Shaman's Blues Page 15

  “What happened? People don’t miss her any more already? Wait—what idea?”

  “A publicity stunt about her ascension. I know that wasn’t what you meant when you said it, but we did it. Bryan put up a web site. We spread the word. Look it up. ‘Ascended Muffie: the Word from Beyond the Beyond.’ ”

  Mae turned her laptop back on. The web page, which claimed to be “maintained by an earth-walking friend in contact with our ascended teacher,” showed Muffie with big blue seabird feet instead of her legs, and a collage of various vegetables for arms and fingers. Hindu deities with smilies masking their normal countenances hovered around her. The god with many arms still danced over a snake, but with a silly yellow disk for a face. Underneath Muffie’s big blue bird feet was a menu of topics in a font that resembled the restaurant’s menu. Ascendance. Aura cleansing. Avocados. Bathing in light. Broccoli overrated. Colon health and your aura. Cows. Destiny revealed. Dharma pitta padha and Little Feat. Ecology of economy of eating. The alphabet went on through Rutabaga skin scrub and Sri Rama Kriya Says to Zucchini Detox Bath.

  The collage Muffie character spouted speech balloons. One said, “I am here and there. There is not up. Ascendance is but is not ascendance. The work goes on.” Another: “Dada Café staff. Stay on your toes. Stay on the path. Serve the message with a smile. Rotating cleanse.” The third said, “To Kenny and Frank, special thanks for supporting and assisting my extraordinary transition. Olive oil, garlic, and black pepper. Hot foot baths.”

  Two links in the side bar menu invited communication: Report Sightings, and Ask the Masters.

  Although the art kept the Dada spirit, it made fun of Muffie. Worse, Bryan mocked Kenny and Frank.

  “So what do you think?” Roseanne asked. “Are you looking at it?”

  “I am. It’s mean.”

  “It is not. And it worked. It’s started a buzz. We had to do something to get by without her until we know something. We’re in limbo as long as she is.”

  “Well, you can take it down. She’s alive and in Santa Fe. I did a psychic journey and I finally saw her. She was in some art gallery with the originals for the art in this chakra meditation book she gave Kenny, and she had Sri Rama Kriya’s books and was posing with the art. I think she must be planning some kind of publicity herself, or she wouldn’t be doing that.”

  “I hope it’s publicity for the restaurant. How do you know that was in Santa Fe?”

  “A friend here.” Jamie’s glorious tenor voice penetrated the closed door with even more vigor, and Mae realized she had just identified him as a friend. “He said she’s bound to be at this artist’s gallery opening. Ruth Smyth, the designer who does Sanchez and Smyth clothing.”

  “God. She would, wouldn’t she? Her organic cotton heroine. So you can go there and pin her down and find out what she’s doing? She still doesn’t answer. I have to renew the lease in a week, and I can’t make that decision without her.”

  “I’ll try. I hope she’ll talk to me. I made her pretty mad.”

  “Bryan loved it for his movie, though.”

  “Pardon my saying it, but Bryan doesn’t seem to care about people as much as his art. Like it’s okay with him to upset people.” Mae clicked on the link to Sri Rama Kriya says. “What’s this gonna look like to people who follow this guru? Bryan’s put his words right in the middle of this satire.”

  “Like it isn’t a joke already?”

  “I don’t think so.” Mae read the quotation aloud. “‘As you incinerate accumulated karma in the chakras, you acquire the light of its flame. As you become luminous, you illuminate. As you illuminate, you eliminate samskaras. You will not be reborn.’ I don’t get it, but some folks take it seriously.”

  “But it’s so preposterous.”

  “Is it? I don’t know any Eastern philosophy.”

  “I don’t, either. It’s just really bad prose. Incinerate, accumulate, illuminate, eliminate ... it’d only be good if it was a joke.”

  Jamie was into a new song now, something with a rapid patter of words, still operatic but comic. It reminded her of what Roseanne had just said about the Sri Rama Kriya quote, although Jamie’s song was something about the model of a modern major general. Luminous, illuminate, eliminate ... She imagined the guru’s words to this silly song. They didn’t quite fit the rhythm, but the ring was similar. Taken out of context, the quote did sound like nonsense. “The web site is a joke, though, not the guru.”

  “But it’s a great joke, don’t you think? It’s totally like Muffie.”

  “Not to people who believed her.”

  “No, it’s exactly like her.”

  “Please.” As Jamie stopped singing, Mae lowered her voice, realizing she’d turned up her own volume to hear herself over him. “Kenny is really grateful to her, and he doesn’t deserve to be made fun of. At least take the message to him and Frank down. They’ll know it’s not from her.”

  “We have to take the whole damned thing down eventually anyway. Some lawyer called Bryan about intellectual property rights. Can you believe that?”

  “What? For being Dada?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s a style, not a property. Probably for quoting Sri Rama Kriya, that’s all I can think of. I can’t afford a legal battle. Bryan agreed to take it down, but we’re putting it off. He’s mad. He worked hard on that.”

  “I can’t even find Sri Rama Kriya, and he can send a lawyer after you for quoting his book? That’s crazy.”

  “It might have been his publisher. I don’t know. Bryan talked to the lawyer, not me. How much do I owe you for finding out Muffie’s alive?”

  Mae thought of her failed effort as well as her successful one. Less than an hour’s work. She named her fee. “But if you take that site down right away—”

  “No. One more day. I’d rather pay you. We’ll make more money while it’s up.”

  “Have you talked to Frank and Kenny? Are you telling them it’s really Muffie?”

  “We’re saying we don’t know, that it’s a mystery who’s communicating with her. But I asked them what they think and they say they like it.”

  “Because you’re their boss and you like it, and they need their jobs. Don’t ruin the place for them. They think the restaurant is spiritual.”

  “It’s a business. Kenny and Frank are spiritual. Come on, you met Muffie, she isn’t—” Roseanne stopped to attend to an interruption, someone asking her a question. “I’ve got to go. Let me know what the green goddess says when you see her.”

  As they ended the call, Mae rose from the wooden chair. Her calf muscles were even sorer than they had been earlier. Dancing in the store hadn’t helped. She stretched. Jamie must be done with the dishes. Time to call Wendy.

  But first she should call Kenny. He had to be either insulted or fooled by the pseudo-ascension web site. She should let him know she would see Muffie in a few days and ask if he had any message for her. He might be relieved to know she hadn’t ascended, but he might also be let down that she had lied.

  Mae sat back down with her laptop and checked what readers had posted on the Ascended Muffie site. Maybe someone else had already undermined the ascension, or Kenny might have logged in to take it all seriously. To her surprise, some readers had actually asked the ascended masters questions. Under Report Sightings, someone claimed a vision of Muffie at the T or C farmer’s market, floating above it like an angel blessing the food. More satire, or a deluded follower? No wonder it was keeping the customers coming in. Bryan had done the right thing, in a way—except for mocking her neighbors.

  It was a good sign that Kenny and Frank hadn’t posted anything. Maybe they could handle the travesty, and Mae’s call. They lived a coherent, disciplined lifestyle, after all, even if Muffie was part of the reason they did. As long as the restaurant survived, they would be all right. It was really Dada Café’s future, not Muffie’s pretended ascension, that Mae needed to find out about. If the business had been abandoned for some reason, a lot of livelihoods wer
e at stake.

  She called Kenny, but had to leave the news as a message. Of course he didn’t pick up. He would be at the restaurant, washing dishes as a spiritual practice—the only thing he might be qualified to do.

  When Mae emerged, she found the living room quiet, the kitchen empty. She looked through the open door to the studio. No one there, or in the bathroom. Had Jamie left? Why? They still had to make his call to Wendy. Did it scare him that much?

  The arrangement of the living room furniture, the sofa with its back to the bedroom door, created a kind of walkway to the kitchen, and on a second look Mae saw that Jamie lay on the sofa, shoes off, eyes closed, holding Pie to his chest. The old cat’s head rested cheek to cheek beside his, and one of her front legs lay across his throat. He hadn’t walked out, he was just tired. They looked sweet together, both of them still and peaceful finally. Mae felt guilty for having to wake him.

  Pie flicked an ear, tossing off a drop of water. He wasn’t sleeping. Silent tears slid down Jamie’s cheeks, dripping onto his companion.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A surge of worry tugging at her heart, Mae dropped to her knees beside him and touched his shoulder. “Jamie, what’s wrong?”

  He sat up, wiping his tears on his sleeve, letting the cat slip onto the cushion. He petted her as she landed, sniffed, and pressed his hands to his eyes. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize, sugar. What is it?”

  He took a deep breath and leaned his elbows on his thighs, his face hidden by his hair. “I’m just sad.”

  Mae sat beside him on the couch. “About what?”

  “My cat died.”

  “I’m so sorry.” It had to be recent, to upset him like this. “When?”

  He said something unintelligible, a fist jammed against his mouth, and turned away from her. Heat radiated off him as if he had a fever. Concerned, she laid a hand on his back, and met his ribs through a ropy layer of muscle. He didn’t seem to be breathing.

  As she gently rubbed his back, something in him came unmoored. He shuddered and broke down in deep, gasping sobs. Sweating and trembling, he curled up, but seemed unable to hold still, rocking, twisting, and grabbing the back of the couch, and then clutching a cushion as if literally struggling to stay afloat. With a long, agonized inhalation, he let go of the cushion and convulsed into a tight ball again.

  At the first pause in his thrashing, Mae wrapped her arms around him from behind. Her dress was quickly dampened by the sweat soaking through his shirt, her body shaken by his crying. Frightened and aching for Jamie, she held him until his storm faded to an exhausted quiver. He turned to her, leaned his head on her shoulder, and she stroked his damp hair. She had never before seen anyone in this kind of emotional distress. This had to be about more than the death of his cat. “Can you talk, sugar?”

  Sniffing loudly, he sat up. “Fuck. Snot. Hope it didn’t get on your nice dress.”

  He got up and went to the bedroom for the box of tissues and a waste basket, and sat back down, blowing his nose several times. “Sorry. Sweat. Snot. Disgusting.” An uneven laugh. “The sensitive man is a bloody mess.”

  Mae tucked her feet up under her, leaned into the arm of the couch, and studied him. He still hadn’t looked at her. “I know there are things you don’t like to share ... but maybe you could try. You might not feel so bad.”

  He held a sofa seat cushion against his chest, leaning his chin on its top. “It’s hard.”

  “That’s okay. Take your time.”

  “It’d take a year. Jesus. It’d take a fucking year ...” He looked around. “Where’d Pie go?”

  “Don’t worry about her. She’s fine.”

  “Kind of wanted to hold onto her. Calms me down. Having a cat. I’m ... It’s been ... it’s been a bad year. No, not that. Not all bad. I mean—it’s just hard, that’s all.”

  “What’s been hard?”

  He looked into her eyes. “I ... I’ve been living—Christ this is so bloody stupid—living alone for the first time in my life. At twenty-eight. Can you believe that?”

  “I can. So am I. Twenty-seven, first time all alone.”

  “But you like it—you keep wanting to be alone.” He knotted his hands together and watched them. “I fucking hate it. No ... Jeezus.” He glanced at her, forced a smile. “That sounded pathetic. I’m doing all right, really. Well, for me I am. For me, I’m doing great.” He leaned onto the cushion again. “Yeah, right. Fucking great. I’m lying.”

  “It’s hard being alone. You broke up with your girlfriend, your cat died ...”

  “Fuck. I wish I wasn’t telling you this. I’d rather be telling you some heroic crap about climbing a mountain or singing at the Met, things to make you ... But, Jeezus, it’s no use, y’know? I’m fucked up.” He met her eyes for a second, and then ducked her gaze, folding his arms over the top of the cushion, fists stacked, chewing on a thumb knuckle. “I’ll come around all right, though. It’s a rough patch right now, that’s all. Don’t want you to think I’m always throwing a wobbly.”

  “I don’t think that, sugar.” She reached over and patted his arm. “But I do think your check engine light is on.”

  “That it is.” The joke seemed to relax him. He stood, smiled down at her. “Can I get you a beer? Still got that cheap piss in your fridge? Or wine?”

  “Water. Thanks.”

  He went to the kitchen, returned with a glass of water for her, a beer for himself. “Nice to have you here,” Jamie said as he sat again. His voice was soft. “I mean, in Santa Fe. It really is. Makes it less lonely.”

  “Thank you, but ...” She could hardly be his only friend. “What about your friends? Your family? Are you really alone?

  “Yeah, I am. Can’t even have a fucking cat where I live now.” He took a deep breath, looked into Mae’s eyes. “And that’s hard. I can’t sleep alone. Really can’t sleep.”

  “What do you do, then?”

  “Sing, write music. Stay up all night. Hit a bar. I don’t mean, y’know, always, not every night. Some are ... manageable.”

  “You pick up women at the bars, do you?” she teased, trying to lighten his mood.

  He exhaled a sort of laugh. “Never had a fucking anxiety problem, have you? Pick up women. Christ. You’ve seen me. Not exactly the smooth operator.”

  “You are when you dance.” From his crooked smile and unsteady sigh, Mae could tell this hadn’t been the right thing to say. She’d meant to reassure him, but he’d read another meaning into her words. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”

  “Nah, it’s true.” He took a swig of beer and looked into the can as if there were something important in the hole. “If I could just sing and dance instead of having to talk and do anything else, I’d get on all right.”

  “You want to tell me what’s wrong with you, sugar? Do you have a diagnosis?”

  “Jeeeezus.” He thudded the beer can onto the coffee table. “I’m having a chat, relaxing, getting myself back in gear, what does she ask?” He stood up, pitched a sofa pillow at the wall. “My fucking diagnosis.”

  Without thinking, Mae snapped at him the way she would at a child having a tantrum. “Stop yelling.”

  To her surprise, it worked. He picked up the pillow, put it back on the couch. “Sorry. I’m so tired, I fly off. I’m not like this. Not really.”

  “But right now you are. And I’m trying to understand you. Maybe I didn’t ask it right. You told me you’re ‘fucked up.’ That you’re a ‘trauma magnet.’ And I want you to explain it better.”

  “Right, then. I’ll serve it all up, see if you run, see if you kick me out.” He paced to the bedroom door and framed himself there, his back to her, hands on either side of the door as if holding himself from falling through. After a pause, he said, “One: panic. Two: anxiety. Three: phobias. Four ...” He pushed back off the doorframe and tapped one hand against it. “This last one’s over, y’know. It’s my success story, all right?”

  Mae waited. Jamie seemed to hav
e frozen. When he thawed, his hands drew into clenched fists that fidgeted as if he had something alive in them.

  “Can I help, sugar?”

  He shook his head, and came back to the couch and picked up his beer as he sat again. “Sorry. Panic’s bad lately. Four was depression. Don’t like to talk about it. Makes me panic.” He flashed her The Smile and took a long drink of beer. “You’re supposed to laugh. That was a good joke.”

  “Depression’s not funny.”

  “But I’m not depressed now. Crying like that, it was just ... Fixing dinner and cleaning up, lying down to relax with the cat, hearing your voice through the door, someone else nearby ... it was all so much like ... like having a real life again. It got to me. I’m sensitive, that’s all. I cry easy. But I’m not depressed.”

  “I won’t judge you if you are. My stepfather was depressed when he was out of work. He didn’t even cry. Just ate and slept. Kind of a ghost of himself.”

  “Yeah.” Jamie nodded. “You know, then.” His eyes searched hers. “I’m scared of ever falling there again. Terrified. Fear number five out of three hundred and ten.” He chugged the beer again, tried to stifle the belch. “Wish I was afraid of doing that.” A sudden laugh attack. Mae wondered if his spells of hilarity were a symptom of his exhaustion, like his short temper and his tears. “Fuck. At least I am scared of farting in bed.”

  “Is that a joke or a real fear? You keep putting these big numbers up.”

  “Want the list? Fear of spiders, scorpions, octopuses, jellyfish, anything with tentacles or extra legs. Fear of the dentist, and of having crap in my teeth.” He flashed the gold tooth with a corner of a smile. “Fear of getting depressed again, fear of farting in bed with a woman and all that other embarrassing crap. Fear of fat, fear of numbers, legal documents, reading directions, getting lost, fear of abandonment, fear of rejection—shall I keep going?”

  “No, I get the picture. Some of it. You’re so friendly, though. You don’t act scared of rejection.”

  “I don’t?” He looked genuinely surprised. “Guess I put myself in the way of it anyway.” He paused, turned his beer can without drinking. “Yeah. More scared of not trying than of rejection, I guess. Scared of both. Being alone, being rejected. Bad paradox.”