Hidden Palms

by Harry Bryant

  "Probably."

  "I can manage that."

  "I have no doubt that you can."

  I tapped the card on the counter. "Well, I guess I know what I'm doing for the rest of the day," I said.

  "I guess so," she replied.

  "How about you? Any plans?"

  "I'm going to be here until four," she said. "And then I'm going to go home and put on something nice."

  "With pants?"

  "Probably not."

  "Women get all the breaks."

  She leaned her elbows on the counter. "You'll thank me later," she said.

  Of that, I had no doubt whatsoever.

  I took the brochure to a family restaurant that served a real breakfast, and while working through two cups of hot and fresh coffee, I read the Hidden Palms Spiritual Center brochure. There was a lot to like about the Center: secluded location, a discreet and dedicated staff, twenty-plus acres of careful cultivated and managed grounds that backed up to a National Forest, a kitchen with a Michelin-rated chef and master sommelier, two pools, a private movie theater, and an laundry list of Ivy League-educated professionals.

  Psychiatrists, psychologists, and behavioral scientists, oh my.

  The last two pages were dedicated to the Retreat's founder and spiritual guru—Maximillian Sterling Byron III—a name which I couldn't imagine anyone saying out loud to a physician upon the arrival of said to-be-named child. The fact that it had happened three times suggested that two of the three were either total narcissists or hated their parents. I suspected the former, especially in the case of the Byron the Third, who was, in addition to being the man behind the curtain at the Center, was also an ordained minister in the First Church of the Holy Relic.

  I was disappointed there wasn't any mention on the brochure of when and where one could attend services for the First Church of the Holy Relic. Nor was there any mention of which relic was the holiest one that warranted its own church, but I figured that was only revealed to those who contributed heavily to the Church and were allowed access to the inner sanctum.

  There was a small picture of the minister on the last page of the brochure, along with notes that listed the numerous books written by the man himself. Titles like Love Yourself, Be Yourself and Open Your Heart And Release Your Purpose.

  At first, I read that as "Release Your Porpoise," which was a much funnier book. The rest looked like the sort of New Age swill that clogged up the librarian's cart as he trundled up and down the row between the cells in prison.

  Everyone had an angle, and everyone wanted to believe in something. It was human nature. We don't want to be alone, and we don't want to find out there's no real purpose to our lives. There were enough guys who embraced nihilism as a reason to wake up in the morning, and most of them ended up dead in short order. Surprised, to the very end, that believing in nothingness ended up being worth, well, not much.

  I believed your day should start with a hearty breakfast, and I was delighted when the waitress brought out a heaping plate of buttermilk pancakes, eggs over easy, and fat, steaming sausage links. She refilled my coffee cup, and left me to it. I ate and thought—two activities that never got old—and watched people come and go outside the restaurant.

  Los Alamos wasn't much when you were used to the endless sprawl of LA. The long valley between the San Rafael Mountains and the Pacific Ocean had been drilled and redrilled many times over since oil had first been discovered here. The relatively staid seasons meant crops like strawberries and grapes could flourish. Already there were signs that eager entrepreneurs were falling all over themselves to get into the artisanal wine-making business. And Vandenberg AFB was in the business of sending rockets into space now that there wasn't as pressing a need to send missiles across the ocean to the Soviet Union.

  Somewhere in between was Lompoc, the federally-subsided country club for white-collar criminals.

  A private hideaway and spiritual retreat center for ex-starlet junkies and fragile spouses of overbearing and overworked studio executives wasn't going to be out of the ordinary. Not in the slightest. Welcome to the West Coast where nothing is too strange as long as it is presented in high-definition Technicolor with 5.1 Surround Sound.

  I used extra syrup on the pancakes in an effort to drown my persistence bitterness and ennui. You can take the man out of prison, but it can be hard to get prison out of the man.

  After breakfast, I had a few hours to kill before I was due at Hidden Palms, and I started by driving around Los Alamos, but—like Dolly had said—that only took ten minutes, and so I ended up back on the 101.

  I counted oil derricks and vineyards until I got bored with both, and got off the highway in Las Cruces, where I found a road that took me down to the ocean. I watched a couple of young men try to find tall enough waves to surf for awhile, and then I started back toward the highway.

  I passed a roadside stand, selling fresh strawberries, and I stopped and bought some. I ate them while leaning against my car and watching traffic roll by. I found an antique mall, and looked at old pictures from half a century ago.

  The mountains hadn't changed all that much.

  I didn't see any bikers or any vehicles marked as belonging to the Santa Barbara County Sheriff's Office, which put me in a pleasant mood as I got off the 101 again at Cat Canyon and started the winding drive back toward the mountains. I stopped in Sisquoc again, where the old man remembered me. I perused his selection of sporting goods equipment, and found a couple of things that I thought might be useful over the next few days.

  I loaded my purchases into the trunk, and continued up the hill to my appointment at the Hidden Palms Spiritual Center.

  CHAPTER 11

  I parked out of sight of the camera mounted on the gate at the Center, and walked up to the handset mounted on the wall. I was wearing the big sunglasses and baseball cap I had bought at the store in Sisquoc—the cheapest disguise in the book—and I kept my head turned away from the camera. Just in case. A woman answered the phone shortly after I picked it up, and when I said I had an appointment, she only hesitated for a second before confirming my name.

  "That's right," I said.

  "One moment," she said. And the moment stretched into two and then three before she came back on the line. "Very good, Mr. Bliss. Please return to your vehicle and approach the gate."

  "Oh, I don't mind the walk," I said.

  "Very good, sir. One moment."

  I heard a click behind the gate, and the heavy barrier started to slide open.

  "We'll have someone meet you at the front," the woman said.

  I hung up the phone and hustled through the gate before she changed her mind.

  The walk up the main road was uneventful—peaceful, even—and halfway there I was met by a slender woman in a sleek business suit that hugged her curves. She was carrying a folder marked with the logo of the Center, and she held out her hand as I approached. "Good afternoon, Mr. Bliss," she said. "My name is Natalie Davis, and I'll be happy to answer any questions you might have about the Hidden Palms Spiritual Center."

  "A pleasure, Natalie," I said, giving her a polite squeeze. She wore tiny diamond studs in her ears, and there was a matching diamond nestled in the base of her throat. They all glittered like the real thing in the afternoon sun. Her nails were painted a subdued red color that matched her lipstick. She wasn't wearing any rings, and the slender face of her watch was all about minimalism over function.

  "Are you looking into the Center for yourself or for . . ." She trailed off in a well-practiced fashion.

  I made a play of looking around at the cottonwoods and the grounds. "If the rest of the place is as nice as this, I might want to visit myself," I said.

  "You should consider it," she said. "The Hidden Palms Spiritual Center is aptly named."

  "One would hope so," I said. "I suspect you wouldn't get nearly t
he interest if you called it 'Hayfever Hellhole and Skin Cancer Inducement Center.'"

  "We strive for accuracy in our marketing," she said smoothly. "And we stay away from hyperbolic posturing."

  "So, not too bad during allergy season, then?"

  She inclined her head. "You are a funny man, Mr. Bliss." She said it in that chirpy way that translated to Don't try my patience, asshole. "What do you do for a living?"

  "This and that," I said.

  She wasn't nearly as impressed with that answer as Dolly had been.

  "Well," she said, turning and starting to walk back toward the main house. She paused, looking over her shoulder to make sure I knew I was supposed to follow her. "The Center was founded nearly fourteen years ago by Maximillian Sterling Byron III as a sanctuary for souls who were overwhelmed by the constant pressures and calamity of modern urban living. He had found that people living in densely populated cities were statistically more inclined to psychological distress, mental maladies, and other physiological impairments that were decreasing both the quality and duration of their lives. The incessant pressure of all those people, the technology, and all those cars and trains and planes contributed to the breakdown of the mind/body connection, thereby making both the body and mind more susceptible to disease, distress, and decay."

  "Sounds terrible," I said. I hurried to catch up with her and keep pace. She had a long stride, which wasn't diminished as she talked.

  "Do you live in LA?" she asked.

  "I do," I admitted.

  "Have you lived there long?"

  "Off and on over the last couple of decades," I said.

  "And when you weren't living in LA, did you notice any differences in your mood? In your physical health?"

  I inclined my head. "I did," I said. "But probably not for the reasons you're thinking of."

  She glanced at me. "Are you suggesting that living in Los Angeles was actually better for you than other places where you've lived?"

  "I'm not suggesting it," I said. "It's true."

  Her brows came together. "Where were you living, Mr. Bliss?"

  "Let's not dwell on that too much," I said. "Let's just pretend I agree with you that breathing all that smog every day is slowly poisoning me, okay?"

  "It is, you know," she said.

  I nodded, indicating that she should continue with her spiel.

  "When Elder Byron first purchased this land as a spiritual haven for himself, fifteen years ago, it was a small sanctuary. During that first year, he built a one-room cabin where he could find solitude and respite from the persistence and chaos of the modern world. And once he had built his spiritual retreat, he spent another year, fasting and meditating on the purpose of existence."

  We had reached the steps leading to the wide porch around the main house, and she stopped at the base of the steps. "Do you spend much time wondering why you are here, Mr. Bliss?"

  "Right here?" I asked.

  "Here on this planet."

  "Once in a while, the question crosses my mind," I admitted.

  "Is there not more to life than sitting in a car on a freeway filled with other cars, breathing all that exhaust and those chemical fumes? Are we only alive to rush to work, sit in an office for a third of our lives, rush home, and spend another third curled up in a ball underneath our sheets?"

  "Well, there is that other third . . ." I reminded her.

  "Is that it, then?" she asked. "Only a third of your life has value? And what do you do with it? Watch TV? Shop at the mall? Drink? Fight?" She leaned toward me, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Fuck?"

  "There's definitely not enough of that last one going around," I said.

  A fleeting smile caught in the corner of her mouth and lured me on up the steps. "We are more than mere animals. We have built immense monuments to both gods and our heroes. We have been into space, and we have seen the very deepest parts of our oceans. But we know very little about who we really are, and why we are here. The Hidden Palms Spiritual Center offers a place for you to reconnect, both with your inner self and your holistic self. As without, as within is our motto here."

  "I'm not quite sure what that means," I admitted.

  She paused at the front door of the main house, her manicured hand resting on the large bronze doorknob. "Of course not, Mr. Bliss," she said, offering me a polite but slightly condescending smile. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"

  "You got me there, Natalie," I said.

  She held the door for me, and I walked right on into the main house which I had walked out of yesterday under much different circumstances. As the door whispered shut behind us, I briefly glanced around, half-expecting to see the Terror Twins waiting for me. There was no one in the opulent foyer, and the room was quiet and cold.

  "This way, Mr. Bliss," Natalie said as she led me to the right. The thick carpet muffled the sound of her heels, and I followed after her, feeling like I was one second away from being caught out.

  But no one jumped out from behind a potted fern, and we reached a door marked "Consultations" without incident. Natalie opened the door, went in, and waited for me to follow her. I did, and she quietly shut the door behind her.

  The room had several chairs and a long sofa, all finished with the same blue and gold pattern. Crystal decanters and a set of glasses sat on a wooden sideboard. A picture of a man wearing a dark red robe hung on the wall. He was standing in a garden somewhere, and a couple of birds, squirrels, and fawns were gathered around him. An expression that was half-beatific and half-stern schoolmaster glare made for an interesting expression on his face, and I wasn't quite sure if I was supposed to feel chastised or inspired by him. A tall window looked out over the grounds, and somewhere out there, I knew there was the pool where I had almost gone for a swim.

  "Our illustrious founder," Natalie said, indicating the painting. "Something to drink?" she asked, her hand dropping to include the decanters.

  "I feel like this is a test," I said, wandering over to the couch and sitting down. The view from the couch was worse. Now our illustrious founder was looking down on me.

  "What kind of test?" she asked as she selected a glass from the tray.

  "Would he approve?"

  "Of what?"

  "Of whatever you're about to pour for me," I said.

  "Why would we be testing you?" she asked. She poured from one of the decanters, filling the glass half-full, and she offered it to me. "Water," she said.

  "Oh," I said, and I took the glass from her. "I just assumed. What with the stoppers in those bottles that . . . you know . . ."

  "It keeps the dust out," she said.

  "Right," I said. What with the hermetic seal around the front door and the persistent pressure in my ears like I was underwater, I wasn't quite sure how any dust got into this place, much less collected enough to disturb a glass of water, but hey? Not my place to question the industrial design of the center, right?

  I sipped from my glass, and found the water to be quite refreshing. Maybe there was something to this stoppered decanter business.

  "Before we go on a tour of the grounds, Mr. Bliss, why don't you tell me a little bit about why you are interested in the center?" Natalie sat down on the couch, smoothing her skirt and sitting primly on the edge of the cushion. "I believe your assistant said something about a friend . . ."

  "She did?" I gulped at the water for a second. "She did," I said again, more emphatically this time. "Yes, I'm, uh, asking for a friend, mind you."

  "Of course," Natalie said smoothly. Like she'd heard this excuse a dozen times, and she probably had.

  "My friend has some issues with some—shall we say—reoccurring prescriptive hazards."

  "Very well."

  "And what he, I mean she, I mean, well, anyway, some time away from the regular routine might be useful to my friend, you
know?"

  "I do know, Mr. Bliss. Many of our clients seek to be liberated from the constant pressure of their daily lives. It's not an uncommon malady in this age."

  "Right. So, my friend wants someplace discreet. Someplace out of the way. Someplace where there won't be any judgment from the staff. Where they can just go and, you know, be peaceful for awhile."

  "How long do you think your friend might be inclined to remain in a restful atmosphere that promoted peace and assisted in the release of all their built-up toxins?"

  "How long does that take?"

  "How long does what take?"

  "The release of toxins."

  "It depends on what additional programs your friend might avail themselves of during their stay."

  "So there are tiers?"

  "We prefer to not refer to any of our programs as tiers. Think of them more as à la carte options."

  "Like when I go to the salon and get my hair cut, and then I decide to get a pedicure at the same time?"

  "Exactly like that," she said smoothly.

  "Could I get a pedicure here?"

  "Of course."

  "Do you get yours done here?"

  She kicked off one of her fancy shoes. I liked how she kept her leg straight and pointed her foot as she showed off her toenails. Natalie had a lot of poise, and I had seen a few pedicures in my time. Post-prison, of course. The Chow empire included a few nail salons.

  A couple of months after I had moved into the bungalow, Mrs. Chow had told me to go down and let the girls take care of me. I had insisted it wasn't necessary, and she had said okay, but a month later, she had reminded me. When I declined, the next morning a trio of giggling women had descended upon my bungalow before I had even gotten out of bed. As I tended to sleep in a rather undressed state, the sudden arrival of the trio and all their gear in my bedroom had made things extra awkward.

  Afterward, I had told Mrs. Chow that I was going to get the locks changed. "Or you could just accept my gift graciously," she had said. "You'll see. The ladies will like it."

  My toenails were electric blue for a couple of weeks. I wore sandals often during those weeks, and got a lot of compliments about my feet.