Dorothy on the Rocks (28 page)

“My pleasure.”

“Are you hungry?” Javan asks. “I'm starving. Do you want to get a bite?”

“Sure. Why not?”

We go to a restaurant on East Sixty-fifth Street. Javan orders another beer and I get a coffee.

“I have to check my messages,” Javan says, getting out his cell phone. “Sorry.”

“I'll forgive you if you let me check my machine.”

“You mean you don't have a cell phone? How can you live?” he asks, looking at me like I have two heads.

“I do have a cell phone. Sometimes I forget to put it in my bag. Like now,” I say.

Then he holds up a finger while he listens to his voice mail. He hands me the phone and I dial my number.

“You never like being too available,” Javan says. “That's why you forget your phone. It's Freudian.”

“Oh, please,” I say, holding up a finger to shush him.

“You have two new messages,” my machine announces. I punch in the code and hold my breath. I just know one is from Jack. The first one is from Patty; the second one is Dee-Honey. No Jack.

“What's wrong?” Javan asks. “You look crushed.”

“It's nothing. Nothing at all.”

I order french fries and Javan gets a hamburger and we eat and talk, and when we leave Javan invites me back to his place. “For old times' sake,” he says.

“I don't think so,” I say. What I thought was horniness a few days ago has morphed into low-level irritability.

“Come on, we're grown-ups. It would be great.”

“I'm sure it would. I'm just not in the mood for love, know what I mean?”

“All right, I hear you.” Javan hails me a cab and hands me a ten-dollar bill. “My treat, kiddo. And thanks for coming to the show.”

“Thank you.” I don't comment on the “kiddo,” although it rankles, but then what doesn't in my present condition?

When I get home there are no new messages on my machine. I light a candle and sit with the phone in my lap and will it to ring. It's almost midnight. I dial Brian's number. He answers on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Bri? It's Maggie.”

“Hey, how was West Virginia?”

“Awful, then not so bad, then awful again. Look, I don't think I can do this, this no smoking thing. I had a few in West Virginia.”

“A few?” Brian says.

“All right, a pack. I almost choked to death at an IHOP. I had to smoke. I was very stressed, but I haven't had any since then and now I'm feeling suicidal. I'm so unhappy and I'm not sleeping and I'm drinking too much coffee and I can't stand myself.”

“Great. You're in withdrawal. Ride it out—the whole way. Stop cheating.”

“I'm telling you I can't do it. I just wanted to call you before I go to the corner to get a pack of Marlboros and a six-pack of Miller Lite.”

“Don't, don't do that. Look, I'm going up to the mountains
tomorrow for a retreat. It's a monastery. I've never been, but a friend said it's awesome. Come with me. It's what you need. You need to change your perspective.”

“And how!” I say, not really listening. “I need to do a lot of things, but mainly I need a beer and a cigarette.”

“Come on, Mags,” Brian says. “You can do this. Remember, I was the one that drove you to Pennsylvania for your dad's funeral. You remember that, don't you? And the way he looked by the end. Come to the mountain with me; it'll help.”

“I'll think about it.”

“Fair enough. Now make some hot milk and some toast and then off to beddie-bye, okay?”

“Okay,” I say. “Okay, dammit, I'll eat some toast.” I hang up the phone, pour a glass of milk, put it in the microwave, and pop a slice of bread in the toaster. Baby food, ugh.

I don't like remembering my dad in the last six months of his life. He was frail, bloated, and full of regret. That was the hardest part, his regrets. He was sorry he hadn't taken better care of himself, sorry about my mother, sorry he wouldn't see my brother's kids grow up or me get married, sorry he hadn't expanded his business and made more money. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Would I feel that way? I already have plenty of regrets. Another ten years, I could be drowning in them.

I cut up the toast and drop it into the warm milk and add sugar. It's warm, sweet comfort food, and after eating it, I go to bed. I get through the night without a cigarette. Brian's right. I can do this.

At eight the next morning I call Brian and tell him I think the trip to the mountain would be a good idea.

“What do I bring?”

“You don't really need anything other than clothes and a toothbrush. And be sure the clothes are comfortable. You're going to be meditating, doing some yoga, and then doing a work assignment. It will be really good for you.”

“My mother used to go on retreats and she was always calmer and saner afterward,” I say.

“Well, there you go,” Brian says.

“Until she went to one and decided to stay. It was a Catholic retreat, a convent actually,” I say, remembering my father's face as he informed my brother and me that mother was going to be staying with the Sisters of Bethany for a while.

“Your mother is a nun?” Brian asks.

Jesus, I'm leaking information like a sieve. I try not to talk about this family footnote unless someone is holding a gun at my head. No wonder I smoked; it kept my mouth busy.

“Can you believe it?” I say with a laugh. “My mother, the nun, which is exactly the reason I've never done
The Sound of Music
even though I'm perfect for the part.”

“But you weren't raised Catholic, were you?” he asks.

“No, Mother converted. The Presbyterians didn't suffer enough for her. Besides, she wasn't actually a nun, she just lived in a convent for a while. She was sorting things out. My brother called it a religious lobotomy. And then she came back home—refreshed as she said—and then after my father died she moved to Florida. We exchange Christmas cards and she calls me on my birthday.”

“I'll pick you up at noon tomorrow. This is going to be good for you.”

I don't have another show with Dee-Honey until next week, Sandy can feed Bixby, and Jack isn't interested in where I am, so there is no reason not to go. I've never meditated before, but I'm
pretty sure you're not allowed to smoke during it, so that's more time without the devil's weed. I just have to remember to keep my mouth shut. Brian can be so nosy, and the mother stuff is such old news—no wonder my last therapist fell asleep during my sessions. I pop two pieces of bread in the toaster and put on the kettle for coffee.

At noon the next day I'm packed and ready to go. I take my toothbrush, eyedrops, clothes, and Kathleen Norris's book
The Cloister Walk,
about her experiences at a Benedictine monastery. It's a book my mother sent me a few years ago. One of her attempts to convert me, but what the hell, I figure I can use it as a guidebook; every journey needs a map so you have at least some chance of finding your way back home.

Brian rings the buzzer; I grab my suitcase, give Bixby a goodbye smooch, and head for the hills, literally.

Two hours later we make a stop at Brian's country house. It's a cabin in the Catskills that he and his brother bought years ago so they would have a place to go trout fishing.

“I have to do some chores at Two Dogs. I have a new tenant coming in next week. I'll make you a cup of coffee and you can relax.”

The cabin is called Two Dogs because Brian and his brother both had Labradors when they bought it, and the dogs ran the place. Since then the dogs have died and Brian's brother got married
and moved to Ontario, but the name remains. Brian kept the cabin and rents it out a few months of the year.

I lie in the hammock in the sun and wait for Brian to finish his work. The sun is hot and the summer afternoon feels like a warm blanket. I have no makeup on, in preparation for my spiritual journey. I'm still wearing the eye patch, which I'm beginning to like. It makes me look exotic. We are going to a Buddhist monastery. Brian tells me the motto is “Life is suffering.” Boy and how. I hope the Buddha will smile on me.

After Brian finishes his chores we head for the monastery, traveling higher into the mountains along the Beaverkill River. Finally we turn onto a long dirt road that is guarded by a large stone statue sitting at the entrance.

“Say hello to Buddha,” Brian says as we drive by.

“Hello, Buddha,” I call out the window.

We pass a lovely lake. “That's Sangha Meadow,” Brian tells me, pointing to the left. “The burial grounds.”

“That's a bit ominous.”

“The alpha and the omega,” Brian comments. “The circle of life.”

Why can't I just smoke and listen to Joni Mitchell for the rest of my life? That's all I really want to do. That and eat homemade brownies.

“There it is,” Brain says.

“Gosh,” I say, seeing the monastery in the distance. It's beautiful, sitting serenely on a hill above the lake. It is built in the traditional Japanese design, with simple, clean lines. The grounds around it are impeccably groomed. “Well,” I say, taking it in.

“Indeed,” says Brian. “By the way, did I tell you this is a silent
retreat? I don't think I mentioned that. Once we get inside the monastery, no talking, understand?”

“Are you kidding? I can't go days without talking. It's scary being in my head by myself.”

“You only talk to the roshi, your Zen teacher, when you meet privately with him.”

“I could strangle you right here at Buddha's front door,” I say. And I mean it.

“Come on,” Brian says with a laugh. “Have faith. This is just the thing for you. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

This is going to be a nightmare. I can feel it. We park the car at the bottom of the hill, get our things, and hike up to the main entrance. A young man in robes, with a shaved head and a cheery smile, greets us at the door. We deposit our shoes in the shoe room and are taken to our assigned quarters. Mine is on the first floor—very small with a cot, one light, an incense holder, a tiny closet, and a bathroom down the hall. It is, indeed, monastic.

“Well,” I say. And this is my last “well,” as the cheery young man in robes reminds me that silence is now the rule. I nod, unpack my comfortable clothes, and wonder—silently—what the hell I'm doing here.

We have dinner in the dining hall. There are about twenty-five participants. Another cheery monk explains the schedule and work assignments. It seems the monks are allowed to speak when instructing us, but we can't respond. We must only do. After dinner we go to the meditation hall for zazen, which I'm told is the term for the sitting meditation practice we will be doing for the next three days.

When I get back to my cell—oops, I mean room—I lie down
on my cot and stare at the ceiling. I concoct a plan to sneak into Brian's room and steal the car keys for my getaway, but then abandon it. I'm sure he has hidden them. He knows me. I decide to keep a diary. In case I don't make it out alive and end up in Sangha Meadow at least there will be a record.

My Silent (I have really lost my mind)
Retreat Journal

Day One
: I realize I didn't bring a notebook so I am writing on the back pages of my day planner. I will write small. This morning we got up at four thirty a.m. Awakened by someone running up and down the corridors ringing a bell. I thought it was a dream. It is now eight fifteen a.m. We have already meditated and chanted and eaten breakfast (some sort of porridge with cabbage and hot sauce and seaweed sprinkles). Now we have a half-hour break. I am dying for a cigarette and a nap. I'm sitting by a beautiful, peaceful lake. It is incredibly quiet, which makes me want to scream. My body is in pain from sitting cross-legged on the round meditation cushions. The fellow sitting on the cushion next to me looks and smells like he hasn't washed in weeks. And he breathes through his mouth.

My sublime peace was just interrupted by a monk diving into the lake. A large splash and then his bald head resurfaces. His breathing is labored. I gather my thoughts and my sandals and start back to the zendo for another three hours of meditation. I hope lunch is better than breakfast.

Day Two
: I am still here, although last night if someone had offered me a ride back to the city I would gladly have
gone. Another day of this and I'll be catatonic. I met with the Zen master last night for a one-on-one talk. I said I wanted peace of mind. He told me to think about nothing and count my breaths (at first I thought he said breasts). Count my breaths and breathe out through my tailbone. I wish I had a shot of scotch. That would help me relax more when I meditate. I think about cigarettes and I think about Jack.

During the next two hours of meditation I feel very peaceful and very close to Buddha, except my neck is stiff and my shoulders are going in and out of spasm, my eye throbs intermittently and my right leg has gone to sleep. The man sitting opposite me in the meditation hall has only one leg. He walks with crutches when he's not sitting. I wonder how he lost his leg—maybe a car accident or combat, or maybe he was here at a retreat and his leg went to sleep and the circulation stopped but he couldn't move or speak so gangrene set in and the leg was amputated. The price of enlightenment can be high. I concentrate on nothing and breathe in and out. I feel like I am in the Buddha's belly.

The food is organic and mostly brown. I miss the morning coffee and get herbal tea instead. You have only one chance when the server goes by, and I was confused which server had tea and which had coffee. It was six a.m. I'll probably have a caffeine headache in about an hour.

I'm at the lake. It's still placid. I breathe in and then I breathe out through my tailbone. The trees are blowing in the wind. The leaves look like tiny ballet dancers moving in slow motion; in fact, the whole world looks to be moving in slow motion. It is v-e-r-y b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l. I am a tree.