Skin Deep

by Sung J. Woo

  LL, which stood for Lower Level according to the very large sign on the wall next to the door, was teeming with activity. I was greeted with more signage: laundry to the left, kitchen to the right. I could’ve just followed my nose, as the spicy aroma of turmeric led me to the hustle and bustle of the brightly-lit industrial kitchen. There were perhaps twenty people in here, all of them similarly dressed in white hairnets and brown aprons. With the equipment running, I couldn’t make out anything that anyone was saying. I did my best to stay as inconspicuous as possible, but it wasn’t long until a tall woman spotted me. She flipped off her oversized Cuisinart and approached me.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Prasad,” I said.

  “You know you’re not supposed to be here, right?” She pointed to her kitchen ID bearing her name, DEVAPRABHA.

  “I wouldn’t be here unless it was important. All I need is five minutes of his time, possibly not even that.”

  “You’re not going to upset him, are you?”

  Strange question, but then again, strange place. “Don’t intend to.”

  “Because Prasad is having a hard time right now.”

  “Just one question, that’s it.”

  She walked over to a half-open door that was labeled PANTRY, entered it, and closed it behind her. I watched the continuing procession of these dining workers. It was almost like a dance, a few twirling around each other to rush from one task to another. A girl sat on a stool next to a white plastic container as tall as a garbage can, chopping up broccoli with speed and dexterity that comes with practice. Two well-muscled guys were making pizza crusts, one kneading the dough, the other tossing and spinning it like a professional.

  The pantry door opened, and there he was, Christopher, walking over with Devaprabha. He looked thinner than the photo I had on my phone and older, too, probably due to the goatee. When he saw me, concern crossed his face.

  “Five minutes,” Devaprabha said. “We’re about to run out of sage, so you need to re-stock those first.”

  “All right,” Christopher/Prasad said.

  “Can we step out into the hallway? It’s tough to talk here with all the noise,” I said.

  “I have no idea who you are,” he said.

  “Beaker told me where you were,” I said, and Christopher relaxed at the mention of his friend’s name. “Siobhan O’Brien, private detective.” And just like that, he froze up pretty hard.

  “What do you want?”

  “I was hired by Josie Sykes, Penny’s mother.”

  I hoped Christopher never played poker, because he didn’t have the face for it.

  “Penny’s not here,” he said.

  “Beaker said you followed her here.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Except he couldn’t look at me.

  “Then why would Beaker tell me that?”

  “I don’t know!” he said, on the verge of tears. And then he was crying, like really hard, like baby hard. Was I supposed to go to him, placate him somehow? It wasn’t fake, that much I knew. The poor kid was shuddering now, and wailing loud enough for Devaprabha to hear, because here she was, pushing me out of the way and taking Christopher into a hug.

  “You told me you wouldn’t upset him,” she said.

  I actually hadn’t said that, but arguing wasn’t going to get me any gold stars, so I kept quiet and let them pass. I was going to need a higher level of access to this place, and the best way to accomplish that was by way of media credentials. I took the elevator back up to the third floor and my room. On the morning of the day the Athena Times had laid everyone off to be subsumed into the Binghamton Bulletin, all the reporters received brand-new press passes; if there was a more perfect display of corporate stupidity, I couldn’t think of one. We were supposed to have turned in the badges as we vacated the building, but I never did. It had already come in handy a few times for me. I hoped this would be another.

  I brought up the Krishna website on my phone and found the number for Media Relations. I was about to dial it, but stopped myself when I saw the inscription above my door:

  take a breath. take another. there you are.

  I did take a breath, and then another. I’d been in such a hurry to find Christopher that I hadn’t even seen my room. Not that there was that much to see, because it was almost as bare bones as Josie’s jail cell. A stripped twin mattress on a well-worn metal frame sat in the corner, taking up half of the room’s space. A small wooden desk and a chair were on the other side. On the desk were my linens, so I made my bed. The room was free of décor, but that was fine because I had a window that displayed the full natural splendor of the environs, from the green of the forest to the silver of the lake. I sat on the bed and stared out for a good five minutes.

  Now that I was spiritually rejuvenated, I rang up Media Relations. After three rings, voicemail kicked in; a very cheery Cynthia’s recorded voice answered. A normal non-Sanskrit name. Strange—I’d think if anybody had a unique name, it would be the spokesperson. I left Cynthia a message that I was the culture reporter for the Bulletin and asked her if she might meet me after I grabbed some lunch.

  53

  With the afternoon sun shining through oblong windows that ran along the entire wall, the high ceiling of the dining hall seemed even higher. Still, there was nothing ostentatious here. Like the rest of the building, this, too, was spartan, with just two paintings adorning its beige walls, a side profile of a Buddha in meditation and a large lithograph of Meadowlark, which was the main building on Krishna’s sprawling campus below the Adirondack Mountains.

  There were two buffet lines, one for regular and one for vegetarian. I went to both, picking up the real turkey sausage and its ersatz soy counterpart, a wedge of tofu quiche, plus a mango scone made from chickpea flour. I drew a hot cup of water and lingered in front of the wooden chest of teas featuring seven by six drawers, a total of forty-two to choose from. I didn’t know there were that many teas in existence. Himalayan Hibiscus sounded daring and sophisticated, so I dunked a packet into my steaming water and let it steep.

  Holding my lunch and beverage on a tin tray, I surveyed the dining hall. Just a few days ago, I was sitting with those kooky old ladies in Llewellyn’s cafeteria, and now here I was, déjà vu-ing all over again. I flashed back to high school, where I sat with the basketball team, one of the many cliques that divided us and gave us an identity, which we held onto for dear life. Confusing times, high school. Christopher was only a few years removed from those days.

  And speak of the devil, there he was, sitting at a corner table for two with a girl with blue hair. Which begged the question: Did anybody have normal-colored hair anymore?

  I didn’t want Christopher to see me, since he might suffer another terrifying crying jag, so I sat two tables to his backside. Christopher was leaning into her, and the girl was feeding him soup with a spoon while cradling his head—the result of my polite barrage of a single question. Christopher was so addled that he needed to be held and hand-fed. I guess this was what Beaker must’ve meant when he called Christopher ‘super sensitive.’ I might have chosen less flattering words to describe this particular facet of his personality, but whatever. I didn’t want to approach him again right now, so what could I do to find out Penny’s whereabouts?

  Not knowing what else to do, I took a bite of both sausages. Surprisingly, I liked the soy one better than the turkey. I ate the quiche in three enormous, delicious bites. Christopher sat up. Was he feeling better? No, because now Blue Hair handed him a handkerchief, and after he blew his nose, he put his face into his hands and Blue Hair rubbed his back like she was polishing a window.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  A short blonde woman didn’t say hello but waved furiously, enthusiastically. When she saw my confusion, she pointed to the nametag on her lapel.

  CYNTHIA BARD

  Media Relations

  I was just about to s
ay something, but Cynthia crossed a finger over her lips. Then she pointed to a sign: SILENT DINING SECTION. Good thing I hadn’t been talking to myself. I wiped my mouth with my napkin, but she held up both hands and waved them once again, this time adding a shake of the head. She mimed an eating motion. I shook my head, then added a tap to my tummy, to show her I’d eaten enough. Cynthia tipped her head then made a gesture with her hands, some sort of air drumming that I couldn’t decipher. This was turning out to be a frustrating game of charades.

  “I’ve had my fill,” I whispered.

  Cynthia made an “okay” gesture with her fingers then motioned for me to follow. I didn’t want to lose sight of Christopher and Blue Hair, but I didn’t know what my next move should be, either.

  Times like this, it helped to conjure up some wise words from Ed.

  An investigation is a living, breathing thing. Go with what happens, because what happens then is what was always supposed to happen.

  I’m fairly certain Ed was drunk when he gave me that little tidbit of advice, because he wasn’t that much of a talker. Except when he was drunk. Then I couldn’t get him to shut up.

  I rose and followed Cynthia, missing Ed.

  54

  Cynthia was in love, of that there was no doubt. At one point in our walk on the fourth floor of the Meadowlark building, she placed her hands on the wall.

  “You can feel the soul of this place,” she said. I managed not to lose my tofu sausage.

  We were in the Meditation Room, which overlooked the rounded peaks of the distant Catskills. The day was mostly overcast, but a few shards of sunlight poked through the clouds and beamed temperamental spotlights onto the forest below. This wasn’t a huge room, enough for perhaps twenty people to meditate. A built-in wooden bench wrapped around the back, and there were round red cushions for people to sit on.

  “I imagine the very molecules of these cinderblocks are in a higher state of serenity,” I said.

  “My goodness!” she said. “You should put that into the article you’re writing.”

  “I really appreciate you taking time from your day to introduce me to Krishna. My managing editor at the Bulletin thanks you, too.”

  “I spoke to Margaret right before I came to get you,” Cynthia said. “She asked me to be your guide, which I’m more than happy to do.”

  Margaret was actually Stacy, my part-time bookkeeper, who’d sounded more than thrilled to play the part of my boss when I’d asked her to do so.

  “The angle I’d like to approach with this story is the volunteer program,” I said. “The backbone of Krishna, could you say?”

  Cynthia looked like she was about to cry, and I felt a tiny bead of guilt for lying to her.

  “The unsung heroes. That’s so wonderful that you want to highlight these giving, selfless people.”

  “Can you tell me a bit more about the program?”

  “Volunteers make a minimum six-month commitment to live and work here. We always need help in the kitchen, washing dishes, prepping veggies, that type of thing,” Cynthia said. “But there are many other areas, too, like taking care of the lawn and housekeeping, and those who can’t perform the more physical duties due to age or disability can work in the administrative offices.”

  And while they performed these physical tasks, the volunteers lived together in a large dormitory with bunk beds. The women lived in the east wing while the men lived in the west.

  “I’d like to interview a couple of the volunteers, too, if that’s okay.”

  “Of course.”

  “So…through labor and dedication to self-awareness, people find their true selves here at Krishna.”

  “Karma. Work goes in, enlightenment comes out. A virtuous circle. I’m so glad you’ll get the word out.”

  A bald man with a white beard that flowed down to his belly walked into the room. He put his palms together and bid us a “Namaste,” so we did the same and exited so he could meditate.

  We took the stairs down. Inspirational quotes greeted us at each turn. Above the second floor landing, Plato told us, “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” Cynthia was telling me this was her ninth year at Krishna, that she, too, was once a volunteer who’d found such solace that she never wanted to leave, when we heard what sounded like an argument coming from one of the offices we were passing. Finally, something real going on around here. The office door was open enough that I could see a silver-haired man in a white jumpsuit pacing in front of a desk.

  “It can’t be done. I just spent the last two hours in the Orchard Room to reconfigure the space. Not only does it feel wrong, it is wrong, Michelle. You know this as well as I do.”

  “You can come here a thousand more times, but it’s not going to make a difference.”

  The woman’s voice was as firm and final as a schoolteacher’s. To the left of the door was a nameplate:

  MICHELLE WEST

  Programming Director

  “Let’s keep moving,” Cynthia said, and ushered me down the hall.

  “Can’t keep everybody happy all the time,” I said.

  “Michelle’s job is perhaps the most difficult one we have here, but if anybody’s up to the challenge, it’s her.”

  Cynthia, as expected, was toeing the company line. The most I got out of her about Michelle was that this was her second year with Krishna and that she was also a computer whiz. “She’s so good with all the cool stuff like Instagram and Snapchat. Revamped iPhone and Android apps are coming out later this year!”

  Coming towards us was a group of twenty or so people, all looking straight ahead and saying nothing. Clipped on each of their lapels was an oval sign:

  in loving silence

  Folks like these didn’t exactly seem like the kind who’d tweet or take selfies, but technology was infiltrating every bit of our lives, so if anything, Michelle was probably ahead of the curve.

  We walked past the dining hall, now in cleanup mode. The tea station was still open, but the pans of food and the lines of people were long gone.

  On the wall past the dining hall was a matrix of posters that displayed the various programs going on this week, and I now saw another familiar face.

  THE BREATH OF MINDFULNESS

  All That Matters Is Now

  Dharma Benjamin Roth

  The photograph smack in the middle of the poster was the same man I’d just seen in Michelle’s office, except here, he was the epitome of calm. Standing waist-deep in a forever field of sunflowers, Dharma, again clad in his white jumpsuit, held his arms straight above his head, like a football ref signaling a successful field goal. His smiling face was slightly upturned to the blue sky above. It was quite a picture. I wondered how many takes it took to get it right.

  “Dharma looks like he’s been coming here for a while,” I said.

  “He was here when the building was inaugurated,” she said. “One of the Seven Roots, as the old guard refer to themselves.”

  We arrived at the end of the hall, a set of closed double doors in front of us. STAFF, it said in stark black letters, carved into the wood.

  “There are about a hundred volunteers here at any given moment at Krishna. More women than men…about seventy-five, twenty-five, which is also the split for our visitors.”

  She held the door open for me, and I almost ran into Blue Hair, the girl who had been accompanying Christopher in the dining hall.

  “Dido!” Cynthia said. “Just the gal I was hoping to see. Are you busy right now?”

  “I got half an hour before I need to get back to the bakery,” Dido said. She looked like she recognized me, which seemed odd because she never saw me in the dining hall, unless she had eyes on the back of her head. Which, around here, was perhaps more of a possibility than any other place.

  “Ms. O’Brien is a newspaper reporter writing a story about the volunteer program,” Cynthia said. “Can you show her around and talk to her for a b
it? About the program, what you’ve done, what we do, etc. I have a meeting in five.”

  “Of course.”

  Cynthia gave me her cell number and was off.

  I extended my hand. “I’m Siobhan.” Flecks of flour floated around her hair like fairy dust as we shook.

  “I see pink,” Dido said.

  “Pink?”

  “Around you. Your aura.”

  “And pink signifies…?” I asked.

  “Deception.”

  Dido, a bandana wrapped around her spiky blue hair, stared at me evenly. She’d made up her mind, so I didn’t want to waste her time or mine.

  “Penny Sykes,” I said.

  “Good,” she said. “Kick off your shoes and follow me.”

  I kicked off my shoes and followed her.

  55

  The women’s dorm was about the size of a small gymnasium. There were ten columns of bunk beds five rows deep. At first glance, it felt almost military, the stark white sheets against the black metal railings, but upon closer inspection, every occupied bed was sneakily personalized. One woman had bright red and blue beads wrapped around her headboard. A lower bunk had origami mobiles hanging off the bottom of the top bunk, yellow and pink cranes spinning lazily as we made our way over to Dido’s, who had a corner bed. She had affixed a procession of tiny wooden elephants on the bottom railing, trunks raised triumphantly to the sky.

  “Minimal decorations allowed?” I said.

  “You could say. We’re encouraged to cleanse ourselves of unnecessary material.”

  “I like your elephants.”