She's Gone: A Novel

by Emmens, Joye

  “A case comes with it. I’ll tell you what. If he doesn’t like it, he can trade it in within the week.”

  She smiled at Ed, relieved Will could choose another if he wanted. He was very particular about some things. “Thank you.”

  She walked out with the guitar. Her bell bottom jeans swished against the black case. She couldn’t wait to give it to him that night. He needed to play music and mellow out. At the house, she set the guitar by the stereo.

  She had the house to herself. She settled in with The Wisdom of Buddha, but her concentration waivered. Her conversation with Will earlier that morning was unsettling. Buddhism was not a cult. It was an individual practice, unique to each person. A path to free oneself from suffering. Didn’t he want her to find peace?

  She inhaled deeply, and as she exhaled a feeling of boldness welled up inside of her. Nobody would own her. Nobody would control her or her spirituality. She set the book down and left the house.

  The sun blazed overhead in the humid afternoon. After five blocks she turned into an open wooden gate and onto a stone path. In that instant she entered another world. Irish moss cushioned the ground between large stepping stones. Street sounds faded into the gentle rush of falling water. Koi darted between lotus pads in a pond and disappeared under a small waterfall. She was drawn to the stone benches on either side of the pond but continued on the path and stopped before a massive wooden door. She pushed the heavy door open and walked inside.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the muted light inside the high-ceilinged entry. Sandalwood incense filled the air.

  A man with a shaved head wearing a saffron-colored robe approached her. His light brown skin shone against the silk robe. “Welcome to our temple.” Peacefulness radiated from him and something more, an aura of rarified energy. She felt instantly calm and safe in his presence.

  He oriented her to the temple and showed her the meditation rooms and library. In the cool wooden sanctuary, life outside disappeared and a peaceful protection descended, a refuge from the city.

  “At our temple, it is not so much about teaching but about experiencing,” he told her. His lilting voice and accent was mesmerizing. “Through meditation, we naturally progress beyond. We have faith in the Three Jewels—Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha.”

  Jolie smiled at him, not knowing what to say.

  “We invite you to continue your journey with us. Join us in meditation. Learn and practice the eightfold path and you will be liberated.”

  “Thank you. But how do I start?”

  “My child, you have already started. You are here, aren’t you?” She held his gray-blue gaze. He seemed to be searching her eyes for something. “You are welcome here any time.”

  He handed her a schedule of meditation and yoga sessions, and she walked out of the temple infused by a sense of calm. Her body seemed to float. She’d read about the Three Jewels. The name alone created beautiful colors in her mind. She was one step closer to liberation. Will didn’t need to know about the temple just yet. An increasing sense of freedom filled her.

  “The professor came by the office and brought a Vietnam vet,” Will said that night. “I put him to work right away. He’s quiet but has been around and wants to help.”

  “Hmm,” she said. Her thoughts were on the temple and when she could go back. She needed to pay attention.

  “The professor wrote an article on the My Lai investigation. I don’t know where he’s getting his information but it’s good stuff.”

  “Maybe from the vet?”

  “He was in a different command. He was there around the same time, though.”

  “Invite him over sometime,” Jolie said. She wanted to know more about what it was like in Vietnam.

  “Adam’s running the article this week under a pseudonym. I’m sending it out to all the other presses for publication.”

  Jolie could hardly contain herself with the surprise for Will. After dinner, he went in to the living room to put on an album. She followed him. He stood eyeing the guitar case.

  “Whose guitar is this?”

  “It’s yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “I bought it for you today.” She sat on the couch, gripping her hands together. What if he didn’t like it?

  “You what? What about the money for a VW bus?”

  “I still have five hundred dollars saved in my tin. Let’s start looking for one.”

  She had more saved in the bank. Most of Will’s money went directly back into the agency. He didn’t believe in banks, but she worried about getting robbed. She’d vowed to herself months ago that they would always have a cushion. It gave her peace of mind, knowing that they wouldn’t be on the street if they had to leave quickly again. His hand rested on the case.

  “Go ahead. Open it up.”

  Will laid the case on the floor and snapped open the lid. The guitar glistened. He took it out of the case, turned it over and over, and then strummed a few chords.

  “It’s so fine, thank you.” He bent to kiss her. “An Ibanez, what a beauty.”

  He sat down next to her on the couch and played one of the songs he had written. His fingers moved smoothly across the frets and his voice was a mere whisper. Jolie put her head back and closed her eyes. Melancholy fell over her like rain. She should be happy, shouldn’t she?

  29

  The Door Gunner

  Sunday, Jolie woke to guitar strains coming from the far end of the house. She wandered into the living room. Will smiled at her, relaxed and happy, his hair tousled from sleep. His hands moved quickly across the strings and a riff burst forth. “I love this guitar.”

  She smiled back. This was the Will she’d fallen for. Not the moody Will who didn’t approve of her friends or anything she did or read. Her guitar man was back.

  “Leah is picking me up later. We’re shopping for groceries for the dinner with her parents tonight.”

  Will shook his head and kept playing. He thought Leah was a spoiled rich princess. On the dining room table, Jolie laid out six of the photos she had printed. Will stopped playing and stood beside her.

  She adjusted two photos. “These are for the paper.” One was a Vietnam veteran in his army uniform holding a sign: End Mass Murder in Vietnam. The other was a student with short hair wearing a Harvard shirt. His sign referred to the ROTC: Get the War Machine Off Campus.

  “Yeah, we can use these two,” Will said. “The vet photo can run with the My Lai story.”

  Two of the other photos were from the concert in Cambridge Common. The first was a close-up of Will smiling back at the camera with a bandana around his forehead. His sunglasses reflected Jolie taking his picture. The other was a couple dancing, their arms flung in the air, frozen. The fringe and feathers that adorned them were captured in fine detail.

  “I like the one of you.” She rose up on her toes and kissed him.

  The other photos were taken around Cambridge. One, taken from a bridge over the Charles River, as a sculling boat approached. In unison, eight men dipped long oars into the water; the resulting pattern rippled behind.

  Jolie pointed to another print capturing the fine detail of Georgian architecture. “This is Longfellow’s House. Before Longfellow, George Washington lived there and used it for his headquarters while he planned the Siege of Boston.”

  “The Siege of Boston,” Will repeated, a faraway look in his eye. “The Siege of America, that’s what we’re planning.”

  Leah’s white Chevy Nova idled in front of Jolie’s apartment. She honked twice. Jolie dashed down with the cookbook Daniel had borrowed from his mother and two photos she’d printed for her. Sarah was at the apartment when they arrived with the ingredients for chicken Creole, purchased from the kosher grocery store. Jolie propped up the cookbook and showed them the recipe. Her hunch had been right. Leah did have two sets of cooking utensils a
nd dishware, compliments of her mom. Before long, the Creole was simmering in the pot. All they needed to do was make the rice. Leah and Sarah had set the dining room table. A vase of white lilies adorned the center. White linen napkins floated like swans on the plates.

  Jolie brought out the two photos from the Public Garden she’d printed for Leah.

  “Oh, these are perfect. Let’s go buy frames and hang them up.”

  “We can’t leave the Creole cooking,” Jolie said.

  “I’ll stay,” Sarah said.

  “You have to stir it every five minutes or it’ll burn,” Jolie said.

  Jolie and Leah walked three blocks to the neighborhood variety store and picked out two black frames. Walking back to the apartment, they passed a vintage clothing store.

  “Let’s go in,” Jolie said.

  “Used clothing?”

  “It’s vintage. Every item is unique.”

  Leah followed her inside reluctantly. The scent of rose buds engulfed them. Racks overflowed with one-of-a-kind clothing in silk, velvet, and lace. Jolie held out a sheer silk blouse.

  “You’d look good in this. Try it on.”

  “You can see right through it,” Leah said.

  Jolie moved to another rack and picked out a camisole. “Wear this under it.”

  Leah tried it on. The butterfly-thin layers of silk clung to her body. “I love it,” she said.

  Jolie picked up a black beret and tried it on. “That’s you,” Leah said.

  Leah bought the silk blouse and camisole, and Jolie the beret and a black velvet jacket.

  Jolie wore the beret as they walked down the street to the apartment. They smiled at each other. “My first score in a vintage clothing shop,” Leah said. Jolie did a ballet leap high in the air, euphoric with their finds.

  From the first floor hallway they could smell the Creole. “That smells incredible,” Leah said.

  Sarah was in the kitchen, standing up reading a book at her stirring post. Leah and Jolie unwrapped their purchases.

  “I’ve never been in a vintage clothing store before,” Sarah said, “but that stuff is cool.”

  When Leah’s parents arrived, Leah wore her new silk blouse and Jolie her black velvet jacket.

  “Where in the world did you get that blouse?” her mother asked. “It looks like something my mother would have worn in the roaring twenties.”

  Leah and Jolie exchanged smiles. Jolie stayed in the kitchen while Leah and Sarah gave the parents the tour of the apartment. When they returned to the kitchen, Leah’s mother marched to the stove. “What are you girls cooking?” She inspected the simmering pot and cookbook, all the time muttering something.

  When they sat down to eat, Leah’s mother raved about the flavors of the Creole.

  “Jolie picked out the recipe,” Leah said.

  Leah’s mother looked at Jolie. “You’ll have to share it.”

  “I’ll copy it for you after dinner,” Jolie said.

  Leah’s mother’s eyes still rested on her. Was something wrong? She sat up straighter.

  “Jolie,” Leah’s mother said, “how old are you?”

  Jolie swallowed. “Eighteen.”

  “You look so young, much younger than eighteen.”

  Jolie froze and squeezed her legs together under the table to keep them from jiggling. She didn’t know how to respond.

  “Where are you from?” Leah’s father asked.

  “California.”

  “California! That’s where all the flower children are,” Leah’s mother said.

  “You’re a long way from home,” Leah’s father said. “Why are you in Boston? Are you going to school?”

  “Not this year. I’m saving money for school, though.” She squirmed in her chair.

  “What about your parents?” he said.

  “Oh, they still live there.”

  “No, I mean, can’t they help you with college?” he said.

  “Not right now,” Jolie said. She glanced at Leah. Why hadn’t she helped cook and gone home before they arrived?

  “You’re so young to be in this big city, so far from home,” Leah’s mother said.

  “Mom, let her eat. Tell me what my big brother is up to.”

  Relieved to be out of the line of questioning, she listened to their conversation about people she didn’t know, hoping they wouldn’t ask any more questions.

  Leah’s mother turned to Jolie. “Leah and Sarah are coming home for the Fourth of July. Why don’t you drive down with them?”

  “That’s a great idea,” Leah said. “I bet there are tons of vintage stores in SoHo.”

  “We’d love to have you as our guest. You’re a very nice young lady,” her father said.

  “Yes, you have to come,” Sarah said.

  New York. She could call her parents. She could mail a letter from there. “Well, okay. I’d like that.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Leah’s mother said.

  After Leah’s parents went back to their hotel, Leah drove Jolie back to the office. “Thanks for everything. I think they’ll be more comfortable with me on my own now.”

  “They’re both really nice,” Jolie said, thinking about her own parents.

  “We’ll have fun in New York and you’ll get to meet my brother.”

  “Let me run it by Will.”

  “You have to come. You can’t change your mind with my mother or I’ll never hear the end of it. She loves guests. She’s probably already planning it right now. My poor dad.”

  Jolie hopped out of the car and lithely sprang up the steps to the office. The evening had been a success. She’d helped her friends and best of all she had a plan to contact her parents.

  Inside the office, it was dark except for a candle flickering in the living room. She walked toward it. Will and Marlena sat on the couch.

  “Jolie.” Will said, rising.

  Jolie froze. A jealous demon pulsed from the pit of her stomach to the top of her head. She couldn’t speak.

  Marlena got up. “I have to go.”

  “Wait, we’ll walk you to the T,” Will said.

  “No, that’s not necessary.” She walked out of the house without so much as a glance at Jolie.

  “How was the dinner?”

  “Fine.” That was all she could manage to whisper. She turned and walked toward the door.

  “Wait.” Will blew out the candle and followed her out, locking the door. “What’s the matter?”

  Jolie was silent and kept walking.

  “We were just talking. She was lonely and wanted to talk.”

  She was too emotional to respond. She was lonely too but whenever she talked about her feelings he half listened or changed the subject. Could she trust him when she went to New York?

  Monday morning, after Will left for the office, Jolie headed to the temple. She entered the temple gate and the sound of the waterfall enveloped her in an aura of calm. Inside the massive carved door, she left her sandals next to a half dozen other pairs. Sandalwood incense hung in the air. She walked through the long corridor and entered a meditation room. A monk sat cross-legged with other students. She sat on a mat and he began to speak.

  “You must become aware of the first four noble truths on your journey to nirvana. The first noble truth is that man’s existence is full of misery.”

  She listened intently. No one’s life was perfect, but was everyone as miserable as she was?

  “Misery originates from within. That is the second noble truth. Your cravings or your choices lead to your suffering.”

  Was she responsible for her misery? How could that be? She wanted happiness. She sought out happiness.

  “The third noble truth is that misery can be eliminated.”

  Jolie glanced around at the other students, serene in thei
r cross-legged posture. She shifted her pose and relaxed. She had created her own misery, and it could be eliminated. But how?

  “The fourth noble truth leads us to recognize there is a noble path from misery to well-being. When we practice mindful living, our right view will blossom and all other elements of the path will flower. The eightfold path is indivisible and all one. Starting with the four noble truths, we practice turning the wheel through each one.”

  They chanted three oms and breathed into meditation. Jolie’s mind reeled with the flowering paths and the wheel.

  Will was home when she came in from work. He tried to hug her, but she stiffened.

  “Jolie, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how jealous you are of Marlena. I love you and wouldn’t hurt you like that.”

  “I think she’s bad news.”

  “Here, I got you something,” Will handed her a package wrapped in the Sunday comics.

  Jolie slowly unwrapped the package. It was a hardcover book titled Alfred Stieglitz Photographer. “Thank you.”

  Did he really think a book would make her feel better? She set the book on the table and flipped through the pages. She was instantly drawn to his work. His photographs were art.

  On Wednesday, Jolie went straight home from work and didn’t bother stopping at the office. She was tired. Tired of waitressing. Some of the people that came in were interesting and her tips were good, but it wasn’t meaningful. What she wanted was an education.

  She showered and sat cross-legged on the Persian rug in their bedroom. Meditation would brighten her mood. She lit sandalwood incense and set it on the small Buddha altar.

  Her thoughts went straight to California and her parents. Were they thinking about her too, right then? She focused on her breathing. Coulter’s face flashed before her. Should she tell Will about Coulter? She tried to erase her thoughts. She envisioned the temple, the hushed meditation rooms and the monk who had shown her the library full of translations of Buddha’s teachings. She lapsed into peaceful breathing. Voices from the kitchen brought her back to reality.

  Will and a young man sat at the kitchen table, drinking a beer. He introduced her to Charlie, the Vietnam vet. Their eyes locked, and she smiled in recognition. It was the guy with the dimples and haunted eyes she had photographed. Up close his face was handsome and his eyes the color of robins’ eggs. His body was trim and muscular. He still looked too young to have been in the war.