by Jane Heller
“In other words, it was in 1902 that it got its first Blockbuster Video,” Michael joked.
“No, Blockbuster came in 1903,” Terry joked back. “Actually, it was in 1902 that Carl and Sedona Schnebly, a couple from the eastern U.S., settled here. Sedona Schnebly was quite the pioneer woman and loved the simpler, more rugged lifestyle she found out west. She and her husband became the unofficial Welcome Wagon in town, opening the first hotel here.”
“Why on earth didn’t you book us rooms at that hotel?” Amanda demanded of Tina. “Think of the historic implications, the local color, the opportunity to tell my friends that I stayed where it all began.”
Before Tina could defend herself, Terry explained that the Schneblys’ hotel no longer existed. It was currently the site of a large resort called Los Abrigados, whose Italian restaurant, Joey Bistro, served Sicilian dishes and was a favorite with tourists.
“The town finally got its name when Carl Schnebly became the local postmaster,” Terry continued with his history lesson. “All his friends suggested he name the place after his wife, Sedona.”
“A beautiful name,” Marie commented. “It sounds Spanish, no?”
“Many people think so,” said Terry. “But New Agers here attach a special significance to the word, because ‘Sedona’ spelled backwards is ‘Anodes,’ the conducting surfaces through which electrical current flows.”
“Well! Now that’s just the sort of thing that fascinates me. All that New Age-y information,” Amanda said, sounding pleased.
“Mrs. Reid has become quite a student of the New Age Movement,” Jennifer pointed out to Michael, prompting him to resume his note-taking. “She’s thinking of asking Marianne Williamson to officiate when she and Mr. Reid renew their wedding vows next year.”
“Is that right?” said Michael. I was facing front, so I couldn’t see him, but judging by his tone, I could tell that he was underwhelmed by the information.
“Yes, I’ve truly immersed myself in all things New Age,” Amanda confirmed.
“When did you first become interested in the Movement?” Michael asked her.
“Let’s see,” she pondered. “I believe it was at a dinner party my husband and I gave in honor of the Duchess of York.”
“Fergie?” said Michael.
“Who else?” Amanda sniffed.
“Ah, yes. I remember the dinner well,” Marie said nostalgically. “I prepared a lovely Escalope de Veau, no?”
“No,” Amanda said abruptly, angered that her chef had insinuated herself into the interview. “The veal was tough. The Duchess hardly touched hers. I remember that well.”
Marie retreated.
“Getting back to your introduction to the New Age Movement,” Michael went on, “you were saying—”
“I was saying that the Duchess took me into her confidence that evening, mentioning to me that she had been consulting a psychic,” Amanda disclosed, “although she referred to the woman as her spiritual counselor. In any case, she spoke very highly of the woman, of how she had predicted this and that and how each and every prediction had come to pass. I was skeptical at first, of course, but then the Duchess smiled at me and said, ‘Amanda, one must always keep an open mind because one really has no idea how the universe works, does one?’” Amanda paused, reflecting on the profundity of the Duchess’s words. I looked over at Terry again. He was grinning. I had a feeling he heard wacky anecdotes like Amanda’s all the time in his business, albeit not including quotes from members of the royal family. “By the time dessert was served—”
“Ah, yes. Beautiful little chocolate soufflés, no?” Marie volunteered.
“By the time dessert was served,” Amanda continued, ignoring her cook completely, “I realized that the Duchess was absolutely right. We earthly beings don’t know how or why things happen as they do. We can’t say with complete certainty what fate has in store, for example, or whether angels actually exist, or even whether some people have a higher state of consciousness than others. I thought, I really should investigate all this. I really should become more involved in the subject.”
“You felt this urge as a result of your conversation with the Duchess of York,” Michael confirmed.
“Yes. And because the line of clothing I had hoped to market never got off the ground,” said Amanda.
“I’m not following you,” said Michael.
“I had planned to become a designer,” said Amanda, “and, after that, to open a restaurant or host a talk show or launch my own Web site.” She sighed. “Harrison said I should leave it to my friends to juggle all sorts of business ventures if they want to, but I plunged right in. Unfortunately, none of my projects went anywhere.”
Poor thing, I thought. She really is a woman in search of an identity.
“And so I said to myself: ‘Amanda, forget about all those worldly ambitions of yours and find out about this spirituality thing that everybody’s talking about. Maybe there’s money to be made there.’”
Terry and I both laughed out loud. It was impossible not to.
“When you say there may be money to be made, what do you mean, exactly?” Michael asked Amanda.
“Well, this is going to be quite a scoop for your magazine,” she began, as if she didn’t have a clue that the person Michael’s magazine was really interested in was her husband. “I’ve decided that I don’t care about the clothing line, the restaurant, or the talk show. What I care about now is becoming the high priestess of New Age. You know, the Martha Stewart of Metaphysics.”
Before anyone could react, Jennifer, the media architect, jumped in, putting a spin on her client’s announcement. “Mrs. Reid has a genuine thirst, not only for acquiring knowledge about the New Age Movement, but for communicating what she learns to the masses.” She spoke in her usual enthusiastic way, but more slowly this time, so Michael could jot down every word. “She intends to deliver lectures, write books, produce audio and videotapes, star in infomercials, whatever it takes to reach people, to help people.”
“And, of course, there could be a clothing line eventually,” Amanda added. “A New Age clothing line.” I tried to imagine who would buy such clothes, not to mention what they would look like, and then remembered Rona. “So you see, driver.” She tapped Terry on the back. “I’m here to discover. I want to become as spiritual as a person can possibly become. In five days, that is.”
“Okay, Amanda,” said Terry as he swung the Jeep into a parking lot. “We’re gonna start with Airport Mesa and work up to the more strenuous stuff. We find that it’s easier on people if we save the heavy hiking for the last couple of days of the tour.”
“The hiking’s not a problem for Mrs. Reid,” said Billy. “That’s why I’m here. In case she pulls something.” Oh, she’ll pull something, all right, I thought, having seen and heard how Amanda Reid operated. The question was: what?
Terry grabbed a package from underneath his seat, then led us up the cliff, which was a climb but not exactly Mt. Everest. By the time we had all followed him to a relatively flat plateau, it was after ten o’clock and the place was swarming with tourists meditating, soaking up the sun, or sight-seeing. I spotted the intense-looking blond man who had approached me in Tranquility’s parking lot the day before—the Reiki healer who had diagnosed my “bad space” and given me his card. He hadn’t changed clothes; he was still wearing the blue jeans, the silver-and-turquoise cross, and the “There’s No Place Like Om” T-shirt. And he hadn’t changed his sales pitch—much; he was advising three topless sunbathers that they were in a bad space, and also telling them they were in a bad state. They probably thought he meant Arizona. I pointed him out to Terry and asked if he knew the man.
“Everybody knows him. Or, should I say, everybody has his business card.” He laughed. “He’s sort of a local character.”
“I feel as if I’ve really arrived then,” I said. “I have his business card, too.”
Terry suggested we keep walking until we found a less crowded area
where we could enjoy the breezes and the view in peace and quiet.
“We’ll need quiet in order to tap into the vortex, is that correct?” asked Amanda.
“It’s just a lot easier to connect with the land when everybody isn’t on top of each other,” said Terry. “That’s one of the reasons people settled in the west all those years ago: so they could spread out.”
“Speaking of spreading out—or, should I say, of being unable to spread out—my cowboy boots are a size too small for me, Tina,” Amanda said testily. “I thought you ordered me a seven medium. These feel more like a six.”
“Isn’t the size printed somewhere on the boots?” Tina asked, apparently not as surprised by the non sequitur as the rest of us were.
“How do I know?” Amanda snarled. “I didn’t turn them upside down. They’re too tight, that’s the point. In the heel, in the toe, everywhere.”
“I’ll take care of it when we get home,” Tina said wearily. She was about to pull a cigarette out of the pack in her jeans pocket, then remembered Terry’s admonition and decided against it.
I feel sorry for her, I thought, sorry for anyone who works for Amanda Reid. I suddenly wondered if being Amanda’s husband was any easier than being her employee, and doubted it.
“Here. This ought to do it,” Terry said when we got to an area that was free of other pilgrims. It was a craggy but level section of the red rocks we had just mounted—a sheltered spot where we could stand and observe not only the town of Sedona below, but the surrounding cliffs, mountains, valleys, and especially the sky, which felt close enough to touch.
Terry dropped the bag he’d been carrying, wiped the sweat that had accumulated on his brow, and extended his arms straight out into the open air. “Take a good look at this, folks. It won’t last.”
“What won’t last?” I asked, marveling at the exquisite sight before me—a sight that blended colors and shapes and textures in a way that postcards could never capture.
“This view. This exact view,” Terry explained, gesturing again toward the horizon. “When I came here over ten years ago, you looked out from Airport Mesa and saw nothing but nature’s handiwork. Now you’ve got these trophy houses blitzing the landscape—big pink monstrosities built by yuppies from Phoenix as summer getaways. In five years, they’ll be all over the place.”
“Then now is probably the time to buy,” said Amanda, not getting it. “Before the prices go through the roof.”
Terry smiled at me and shrugged. In response, I smiled at him and shrugged. Yet again, I felt transported back in time, this time to the English class we both took in our senior year of college. We’d sit next to each other and whenever the eccentric professor would say something particularly off the wall, we’d smile and shrug. Our secret code. The one we’d just used instinctively. As if twenty years hadn’t intervened. The old days with Terry were coming back to me, whether I liked it or not.
“Frankly, I don’t feel any different standing on this cliff than I did standing in the lobby of the hotel,” Amanda remarked. “In terms of energy level, I mean. This is a vortex site, you say.”
Terry reached into the bag he had set on the ground and pulled out what looked like a pair of wire coat hangers that had been bent out of their normal shape. “Come, Amanda,” he said, motioning for her to stand next to him. “We’re going to conduct a little experiment and you’ll be our first guinea pig, okay?”
“Why not?” she said, approaching him. “I’m here to learn, as I’ve been telling Mr. Mandell, the journalist.”
“Good. Take one of these in each hand,” Terry instructed her, curving her fingers around the pieces of metal.
“What are they?” I asked as he was helping her grip them.
“Old-fashioned divining rods,” he replied. “The Indians use them to divine the presence of water or valuable minerals. They also use them to divine the presence of energy fields. When you’re holding the rods parallel to each other and they suddenly start to crisscross, you’re in an energy field, a power spot, a vortex, whatever you want to call it.”
“Sounds like a bunch of bull to me,” Billy muttered.
“Hush, Billy,” Amanda said. “This is why I came to Sedona. These divining rods must be very New Age. If they really work, I’ll use them as centerpieces at my next dinner party. Blaine Trump will eat her heart out.”
“Okay, Amanda, now hold the rods steady,” Terry coached. “Keep them straight out in front of you and start walking very slowly, toward Tina and the others.”
Amanda began to take little baby steps across the cracked and dusty red earth, watching the rods carefully, waiting for the slightest change in their direction. “They’re not crisscrossing,” she whined after barely a second.
“Then you haven’t hit the energy field yet,” said Terry. “Keep walking.”
As Amanda drew within a few feet of Tina and the rest of us, the divining rods began to cross, like swords on a coat of arms.
“Oooh! Look!” she squealed. “They worked! I’m in the energy field!”
“Are you sure you’re not making them go like that on purpose?” Billy asked her, obviously threatened by his loss of control over his meal ticket.
“Of course not,” she said. “I’m in a vortex right this very minute! I can feel my genitals hum!”
Terry lost it. “All right, Amanda,” he managed when he’d stopped laughing. “Now turn around and walk back toward me. What we want to do is define exactly where the energy field begins and ends.”
She did as she was told, humming genitals and all. As she came within a foot of Terry, the rods straightened again; she was outside the power spot.
“How marvelous!” she said. “Now what?”
“Now, we’re going to let the others try it,” Terry said. “Who wants to?”
Only Marie and I raised our hands. Michael was too busy taking notes, Jennifer was too busy making sure that Michael’s notes were accurate—or, at least, distorted in a way that made her client look good. Billy was too busy rubbing Amanda down after her strenuous ordeal, and Tina was too busy sulking.
Marie went first. She, too, squealed when the divining rods began to move—but only because one of them nearly poked her in the eye.
When my turn came, Terry positioned himself behind me, his arms encircling me as he helped me grip the wire rods so they would remain parallel to each other. His nearness turned my body into an energy field. It was uncanny how the man was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger to me now, and yet all he had to do was smile at me or give me a look or, God forbid, touch me and it was as if no time had passed, as if we were kids again.
“I think I’m fine on my own,” I said, pulling away.
“You always were,” said Terry, the comment talking me by surprise.
I dismissed it and tried to focus on the divining rods, on keeping them straight as I walked toward Amanda and her group.
“You’re getting closer,” Marie called out, encouraging me, cheering me on. “Just a few more feet and you’ll be in the power place!”
Moments after she’d spoken, the rods crossed and I had stepped inside the energy field—in exactly the same spot where the others had watched their rods cross. Gee, these wire things must be incredibly accurate, I thought. How else could we all have had the identical experience?
As I stood there shaking my head at the mystery of it all, I took stock of the way my body was reacting. According to Rona, when you “intersected” with a vortex, you were supposed to feel an intense, almost overwhelming kind of electricity, a bolt of energy that imbued you with a sense of power and possibility, a wave of connectedness with your surroundings.
Was that what was going on inside me? I wondered.
Was that what the heightened nerve endings and tingling fingers and toes and throbbing heart were all about? The vortex?
Maybe. Or maybe it was something else. Someone else.
“Time to move on,” Terry called out, to me and the rest of our group
. “We’ve got lots to see and do today.”
I nodded, walked back to him, and handed him the divining rods.
“Time to move on,” I agreed, making a conscious decision to do just that.
Chapter Eleven
“What’s next on our itinerary?” I asked Terry as we trudged down to the parking lot below Airport Mesa. It was nearly eleven o’clock. Almost lunchtime.
“Since there’s only about an hour until we stop for lunch,” he said, reading my mind—or hearing my stomach growl, “I figured I’d take you all to Bell Rock. It’s close by.”
“Is this Bell Rock another vortex?” said Amanda with breathless anticipation.
“Yup, and the added attraction is that it’s shaped like a bell,” he told her. “It’s a great spot, but really noisy. They’ve got a road running through it now.”
“Noisy? So what?” Amanda said. “As long as it has those energy fields, who cares?”
We hopped into the Jeep for the ride to Bell Rock, which turned out to be another magnificent red rock formation. But Terry was right; it was noisy. Never mind the major thoroughfare that wound its way around the cliff. There was also a bustling motel bearing its name, an accompanying restaurant, and several really tacky souvenir shops, all called Bell Rock This or Bell Rock That. The scene reminded me of that old TV commercial where the Indian looks out over land that’s been trashed and cries.
Terry guided us up the cliff, delivering another history lesson as we climbed, but we could hardly hear him, what with the loud traffic, made even louder because sound rises. We ended up spending only about a half-hour total at Bell Rock—I think Terry felt obligated to show it to us but didn’t especially want to be there. On our way down, Amanda saw something that interested her and called us all over to look.
