by Bruce Wagner
Tears hung in her eyes, and Jeremy thought he saw them in the boy’s as well; his own became wet by contagion.
“And we talked like that—I talked like that—for hours and hours and hours, until there was no more sorrow, rage, or yearning to be shown. Then one day, my Sir said—of course I didn’t yet know him as ‘my Sir,’ ‘my guru’—my Sir said, ‘It’s all over now’—said it under his breath, as if talking to himself—but I heard and I cringed because I thought he meant my poor Bella! It’s all over now—God, the agony when I heard that! (And he was right, about it being over for her, though, you see, he meant something entirely different. I’ll tell you what he really meant in just a little while.) ‘It’s all over,’ he said, louder this time, and looked me dead in the eye. ‘It’s over because now they know. I made certain of it—the “contract” is magnificently broken.’ I thought, What on earth could he be talking about? What contract? I hadn’t a clue. What strange words from a sidewalk saint, this rumpled, roly-poly, Rumpole-looking dervish who sent everything whirling! Before I could gather my wits and ask, he seized my arm and said with an urgency that thundered:
“‘Let’s see about your daughter now!’”
The flames in the pit suddenly brightened, letting loose a crack like gunfire—man and boy jumped from their skin, but the unsinkable Devi didn’t stir. She just sat there smiling, cool and inscrutable.
“On the way back to Children’s, we walked in silence—Silence. Did you know that Silence has a sound? One day you’ll hear it. I have no words to describe—there are no words—isn’t it funny that it even has a name?—‘Silence’?—the closest I can come is that it’s like the sound of a single, extended heartbeat—within a . . . cathedral. Not a human heart . . . and we’re enshrouded by it, it belongs to the Source . . . and not that it can belong anywhere—I know I’m not making sense, that’s my fault, not yours, but one day you might have an inclination of what I’m trying to tell you.” She stared directly at Tristen, who appeared both unnerved and ennobled. “You will understand, young man! You already do.” She brought her gaze to the other, so as not to neglect. “And you, my dear Jerome, are on your way! Well on your way!”
She refilled their wineglasses. The ocean roared and quieted, roared and quieted, as if it too were restive for more talk, more spirits. Devi leaned to stoke the fire, which had also grown ornery; at her nourishing touch, it regained equilibrium.
She had the full attention of the elements again.
“The quality of our reception at the hospital was, shall we say, guarded. Ha! My ‘friendly giant’ was wild and unkempt, carrying with him the ambrosia of the streets. Until we arrived, I hadn’t considered how we’d be greeted. When I saw the fearful look on their faces, I only hoped they wouldn’t be too rude—see, I didn’t want to offend them either, because those nurses had been Bella’s angels, and mine too. I think I debated whether or not to announce him as my child’s father or godfather or grand pa-pa—I remember being wary of doing anything to insult my big Sir. But he wouldn’t have cared at all! It wouldn’t have mattered who I said he was! He wasn’t of this world! You see it was all new to me, so I dared not presume . . . I suppose as well that I simply didn’t want to tell a lie—in the face of this formidable creature, any subterfuge, no matter how small or expedient, suddenly seemed like a sin. Of course, in his world, there is no such as sin—or a ‘lie’ . . . nor is there ‘truth.’ Only Silence! I didn’t know that yet, any of it. It was all so completely new.
“The oncology ward is sacred ground. Pain, unutterable sorrow, and resurrection live there; it is a cradle, like an infant’s, of the Source. Bella was just awakening when we came in. By then, the man who would be my teacher, who already was though I didn’t yet know it . . . we had both donned the required surgical masks and gloves—shimmering raiments of Silence’s heart!—and my human heart broke when I saw her, and saw him—witnessed the care he lavished on my baby. ‘The divine interplay.’ He touched her head with his hand so softly, that bearish hand that had already spent a thousand lifetimes ringing the bells of this world and of worlds beyond—I couldn’t stand it. I was about to faint when a spate of bells clanged me to life. I was startled, for those clangorous sounds had abandoned me from that first moment I sat with him on his shaggy patch of sidewalk—remember? But now I heard them again, was jolted, just as that crack of fire jolted you—twelve times, they rang, a dozen percussive strokes, for it was high noon, and the tower, only blocks away, was tolling. My Sir kept his hand on Bella’s head while he turned to me, his eyes blurred by— . . . he once told me that tears of Silence are rare as an owl’s, and if one is very lucky, one may hitch a ride on such a raft of teardrops, all the way to the Source. With the most beautiful smile, he whispered, ‘The little one has now broken her contract as well. How magnificent! Come, Cathy, come! Take her in your arms!’ (I was Cathy before he named me Devi.) ‘She’s leaving now! Hold her while the bells ring out!’ And I held her and they kept ringing . . . later, one of the nurses said that a mechanism in the tower went awry, so the cycle of twelve kept repeating, ten times in all, a hundred and twenty tolls, ceasing only upon my daughter’s last breath.
“Sir made the funeral arrangements. He showed me a napkin sketch of a mausoleum, like an elegant confection, with a filigreed entryway and little benches inside where one could sit. Construction would begin the next day—but how? I never asked, never questioned the phantasmagoric speed with which he made everything possible. On the day of her burial, trucks delivered beds and beds of Million Bells. Do you know the flower? Calibrachoa. We have some in our garden—you walked through it on your way to the beach—I carry seeds around in my purse. Oh, it was a gorgeous celebration, not a funeral but a wedding! My Sir said that now I would hear bells no more—and the ringing would only resume when Bella and I were together again. He told me I’d see her soon, ‘soon enough,’ that’s what he said, and somehow I knew he wasn’t talking about the afterlife. I’d see her soon in this world, or something so much like it that I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference . . . she used to be here, he said—but there was where I’d find her. ‘We will go to the place she now finds herself.’ That’s how he put it. ‘I’ll take you.’ I believed him—and believe him still. That was where we were—are—traveling. We were on our way to the place of ‘a million bells’ when you interceded. When you came to sit on that bench . . . dear Jerome!
“You are the reason we stopped, and now find ourselves here. That’s what my teacher told me tonight, just an hour before you came.”
—
The rest of the evening was spent shaking off the spell cast by her wrenching, cockeyed illuminations and they danced for their lives to a mixtape of one-hit wonders: “Come On Eileen,” A-ha, the Easybeats, “Spirit in the Sky.” With amazement, he watched Tristen become utterly transported (Jeremy was almost ashamed by his failure to believe the gyrating boy could have been capable of such elegantly frenzied interpretations) before turning his eye to the house. There, a massive robed figure rummaged through the Sub-Zero like some burgling, Edwardian ringmaster. He left his friends to their ecstatic, giggly contortions and went to have a look.
He crept in through the pantry and was about ten feet away when the Great Scot swiveled to face him, holding an enormous drumstick in his paw—gluttonous interruptus.
“Ho ho!” he shouted. His sparkled being seemed to ratify some version of the woman’s more unorthodox claims. “My Devi wouldn’t be glad about my raiding the fridge—she’s worked herself into an awful swivet over my expanding girth.”
“I think you carry it rather well.”
“You’re too kind! Has she been telling you our story?”
“She has. I’ve never heard anything like it.”
“Of course you haven’t. But she tells it with panache, no? All curlicues and oddities being the same, and the occasionally queer yet always quirkily charming turn of phrase.”
“Yes yes, she tells it very well. But I can’t say I understand it all . . .”
“I can’t say I understand any of it! Please, then, to accept my invitation—the Source’s invitation—to the Society of the Uncomprehending. I’m delegate and chairperson, at your service. Go straight to the Source and ask the horse. Or perhaps I mean the other way around.” He went back to his rummaging. “A reg’lar Scheherazade she is, that girl, no? Or do I mean ir-reg’lar.”
“Is there more?” he asked. What Jeremy meant to say was that he wanted to hear “the Celt’s tale”—the old man’s side.
“More? I should say! For another time . . . go now! Enjoy the dance! In the end, that’s all it is. A pataphysical rumba.” He laughed uproariously then robbed the “cold drawer” blind. Without looking up, he said, “You’re dreaming of a child as well, no? That’s what she’s doing—she doesn’t know it yet—that’s why you’ve met. ‘A dream of children.’ Lovely! Both of you suffered a great loss; it’s piffle to say whose was the greater. All that comparisoning is the downfall of man. ‘I go, and it is done; the bell invites me . . .’ Thank Mr. Shakespeare for that one. We can thank him for nearly everything, no? Though I suppose at least we should try to . . . She’s talked a lot of the bells, no? Got bells on the brain, that one. Oh, you’ll find those children again, both of you—no worries in that regard! But first, you must dance.”
—
Dusty passed on to Snoop everything Ida Pinkert told her. It was the sort of lead that made a gumshoe’s day.
Her name was Claudia Zabert. The old woman hadn’t a clue where Reina found her, and other than the generic sluttiness that Ida alluded to, Dusty couldn’t remember much about her either. The babysitters were neighborhood locals—except for Claudia, who’d been imported from God knew where. She was probably about sixteen when she began working for the Whitmores, around the time Arnold was arrested and hospitalized. Dusty would have been ten. The actress remembered Claudia having boys over and sometimes even leaving the house with them after giving her hush money. Probably just a few dollars, but hey, none of the others did that. Come to think of it, she had tons of sitters—Claudia was the one Reina used the least. Maybe because she was hardest to get hold of.
Her parents often spent nights away. It was strange because until Ida’s revelation, she’d never given much thought to the whys and wherefores. It wasn’t hard to guess what her dad was doing—most likely haunting public johns and gay bars in Long Beach, San Pedro, or wherever. And Reina had her Mormon paramour . . . Dusty assumed there were a lot more where he came from (though not necessarily Mormon). The boss at her father’s bank was a prime candidate—how else would Arnold have kept his job after a charge of public lewdness?
Maybe Claudia was the daughter of one of those men . . .
She shared a few names and theories with Mr. Raskin.
—
It was a time of upheaval and great promise—shifting sands, as Ginevra put it—and the only thing that mattered was keeping her shit together. She sought balance in hyper-vigilant attention to body, mind, and spirit. Self-care was the theme of the hour: yoga and journaling workshops, colon cleanses, meditation-spa retreats. (She even got in touch with Marilyn about shrooming with the bruja.) It was essential to be awake and aware, ready with open heart for whatever pesky festivities the Universe had planned. The trouble with Allegra was put on the back burner; this was Dusty’s time. Besides, she’d had enough therapy to know that what was good for her would be good for the marriage.
She decided to visit Chakrapani, the renowned vedic astrologer. Her first session was a long while back, before she came out. Dusty remembered him being harsh, plainspoken, and unguarded; all of his predictions had come true. She’d been frightened to see him again, but now it was definitely time. She couldn’t afford to have fear in her life. About anything.
“You are at the end of a Ketu period. Ketu is the beginning of change taking place—it has been this way for the last three years.”
He worked from the guesthouse of a mansion in Hancock Park. Chakrapani must have been ancient but didn’t seem to have aged. Though he possessed that timeless, sprightly, lit-from-within guru energy, he still managed to give her the willies.
“Thereafter, you are in the Ketu-Jupiter. I’m wondering how the Ketu-Jupiter is going to react, because Ketu and Jupiter are not in harmonious conditions. They have the tendency to create some stress and anxiety. I’m wondering in what way it’s going to manifest for you, physically, mentally, psychologically. There is a tendency to create tension. It can also bring some traveling. Is it possible you will be traveling?”
“Yes—to England, for my work. I travel a lot for my work . . . but there’s nothing just now. Is it bad? To travel?”
“It’s not a question of ‘good’ and ‘bad.’ You’ll be prompted to do the traveling. It has the tendency to bring the possibility of traveling, going places. And Jupiter is aspecting the rising sign very strongly. Jupiter is also in aspect with Mars—Mars and Jupiter in mutual aspect, which can bring you organization. Doing things and getting things done, which is considered very good. I am also wondering if it will bring opportunity to bring entertainment and positive energies, and take life a little easier. Those kinds of things it can create. The nature of Jupiter is to be taking it easy. To spend money only on good causes. Not to take too much stress in doing things, which you used to do in the past.”
It was all a bit bland. Dusty wondered if he’d lost his touch, his edge, his whatever. He was known for not pulling punches, with celebrities, powerhouses, or anyone else. She remembered randomly mentioning him to Amy Pascal a few years ago and to her surprise, Amy went for a consult—which Dusty almost regretted, because apparently he foretold all the Sony craziness and a fall from grace. Not that there was anything Amy could have done about it.
“What else do you see?” she asked. She knew it wasn’t a crystal-ball/storefront psychic situation, but hey. “You can tell me anything. I promise not to flip out.”
She wanted him to drop the hammer, any kind of hammer—a sledge, a mallet, a gavel, even one of those little red rubber reflex dillies that doctors use on your knees. It was her Season of the Hammer and she implored the gods to bring it.
“From the point of view of the Ketu, Jupiter is not good. But from Jupiter itself, it is not bad. Jupiter is well placed in the Ninth House, it is aspecting the Rising Sign very strongly and in good relationship with Mars. What else do you want? But Jupiter is not a benevolent planet for people born with Virgo Rising. Your Rising Sign is Virgo. Jupiter is a malefic for people of that sign.”
“A malefic?”
“It is not good. That is why it does not bring you a certain amount of happiness in the area of relationships. That has not been that great, true? Looking back in your life? Jupiter is occupying the constellation of Mars and is not a benevolent planet! And Mars is aspecting in Jupiter so it brings a certain amount of aggressive nature. Anyway, this Ketu as a whole is not that great a planet. It’s okay. It keeps you in an ‘unconventional’ state—not in the state of doing one thing in particular, but doing many things. Jupiter lasts for one year but Ketu will go two more years.”
“So you’re saying there’s ‘potential for difficulty’ in the next two years?”
“Not difficulty. Potential for diversification. Life changes in so many ways . . .”
“Oh my God, Chakrapani!” she said, in mock aghast. “That is so vague.” When he started to giggle, she was charmed, in spite of herself. “I read an interview that you never tell people someone they love is dying, if you’ve ‘seen’ it in their chart—you say, ‘Be kind to him,’ instead!”
“I cannot ‘see’ or know such things,” he said. “It is possible to know, but not for me. I have not climbed that high!”
“So what are you really trying to tell me? What are you hiding?”
He tittered but she wasn’t kidd
ing around anymore.
“I know that difficulties are always—they’re always there, that’s part of life. But Chakrapani: are you saying I’m entering a particularly difficult period?”
“Particularly unconventional. A time where opportunity for unconventional types of activity arise. We don’t have ‘future,’ we only have ‘now,’ so what are you going to do? You don’t know—today you are okay, tomorrow you may be something different. Who you are, what you are going to do, where you are going . . . these are all tendencies reflected by Ketu. That is why it is stressful: you can’t see ‘future.’ Jupiter has created the problem! Of the relationship with your wife, it is over.”
