’t throwing something. He proved to be a worthy companion to the dog who wanted to run and retrieve relentlessly.
We walked along the shoreline, four houses beyond mine. Brock paid scant notice but an Italian aria was playing from somewhere inside the home. I knew the piece, Tre Giorni. My father had played it often. The tune intrigued me, probably because of my father’s love of it. While Brock and the retriever continued their mission to outlast one another, I moved closer to the home and the music.
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