by Julie Smith
“I don’t know; I’m kind of publicity-shy.” Especially right now.
“Oh, come on, Skippy. I get so bored around here.”
“Let me think about it. Fair enough?”
“Oh, pooh.”
“By the way, are outsiders ever allowed to use your library?”
“I could get you in. Especially if you’d think real hard about that interview.”
“Well, you know I will.”
It was weird; whenever she talked to true Southern belles, Skip found herself picking up their speech habits.
An hour later, she knew nothing more about Di or Abe and precious little else about Missy. But Missy’s name had been mentioned once, as the date of Sonny Gerard, in a picture caption. The young man in the picture was the one with her at the meeting, and Skip knew exactly who he was now. Everybody, especially everybody whose father was a doctor, knew his dad, “Bull” Gerard, possibly the best plastic surgeon in the city. Certainly everyone who’d gone to McGehee’s did—he’d bobbed half the noses in the school.
And then there was Alex. Alex was a celebrity of sorts. Even Skip had heard of him, she realized, though she hadn’t recognized his name till she had it in context—and anyway, she’d had no idea he was in New Orleans. He was Alexander Bignell, the hot pop psychologist and author of seven self-help books based on his workshops.
So far as Skip could tell from the clips and from previous things she’d read about him, he’d been sort of a prince—never quite king—of pop psychology. But his eighth book, Fake It Till You Make It—just out a year ago—had denounced all of his previous work, that of most of his colleagues, and in fact a good part of modern psychology. In it, he’d more or less admitted to being a charlatan and suggested that so was everyone else in the field and all their ancestors as well—including Freud and Jung.
The Picayune reviewer seemed to think he’d gone crazy. A wire story that had run with the review indicated that so did the psychology establishment. A third story explained the assault charge—he’d apparently slugged the reviewer at a literary reception, but the journalist had declined to press charges.
Skip dashed out to the nearest bookstore to get his book and got John Bradshaw’s latest as well. Then she went back to phone a few suspects.
“Di, it’s Skip. From last night? I really enjoyed talking to you, and I’m kind of new in all this; I was just wondering—”
“I could sense you were new, but you know what, they’re really right when they say, ‘Keep coming back.’ I know it sounds stupid, but it really does work. Listen, I know what you’re feeling, though. At first you kind of need somebody to talk to; I mean, the whole thing is so overwhelming.”
“I was wondering if we could get together. Tonight maybe.”
“Tonight! My goodness. Well, let me see—I do have a meeting….”
“After your meeting?”
Skip heard pages ruffle, presumably pages of Di’s calendar.
“Okay. I could do that.”
In a way it had been almost too easy, but she realized she’d come across as a soul in trouble. By tonight she was going to have to have a problem.
She tried Missy next, but her phone was busy. She took a deep breath and dialed Alex. He said, “Skip? Skip? Oh, yeah, the one with the curls.”
“Big broad. Does that help?”
“What can I do for you, big lady?”
“Well, I’ve just realized I’m a fan of yours.”
“Uh, well, I don’t quite…”
“You’re Alexander Bignell, aren’t you? I know you from your book photo.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. You’ve actually read one of those pieces of shit?”
“All of them. Even Fake It Till You Make It. You’re a complicated guy.”
“Well, listen, I’m flattered, but I gotta go now.”
“When can I get my book signed?”
“I don’t do that shit anymore. I’m just plain Alex and I’m codependent, okay?”
“You know, I really think your argument’s…” She was acutely conscious of the expectant silence as she searched for the right word—strong, but not gushy; oh hell, gushy…. “I think it’s kind of, well—brilliant, really.”
“You know, Skip, you might be a cut above the average Bayou babe.”
“And then again I might be a shameless flatterer interested only in your body.”
“I like shamelessness in a woman.”
“Are you free for breakfast tomorrow? I really do want to get my book signed.”
“Breakfast, hell! What about my body?”
She closed the deal but hung up sweating, and not because of the weather. Flattery didn’t come anywhere near natural to her.
She tried Missy again, got her. “Missy, I loved what you said last night. I was wondering—I’m not exactly new in town, but I’ve moved back after some time away. I haven’t made any friends yet, and you and your friend looked so nice. I just wondered … I mean, are the two of you ever free for coffee?”
She made her voice small and pitiful. Missy the perennial rescuer came running immediately—she was meeting Sonny for coffee at three the next day, and Skip could join them.
Abe was the easiest of all. “Listen, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I really think you’re attractive, and I wondered…” He asked her to dinner the next night.
That done, she called Cappello and told her where she stood. “Langdon,” she said, “a date? Breakfast, no big deal, but dinner? What are you hoping to find out?”
“I don’t know. Have you got any better ideas?”
“Sure. Routine background checks.”
“I’m doing those too.”
Cappello sighed. “Don’t wear yourself out, Skip.”
Skip had known she’d react like that. She wondered herself if this was creative police work or just plain goofy. But who cared? As long as she didn’t wear herself out, it really didn’t matter. It beat sitting home feeling helpless.
ELEVEN
TALKING TO DI, Skip had said, “I can’t think of anywhere to meet except the Napoleon House.”
And Di had said, “I hate the Napoleon House.”
“Where shall we meet, then?”
“There isn’t anyplace else.”
There were hundreds of other places, but no one in the Quarter could ever think of one that was half as convenient, and secretly even Di probably liked it. Even with as much wear and tear as its customers put on it, it retained its graciousness. It was a serene corner, never mind the peeling plaster (or maybe that was the best part). Except for the fact that alcohol was most assuredly served there—by the barrel, it seemed—it was probably as good a place as any for two ladies on a spiritual path to meet.
Di, twenty minutes late, arrived apologetic—someone had wanted to talk to her. A male someone was Skip’s guess. She couldn’t tell Di’s age, but knew she’d have admirers at ninety.
“Let me buy you a drink.”
“I never drink, but…” Her eyes fluttered as she saw Skip’s Pimm’s cup, icy sweat dripping down the glass, its slice of cucumber crisp and erect. “You know what, I think I’ll have a glass of wine. I have one about every six months.”
Skip smiled. “And hamburgers too, I’ll bet, if you’re like most people. Not much red meat, but every now and then the tiniest treat.”
“Oh, no. I eat only live foods.”
No way I’m taking that bait, thought Skip. “I know what you mean,” she said, hoping she sounded as if she did. “Listen, it was nice of you to see me tonight. I’m not feeling too good about things.”
She let a beat go by, to give her companion a chance to beg her to pour her story out.
Instead Di gave her a big smile and a pat on the forearm. “Oh, don’t be down—everything’s getting so much better! Listen, we’re really, really onto something in these groups of ours and I just know they’re going to work for you. Don’t you feel it? Did you feel it last night?”
It seemed such a wildly inapp
ropriate response to what Skip had said that she hardly knew how to answer. Finally she settled on “You must have just come from a really good meeting.”
“Oh, I did. I did! I’m so sorry you’re feeling bad—I know I must sound heartless, but it isn’t that.”
Delighted to hear it.
“It’s that I’ve been there. I started going to these meetings because I felt like you do. I guess I was depressed. Oh, I hate that word, it’s so clinical. Anyway, I felt like you’re feeling now. And look at me now. Have you ever seen a happier person? I’m just trying to tell you—by example, my own living example—that you’ll be better, that the whole Earth is getting better, not worse; we’re going to be saved, the world really isn’t going to end, no matter how it seems. Really. It’s a new age.”
“I don’t know, Di. The Age of Aquarius was supposed to be dawning a few years back—isn’t it a little soon for another one?”
Di laughed her curiously flute-like laugh. “I think it is the Age of Aquarius, coming to flower. The Earth is going to be saved and the youthening is coming.”
“The youthening? Is that something I should know about?”
“Oh, it’s just a word I use. It’s not a movement or anything. I just mean we’re all getting younger. Don’t you feel it?”
“I’m not sure.” She took a long swallow of her drink, kind of a short vacation. “Well, to tell you the truth, I guess I really don’t.”
“You will, though. Because everything is connected and you won’t be able to miss it. These groups we go to, for instance; they’re all connected to other groups. And the whole thing is connected to a worldwide movement that’s setting new paradigms.”
So foreign were the words that Skip couldn’t even be sure Di was speaking English, but she found herself feeling oddly buoyant, wanting to believe it, whatever it was.
“Things are getting better,” Di continued. “Things are definitely getting better. I am a goddess and I decree it.”
She smiled so seductively that Skip really thought she could buy the whole thing. The crazy, cock-eyed optimism was catching. Skip sipped again. “A goddess,” she said.
“Of course. All women are goddesses. The faster we can accept that fact, the sooner the youthening can take place, because, of course, to recognize our divinity is to acknowledge our own immortality.”
Skip decided for the moment to treat her as if she were sane. “Let me get something straight,” she said. “Are you saying you actually believe we’re immortal?”
Di laughed, and the sound was like wind chimes. Expensive ones. “You must think I’m crazy. Of course I don’t mean literally immortal—not in linear time (except for being reborn, of course). I mean in real time. Linear time has nothing to do with the cycles of time, which are real time, as you’ll know if you’re tuned in to the valence of the youthening, and live food, and nurturing the inner child. Which I know you are because of where I met you.”
“Well, I’m trying to get tuned in. But last night was only my first meeting. I really think it’s going to be important to me to feel close to the people there.”
“Oh, I do too. And don’t you find you do when they share?”
“I felt very simpatico with you. I found myself wondering about you and wanting to know more.”
Di didn’t answer, merely basked in expected praise like the goddess she was, used to but still enjoying the adoration of the multitudes.
Come to think of it, Skip thought, that’s not so far from a perfect definition of the Southern belle.
“You mentioned a daughter. I noticed because—” Skip stopped in mid-sentence. She had been about to remark that the daughter must be about her age, but suddenly realized that a woman expecting a magical “youthening” might not care to be reminded that she had grown children.
“Did I?” said Di. “Sometimes I feel like I’m channeling in there. I never really know what I’m going to say and I can’t remember it afterward.”
“You definitely mentioned a daughter. I just wondered what she’s like; how old she is.”
“Oh, I never discuss age.” She brought her glass to her lips, pulled it away at the last minute. “Because it’s so false. It means nothing in real time.”
“Of course.” She let a beat pass, wondering where to go next. “Do you have any other children?” she said at last. The child who’d been attacked had been a boy.
“The hardest lesson we’ll ever learn is that we’re all children, don’t you think? But the most valuable. That’s what the inner-child group’s all about and why I love it so much.”
Skip had the sensation of trying to catch feathers borne on a light breeze. She searched for a subject that would bring the goddess to Earth. Perhaps now was the time for the “problem” she’d brought.
“Sometimes,” she said, “my life seems so empty.”
“Oh, no! You’re a goddess; remember that.”
“Could I ask you a personal question?”
Di nodded slightly, but only very slightly.
“You’re a person who seems to have everything—looks, brains. You do seem like a goddess. But what does a goddess do all day? Do you work?”
Di laughed her pretty laugh. “My work right now is healing myself.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Have you been ill?”
“I prefer to use the term ‘dis-ease.’ As in ‘not at ease with oneself ; perhaps ‘not at ease with one’s inner child.’ Today I went and had my hair tested. Have you done that yet?”
“No. I never even heard of it.”
“They can analyze your hair for toxins. Everybody should do it—particularly in this kind of world. I had too much selenium.” She gave Skip a cheery smile; apparently, it wasn’t serious. “Listen, the other thing—have you read Bradshaw’s book on the inner child?”
“Not yet, but it’s next on my list.” After Fake It Till You Make It.
“I’ll lend it to you. It’ll really help a lot.”
It was a clever feint, but Skip refused to be distracted. “Listen, I feel bad about your illness. Doctors are so expensive.”
“Oh, I don’t go to M.D.’s. Not anymore, I mean.” Skip caught a flicker of something—anger? “I try to go to three meetings a day.”
Was that a non sequitur? Had she changed the subject, or was she speaking to it? Skip said, “Instead of doctors?”
“Sort of.” And Di laughed again, which seemed her normal procedure when she’d thoroughly confused her questioner.
It’s as if she knows.
“Tell me about yourself.”
There it was. It had to come sometime. Skip shrugged, trying to hide her nervousness. “There’s not much to tell. I guess if there were, I wouldn’t be going to Coda.”
“Oh, not necessarily. Remember Leon from the other night? He’s from an extremely prominent family. Very high-powered sort of guy.”
“No kidding! He seemed very nice.”
“A little old for my taste.”
“I thought age didn’t matter.”
“State of preservation does.” Her mouth turned up in a way that could only be described as lecherous. Skip went with the mood.
“I know what you mean. Speaking of which, I’m not usually attracted to older guys, but…”
“Don’t tell me. Alex.”
“I guess he’s got quite a fan club.”
“He doesn’t do it for me at all. But everyone under thirty goes nuts for him.”
“What’s his story, anyhow?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. He claims to be ‘an unsuccessful writer.’ Sounds right to me.”
“And he goes through the ladies like so many pairs of socks, I guess.”
“Oh, Skip, they all do.” She picked up her glass again and stared at it, as if summoning the nerve to take a sip. “Are you married?”
“No. Are you?”
“No, and never again. I wish I hadn’t done that. I should have followed my bliss. You’re so lucky, Skip! You can do anything you want. O
r do you work?”
“I just have a civil-service job.” Quickly, she looked at the table, as if too ashamed of her job to meet Di’s eyes. “Nothing to make my family proud.”
But Di seemed to have lost interest. She was looking at her untouched glass. “You know,” she said, “I don’t think I’m a drinker anymore.”
“Would you like something else?”
“No, thanks. I think I’d better go home. Do you want to come with me and get the book?”
Skip was so taken aback, she almost forgot which book. She made a quick call to let Cappello know where she was going.
Di’s apartment was exactly as she’d imagined it except that she hadn’t expected the fireplace. It gave a homey touch but would be about as useful in this city as a snowplow.
But if the place itself was conventional, the eccentricity of the furnishings compensated nicely. The coffee table was covered with a velvet cloth in which crescents and stars had been worked in silver thread, and on the cloth reposed a large crystal ball. Tarot cards were laid out, apparently from Di’s last reading. Three large crystal bowls—actually bells for meditation—stood on a sideboard. A bust of Apollo topped a bookcase. Sandalwood scented the air. Candles covered nearly every surface.
Yet care had been taken not to let the mystical trappings become heavy, weight the room’s essential femininity. The walls were painted apricot; taffeta drapes striped in apricot and white flanked the French doors, a simple cornice between them. A Victorian settee was covered in tangerine, piled high with pillows. The other furniture was also old but light, walnut or cherry. The candles, all forty-odd of them, had been chosen for their perfect complementary colors—either white or shades of yellow and orange, or dark green for contrast. A single art object hung on the walls, a metal sculpture painted white and touched with gilt, a cut-out of a graceful woman in flowing gauze. She was winged, but no angel; more like a fairy. Her airy quality reminded Skip of her owner.
“This is quite something.”
“What?” Di was lighting some of her candles. “Oh, my decor. I’m a priestess of voodoo, you know.”
“Oh.” Were there white voodoo priestesses? Skip supposed so. “I got the impression meetings were pretty much your whole life.”
