by Amber Foxx
The audience began to clap along with the beat. Naomi stood, swinging her hips, clapping above her head and flinging her hair. With a practiced adolescent eye roll, Lily tapped Mae on the arm and then rose and walked off. Startled, Mae scrambled past the other people in the row and ran after her.
“Where are you going? You just got back together with your daddy after months, and your mama is so excited to see you—”
“She’s excited to see herself. I’m just a prop. Daddy’s just a prop. Jill was a prop. She even thinks knowing Jamie makes her cool and he’s only halfway famous. Can’t you see what she’s like? She makes me sick.”
“Okay, so you don’t get along with her. But your daddy’s still singing.”
“Like I’ve never heard him before?”
“Still, I don’t think he expected you to walk out.”
Jamie took the melody so Harold could sing deep bass, and then Harold came back on melody for Jamie to take the high notes. Lily strode toward the parking lot, extracting her keys from the key pocket on the outside of her little purse. “Serves him right. He was gone for half my life.”
“I know he was, but he’s trying to reconnect with you—”
“Then he’ll forgive me. Like the prodigal son, right?” Lily slowed down as she drew close to a dark blue Mini Cooper, clicked its key to unlock it, and opened the back. It was full of suitcases. “He already said he’ll come see me in New York.”
“You’re moving there?”
“Of course. You didn’t think I’d stay here, did you? I mean, the desert air is so bad for skin. And I got what I needed, right? Jeteuse. I’m on top. I don’t need power anymore.” Mae didn’t know what to say, but her face must have shown her disbelief. Avoiding Mae’s eyes, Lily reached behind her suitcases in the tiny compartment, shoving a few boxes of shoes aside. “I guess what I mean is ... my career will probably last longer without it.”
You keep on believing that. “I’m sure it will.”
Lily brought out a tiny brown shopping bag and handed it to Mae. “Sorry this isn’t gift wrapped. I ran out of time.”
“Lily, I—”
With an exasperated sigh, Lily shut her car. “Open it.”
Half-fearing to find little carved bones or twisted ropes of hair, Mae took a small brown box from the bag and opened it. Inside it lay a set of simple, elegant accessories in green turquoise framed in silver: earrings, a pendant, and the bracelet Lily had urged her to buy. Stunned, Mae closed the box and sought Lily’s eyes, but the girl was looking at their feet.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
“You’ll have to come see me in New York. I’ll take you to my stylist, get you a makeover. And I’m going to get you to a Pilates class, seriously. You need to stop building so much muscle.”
Mae almost laughed. “Thanks for thinking of me.”
“You’re welcome.” Lily offered her arms tentatively, and Mae received her wilted hug with such amazement she had to remind herself to hug her back. Lily’s voice stayed cool and flat, but her volume dropped as if her words were too heavy for her. “Everybody wants to use me or fix me or fuck me. You’re the only person I’ve ever met who actually wanted to be my friend.”
Mae held her tighter. She’d thought Lily must have some selfish motive for connecting with her and had told Kate she couldn’t call the feeling she had for the girl friendship, but in Lily’s eyes it had been.
*****
Kate didn’t schedule any clients during the final musical performance. She’d promised her sponsor she’d take time to enjoy life and not work herself into a relapse, and she hadn’t done much to keep that promise today.
While Gaia Greene chanted, drummed, and slowly spun, tiny bells jingled on her regalia. Jamie harmonized in an unearthly minor key. Then Gaia gave him her drum. She moved like a cross between a bird and a whirlwind while Jamie, still chanting, accelerated the beat. Her dance reached a crescendo, stopped, and Jamie shifted back into a slow, steady pulse. When Gaia took her drum back, Jamie played shakuhachi, ethereal and shrill. Gaia danced while drumming. Something about her high, slow steps gave Kate the image of a puppet operated by spirits. She glanced at Hilda. The artist looked strained, the way she had at her first AA meeting
The last song came to an end. Gaia took one deep bow and left the stage by its back steps. Jamie kept holding his arms out to her as she vanished, sending the applause after her. When it finally faded, he faced the audience, swept off his hat and waved it with a twirl. “Thanks. Love ya. Drive safe. Come back tomorrow. Catcha.”
More applause followed him off the stage. Kate knew he couldn’t hear her, but she gave him a cheer. He’d done his job and more: his opening set, all the introductions, a song or two with most of the performers, and then the closing number with Gaia, an exhausting schedule even without the emotional stress of his first speech. Aside from a few spacey moments midway, he’d held up. Jangarrai one, Jill Betts, zero.
The sun was setting. Kate left her things on her table—she had little to pack—and went to help Hilda. She started with the few CDs that were left. “Are you hanging in all right?”
“Not really.” Hilda took a framed print from the wall of the booth, slid it into a cardboard art box, and poured packing peanuts in around it. “It’s actually depressing to have them back. I was starting to like ordinary reality.”
“They don’t make you want to drink now, do they?”
“Not yet. If they don’t go away, though, they could.”
Tim joined them and began to help Hilda pack her prints. She’d sold a lot. Kate wondered if the angels—or the light-sound creatures, as she thought of them now—were pleased, and if they wanted Hilda to paint them again and to recreate more of their music.
Mae and Jamie approached, holding hands. Kate excused herself to Hilda and returned to her own booth. Talking to Mae about payment should be private. Mae greeted Kate with a soft drawly hey. Jamie, suddenly intent, began pawing through the Tarot cards. He slapped down the Tower, the Hierophant and Strength in a row and stared at them. “Fuck. I get it now.”
“We all do.” Kate took the three cards away from him and opened their box. “For all the good it does at this point.”
“Jeezus. Wasn’t criticizing you. Just saying, y’know, I get it. That’s all. You don’t have to rip—”
“I didn’t—”
Mae cut in. “Sugar, why don’t you go talk with Hilda?”
“In a minute.” He slid the remaining cards around. His long, liquid fingers hovered above the Hanged Man, tapped the Fool, and then Death. “What if that was my reading?”
“It isn’t,” Kate said. “You’re not supposed to see them while you pick them.”
“Good. Didn’t like those. Like the wine glasses better.” He pulled out the five of cups and the ace of pentacles. “And the star-circle doovalackies. They look nicer.”
“The cards aren’t inherently nice or bad. It’s how they’re placed. Did you want a reading?”
“Nah. Rather not know.” Jamie stacked the cards neatly and handed them to Kate. His please-like-me smile turned on like a floodlight. “You and Tim want to come for dinner tonight?”
Mae looked as surprised as Kate felt. A good excuse to decline. “Thanks, but it’s been a long day. Maybe some other time.”
Jamie nodded, subdued and withdrawn, and drifted to Hilda’s booth. Kate asked Mae, “Did that piss him off? I mean, I could tell you didn’t expect him to do that, and I imagine you’re as tired as I am.”
“So’s he. He just doesn’t know it yet. It’s okay.” Mae sat in the client’s chair. “Did you hear anything from Mary Kay or Ximena?”
“Yes. Thanks for asking. They’re healed. I’m trying to see if I can get booths added for them tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything sooner. This was over my head. I need to train more, I think. Practice more, too.”
Kate packed her cards into their box and began to wrap the crystal ball in a velvet
cloth. “It was over everybody’s head except those shamans in Tuva. I didn’t understand my own reading. Even Fiona and Gaia got taken in. I’ll still pay you what I didn’t have to spend getting Andrea into that stupid drum group—maybe even the whole paycheck if Jill will do a refund.”
“She might. I expect that group is closing down.”
Kate placed the ball in its wooden container, tucked its stand in with it and closed the lid. She glanced over to Hilda’s booth. Tim was alone, packing one final print. She asked him, “Where did Hilda go? And where’s Jamie?”
Tim sealed the last angel in its box. “He took her to his father’s office. He’s going to try to teach her to send away spirits.”
Kate turned back to Mae. “Can he do that?”
“Sometimes.” The breeze shook the banner above the empty stage, making a whipping, snapping sound, rippling the logo of Spirit World Fair. “Not always, though. They got pretty strong minds of their own.”
Epilogue
The same moon, round and white, lit the desert and the lake. Jamie stopped at the water’s edge. First, he had to sing the song. Reviving that melody felt strange, but the scene had to be set, the story retold.
I might be the stars in the deep of the night
Might be the sun on your face at noon
If you go into the Dreamtime
You will see me soon.
The place Kandy had wanted to find him. Was she in her underworld now, coming out sometimes as a cloud? The monsoons should start any day now. Maybe he would feel her presence in a flash of lightning, a wash of rain.
He’d been talking about her in therapy for three weeks now. It hurt. The loss of her was greater for being spoken of, a bone of grief that had healed wrong and had to be broken and reset.
I’ll be the beat of your feet when you walk down the street
A snatch of song from a passing car.
We can meet deep in the Dreamtime
Right where you are.
His voice, for all its size and power, sounded small to him, spreading without echo over the island-studded lake, vanishing without reaching the mountains. Coyotes yipped somewhere in the desert behind him. Fear of canines rose in him, but he breathed it away and sang more softly so they couldn’t hear him.
If you go into the Dreamtime
I won’t be far.
He liked the tune, with its weirdly danceable Brazilian beat. Funny, for a death song. No, not really. Suicide always had that euphoria right before the act. The high of believing he’d be free. Had Kandy felt that when she’d decided to drink? Somewhere behind her sadness and despair, a perverse kind of hope?
Jamie waded into the lake. Its coldness stopped his breath, and it was seventy-six degrees. How had he made himself go in, in March? Swimming with rocks. Jesus. He’d been serious about dying. When he reached waist deep, he dropped forward and began to swim out, aiming for the place where he’d stopped before, halfway between the shore and the nearest island. It was easy now, without the wet clothes and the rocks. At the approximate spot, he turned onto his back and floated.
He stroked in a slow circle, spinning the sky. Maybe he should have told someone he was doing this. Going under scared him now. He hoped he wouldn’t have to stay down long to finally grasp the rest of the memory. That last conscious craving for air had been terrifying.
He took a huge breath and let himself hang vertically under the water, rationing his exhalations, and then stopped the bubbles, looking up at the blurry moon. No light. No voice. Only fear. He pushed back to the surface and inhaled greedily. Should he go under and try again, or was it too dangerous?
The longer he floated in indecision, the more the water chilled him. A shooting star crossed the moon-bright sky, flying toward T or C. Too cold and frightened to stay any longer, Jamie swam back toward the shore. The movement warmed and calmed him. His strokes and kicks flowed with scarcely a splash as he sliced through the water. On the beach, he picked up his towel, though in the desert he hardly needed it, and started uphill toward his camp.
No miracle of aliveness this time, no shivering and staggering to his car. After a hundred-degree day, the night air was still around eighty-five degrees. He crawled through the small flap of his tent, the humbling low door that reminded him of entering a sweat lodge or a Japanese tea house. He left it open to the night breeze and moonlight. Inside, he had only what he’d had in March. No food, only water, and the same book that he’d found unread in the hatchback that night. The book he’d stared at, incapable of reading, as he’d tried to avoid and yet to process what had just happened.
He took off his trunks, got into his sleeping bag wearing nothing but his headlamp, and picked up Light on Life. The title of the appendix, Asana for Emotional Stability, attracted him, and he flipped ahead to it. He couldn’t do half of the poses in the illustrations, but he related to the drawing of a man in those awful little shorts with his belly hanging down at him in a shoulder stand. Jamie laughed out loud, and returned to the first chapter of the book.
Hunger and fatigue made it hard to focus. No insights were destined to come tonight, from yoga philosophy or anything else. He set the book down and turned his headlamp to face the wall, a soft, safe light for sleeping. His trip through death remained a mystery.
He rolled to his side, reached to close the flap of his tent—and then the Fiesta’s headlights came on, beaming out across the lake.
The memory surfaced. He could hear her now, the voice that gave him strength to shed the pack, to push upward, to keep struggling stroke by stroke.
Stay strong, Big Buddy. You can do it. Swim toward the light.
Slowly, like a sunset, all the lights turned off.
Jamie packed up his camp. He could be in T or C in fifteen minutes. It was only around midnight. Mae could still be awake—and even if she wasn’t, he had a feeling she wouldn’t mind his showing up.
When he pulled his car into Mae’s driveway, he noticed the big mesquite tree by the front steps had been cut to a stump. A few lively branches straggled from its base, prickly with health. He got out and Mae came around from the back yard in her bathing suit. She’d been in the hot spring.
“What’s going on, sugar? You okay?” She toweled off and hugged him. “I didn’t expect you ’til tomorrow.”
“Mm. Yeah. Hope it’s all right.”
“Of course it’s all right. You want to soak?”
“Nah. Later. Hungry. Haven’t eaten since noon.”
On his way to the house Jamie nearly stepped on a beetle the size of a small eggplant. It rocked against the dirt as if making love to the earth. He bolted onto the porch. Mae crouched to admire the giant insect, cooing over it like a child with a toy. “I saw another one this big down by the river that had a red and black back.”
“Jesus.” Jamie opened the door. “That’s too fucking big.”
She stood, letting the beetle go about its mysterious night business. They went inside, into the dimly lit kitchen. He kissed her, pulling her close against him. Mae ran one hand into his hair, the other down his back. “I thought you were hungry.”
“Lonely, too.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Mostly.” About to go in for another kiss, Jamie saw something over Mae’s shoulder almost as creepy as the beetle, and he froze. “Bloody hell—will you look at that?”
On the window screen a pair of lizards chased moths that had come to the light. One lizard caught its prey sideways in its small jaw and struggled to chuff the powdery creature down its gullet. The reptile’s underbelly was so translucent he could see the moth’s passage.
“Jeezus.” Jamie broke the embrace. “I’ll be thinking about that for the rest of the night.” He opened a cabinet and took out a box of pasta and a bottle of olive oil. “Watch myself eat and think about being all transparent like that.”
“That’d be funny.” Mae tickled his belly as she passed on her way to the window lizards. “These guys are so cute. They come every night.
I like how you can see inside ’em. And they got those little feet and itty bitty toenails that you can see through, too. Whoop—there goes another moth. Down the hatch. It’s in his tummy now.”
“Fuck. Don’t tell me about it. They need shirts. Get ’em some doll clothes or something.” He filled a pan with water and put it on the stove. “Why is the world so full of strange things?”
“It’s only strange to us. If we were them, we wouldn’t think so.”
He walked to the window and pulled down the shade. “Sorry, love, can’t look at lizard guts while I eat. If you like to look at weird creatures, you’ll have to settle for me for now.”
After a good meal, love-making, and a hot spring soak. Jamie should have been drugged with bliss, but he couldn’t sleep. The room was too dark. Mae had double layers of curtains blocking every last photon of light. The air conditioner roared in the window over the bed, intermittently changing its force and loudness like a snoring roommate. Undisturbed, Mae slept in his arms, her back against his front, spooning peacefully. Careful not to wake her, he moved his hand to the curve of her hip. He wished he could see her. It would pass the time.
In his idle state of tired yet sleepless mind, he imagined spirit visitors and guardians watching over them, and wondered what they thought. Was Kandy happy for him now?
Like a fall into sleep that went up and backwards, the spirit door opened wide. Not from his side but from theirs. Through a skin as sheer and alive as the lizards’ bellies, a chaotic world looked down on him—a Picasso cubist painting mixed with an Escher infinity drawing, full of active light, busy with watchers. Time jerked and stopped, backed and circled and spun. Voices murmured and conferred. Entities changed forms, moving in ways not possible with bodies.
The spirits ranged from human ghosts to the buzzing lights and shapes like Hilda’s angel paintings. He caught a glimpse of the doctor who had told him to close up Ximena, and then an old woman he sensed was Mae’s grandmother. Kandy. The blue whizzing lights again. A coyote walking like a man and laughing. The dead and the spirits, shifting through the layers and dimensions, looked out and down, watched, spoke among themselves in voices like light through a prism, and shifted again.
