Dorothy on the Rocks (29 page)

Day Two and a Half
: I don't want to ever talk to anyone again. I'm glad this is a silent retreat. Brian is becoming unbearable. I hate him. He is refusing to talk. I can't stand it. He just sits quietly during quiet time and reads
The Three Pillars of Zen
. My Kathleen Norris book about her three-year retreat at a Benedictine monastery is redundant. I can't bear reading it. I wish I had Sue Grafton's new murder mystery instead.

I am beginning to get some clarity here in all this silence, clarity about other people, and it is not pleasant. People are irritating. I've always thought that and now Buddha has confirmed it. I just killed a big water bug in the women's restroom. The blood is dark orange, not red but a rich burnt sienna. This will probably set me back a few years on my journey to Nirvana. God, I wish I could shave my legs, but showers must be short, silent, and every other day. I want to burst into a medley of Broadway tunes.

It's our afternoon rest period. I sit on a big rock. Two monks are swimming in the lake. I sit with my face to the sun and listen to the buzz of Buddha's lesser creatures, and the heavy breathing of the swimming monks magnified in the quiet of the day. I wish I had some Anne Sexton to read. I am desperate for some loud, unbridled neurosis. The rest period draws to a close, and I must return to my sitting cushion and breathe through my asshole. I think about Jack for the whole meditation period and have a silent sitting orgasm which is very pleasant. I wonder if the man sitting next to me with the dirty hair finds me attractive.

Day Three:
I'm worried about the graham cracker supply. I brought a box with me as I anticipated the food situation,
and Brian keeps eating them. He sneaks into my room and steals them. One thing I know about my true nature is I don't like sharing—especially food, and especially when it is in short supply. I'm going to have to hide the crackers.

I go for a walk during my forty-five minute break. It has been raining and a thick layer of mist and fog gracefully drapes the lake. The beaver dam is fecund with baby beavers. It looks to me like the mother beaver is smoking a cigarette. I must be hallucinating. A large bumblebee stings me on the head. I can't remember if I'm allergic or not. I take my pulse. What if my heart stops right here? I breathe in and out and feel like I'm going to faint. I am overdosing on enlightenment.

Day Three and a Half: 
The sitting meditation is very painful. I think I'm developing arthritis in my left hip. Tonight during quiet time Brian pointed out a passage from his Zen book that says women can achieve enlightenment sooner than men because they have fewer ideas in their heads. I had to bite my tongue and suck the blood to keep from committing a mortal sin.

Day Three and Three-quarters
: It is the last evening of the retreat, and my body is so racked with pain that I can't feel the profound hunger in my belly. I would kill for a chocolate éclair. The person I'm most jealous of is the man with one leg sitting opposite me. He has only half the pain—no wonder he is so serene. He sits like a rock. I focus on his stillness to calm my mind. The fellow next to me never has washed his hair. But it doesn't bother me anymore. I am beyond caring. I hope this is the closest I ever get to being a prisoner of war. I know now that by day three I would
tell them anything and everything. Brian found the graham crackers last night and finished them. I am going to kill him as soon as we are alone.

In my last meeting with the roshi he talked about breathing again. I told him I was too depressed to breathe. I told him I was depressed because I was in love with this guy, but I had been mean to him and now there wasn't much chance of things working out. I also told him that I wanted a cigarette and some scotch and that I didn't think I could go on living. I said I wanted to put my head in the oven and turn on the gas. He smiled and said, “Be here and breathe.” He's kind of like a respiratory therapist. I've never really thought about breathing before. I didn't realize it was so important, but I guess it is. Maybe I don't need to smoke; maybe I need to breathe more.

Final Entry: 
In the final meditation period I am very still and breathe in and out through my tailbone. And in a mental flash the phrase that was under Danny Panther's picture in the high school yearbook pops into my head: “To create is to breathe, this I believe.” Maybe this is what it means, why the Zen master keeps talking about breathing. I breathe and create life, create my life, moment by moment. I am a creation, the creation of my life. My life is a canvas. My life is a poem. I think Henry David Thoreau said that, after years of living alone on Walden Pond. Stop it, I tell myself. Stop thinking. Concentrate on nothing. I look at the one-legged man across from me. He is Buddha. God, I want a cigarette. No, I want a breath. I breathe in and out and in and out. I hope there is a message from Jack when I get back home. I would like
to lie down and breathe next to him again and think about nothing.

W
E HAVE A FINAL
meditation very early Monday morning and then we have cleanup chores assigned. I have to clean the slate stairs and polish the railing. The once quiet monastery is now bustling with activity. Then the bell rings and we all gather for our final meal. It is an informal breakfast and everybody is talking. It's like an explosion after so much silence. I sit next to Brian.

One of the monks offers a toast to our Zen master, who is sitting at the front table. He bows his head in gratitude. Then different participants get up and talk about how the retreat affected them. The fellow with the dirty hair gets up and bows to the room.

“This has been a beautiful time,” he says in a thick Polish accent. “I am renewed and I offer this in gratitude.” He pulls out a violin and starts to play the most beautiful music I have ever heard. Maybe it's because it's the first music I have heard in days, or maybe the air is so much thinner in the mountains that every note seems to shimmer, or maybe it's because my dirty-haired friend is a god. Zeus with a Stradivarius. I close my eyes and float to heaven.

I don't see the man with one leg at the buffet. I wanted to tell him how much he helped me. I'm not sure I would recognize him in his street clothes. Everyone looks so different in a verbal, animated state.

On the drive back to Two Dog Farm, Brian and I compare notes about the retreat. We stop at a diner and order a huge meal. Brian gets a cheeseburger with onion rings and a chocolate shake.
I order a grilled Swiss cheese with a side of fries and a root beer float.

“It was awesome,” Brian says between bites of his burger. “I was dead by the second day. I thought I would never make it, but then something happened. I gave in to the pain like it was my friend, like the pain was teaching me. Wasn't it amazing?”

“It
was
amazing. Although I thought I was going to kill you a couple of times,” I say.

“Really?” he says. “I didn't sense any hostility from you, and usually I'm very sensitive to that sort of thing.”

“I liked the chanting. And the man with one leg. If he hadn't been sitting opposite me I don't think I would have made it.” I stuff a handful of fries in my mouth.

“A guy with one leg? I didn't even notice him. You know I spent a month at an ashram in India and it was great, but nothing like this. So intense. The sitting. The zazen. It's like a Berlitz course in spirituality. I mean, Mags, don't you feel incredibly evolved?”

“My legs feel sore and my neck is out of whack and, yeah, I guess I do feel more evolved than usual. I think the incense made me high.”

“And you haven't smoked, have you?”

“No, I haven't. It's a week today.”

“Wow, it was great. And the guy with the violin. Wasn't that fucking amazing?”

“It was. It really was amazing.”

We spend the night at Two Dog Farm. We both are dead tired and go to bed about nine o'clock and sleep until noon the next day. We have a huge breakfast at Sally's Pantry Kitchen. French toast and eggs.

We get back to New York in the late afternoon. Brian drops me off in front of my building.

“Thanks,” I say, getting my bag out of the trunk. “It was good to get away—way away.”

“You're doing great, Mags. Call me if you need me.” And off he drives. And here I stand on the curb in front of my building. It feels strange to be in the city after days in the silence and peace of the mountains. I get up to my apartment and unlock the door.

“Maggie,” a voice calls out. It's Sandy and she is sitting on my couch. Mr. Ed dances around at my feet. “I didn't want to startle you. Ed and I have been waiting for you to get back. I thought you said you'd be back this afternoon.”

“How long have you been here?” I ask.

“An hour maybe. Look, all hell broke loose. I'm going downtown to stay at a friend's place. She is out on tour with a show and she said I can stay at her duplex, but I can't bring Ed. So I was wondering if—”

“Hang on a sec.” I cut her off midsentence. “What hell broke loose, and why are you going there?”

“Dick told me to get out. I saw Todd again,” she says. “It was going to be the last time, but when I got home Dick was waiting for me. He had packed a couple of suitcases for me and told me to leave. That he was disgusted.” Sandy sobs and buries her head in her hands. “So I've stayed here the last two nights, and then I heard from Kelly that I could stay there, but the building doesn't allow dogs and Dick said he won't take care of Ed because he's really my dog and besides he was a witness to my indiscretion. In fact, Dick said Ed was an accessory. Can you believe that? I don't know why I didn't leave him years ago. He's an idiot. Do you
know we only have sex once a month? For years. Once a month? Is that normal?”

“Wow. I'm sorry. Of course I can look after Ed.” I reach down and pet Ed and then look for Bixby. I find him lying in the bathtub, his favorite hideout. Sandy is getting her things together when I go back to the living room, carrying the Bixer. “Are you all right? Do you want to talk? Have a cup of coffee?”

“I need to get going. Thanks, Maggie. I'm sorry,” she says.

“Are you going to see Todd again?” I ask.

“I don't know. It seems so complicated now. It takes all the joy out of everything. Why bother? What's so great about love and sex, anyway? I've been married to Dick for twenty years. Twenty years. We've worked and saved. We've eaten thousands of meals together and filed joint tax returns, then one day this somebody comes along and wants me. Really, really wants me, and makes me feel beautiful and sexy, and he wants me more than once a month. And I give in for a while, but then I let it go, and that's when Dick, Mr. I-love-you-but-only-on-the-third-Saturday-of-the-month, tells me to get the hell out of his life.”

“He's probably hurt.”

“I'm hurt too. I'm going to go. I'll call you, and here, take this.” Sandy hands me a wad of bills. “Here's money for dog food.”

“You don't have to.”

“It's Dick's money. Take it.” Sandy leans down and gives Ed a hug. “You be good for Mags.” Then she picks up her bags and leaves.

“Well, Ed,” I say, “welcome to your new home.”

I unpack my bag and put some water on for coffee. I'm dying for some caffeine. The light on my answering machine is blinking, which means I have messages. I walk over and look at the
display window. The number seven flashes on and off. I wait until I make my coffee before I listen to them. I'm sure one of them is from Jack. I feel it. I press the play button. The first one is from Charles, saying he's sorry about the whole video art thing and that Chad is in fact a great guy. “We want to take you out for a really expensive meal. What do you say? Please, you know I can't live without you. Call me.” Charles knows I'm a sucker for pleading. And expensive meals.

The next two are from Dee-Honey giving me the call times for the
Pied Piper
show this weekend and then calling back to give me the revised time. “Call me to confirm,” she says.

The fourth call is a hang-up. I hate that. Maybe it's Jack. The next is my friend Patty, followed by a message from my agent: “Call me as soon as you get in. I've got an audition for you on Monday.”

The next message is a voice I don't recognize. “You don't know me. My name is Bob. I'm a friend of Jack Eremus. Call me when you get this. It's important.”

My heart almost stops. I quickly copy down the number he left. Why in the world would a friend of Jack's call me? I sit down and take deep breaths. I feel anxious. Free floating. Like I could pass out.

Bixby climbs in my lap and I scratch his head. “I'm sure it's nothing, Bix. Maybe it's a surprise birthday party. I can't remember when Jack said his birthday is or if he ever did.”

“It's in December,” I hear a tinkling voice say. Goodie is standing on the arm of the sofa. “December seventeenth.”

“Well, where have you been? And how do you know Jack's birthday?”

“He told you the first night you met.”

“Oh, right. I don't remember much about that first night.”

“I do,” Goodie says rolling his eyes. “I saw the whole thing.”

“You were there?”

“Don't you get it yet? I'm everywhere.” He puts a little hand on my shoulder. “I think you better make that call.”

“Do you know what it's about?” I ask him.

“Just call, Maggie,” Goodie says flying onto my knee. “I'll be right here.”

I dial the number. It rings six times, and then the same voice that was on my message machine answers.

“Hi,” I say. “This is Maggie. You left a message for me. About Jack.”

“Yeah, this is his friend Bob. We went to high school together. I got your number off his cell phone. I'm sorry to tell you . . .”

“Oh, God,” I gasp.