Diary of a Heretic

Turn The Lights Down Low

  Professor Kaya was as happy as anyone about the Arts Consortium. Brian’s success planning and directing the college delighted her. 

But as the session continued, Kaya felt left out. Angelina’s place, which was no longer a “lodge,” brimmed with progress. Innovation ran rampant, without her.

Kaya’s lover of two years, Alec Olsen, had stayed in a cabin there ever since the students arrived. He couldn’t get enough of collaborating with Earle. A few times, after the bonfire, she had suggested he spend the night with her in Asheville. But Alec was captivated, lost to poetic chanting.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

He couldn’t play the congas; he caught the beat only in words. But when the group treated his poems like chants, calling out in one voice, Alec envisioned new vistas. During the bonfires, Earle beat the drums, leading the group through his own poems combined with Alec’s.

Impossible to walk away. Kaya understood that.

“Did you know,” he said, “that the original Black Mountain poets looked to improvisation and lines of one breath? Shortening words. If only they could have heard Jamaican patois.”

“Everything would be different, wouldn’t it?” Kaya didn’t miss him. She was always so busy. Except this summer she was not busy.

She stayed to smoke Jacob’s marijuana, because a few hits infused her with happy energy. And, she soon noticed:  the lift inside her mind recalled past desires.

Angelina, as solid and sensible as ever, swayed in her gauzy clothes—a different woman from the one who had worn men’s shirts and heavy boots. Her beaded, braided hair trailed like fresh vines from a tight band at her crown.

Kaya watched Angelina’s new posture and brighter light from a distance. But when she saw Angelina’s eyes gleam, her pulse quickened. When Trevor had suggested new names for the women, had he aroused their true natures? 

Every Tuesday night, when “Awake,” Trevor’s band, with Earle, played at the Avalon, Angelina and Polly sat in a booth with Kaya and Alec.  The dance floor was too crowded for them. If they were going to dance, they danced around bonfires.

This week Polly stayed home, fearing a headache. Before they sat down, Alec held up a finger. Would the ladies mind if he checked out? Earle had invited him to hang out backstage.

Kaya covered her mouth to hide her glee, but Angelina caught part of it, and by shrugging her shoulders and suppressing her own smile, conveyed: time we conspired.

“Sit beside me,” Kaya said once Alec had left. Without thinking, before they got their drinks, Kaya wrapped an arm around Angelina. And discovered a singular pleasure that from now on, she could not possibly give up: Angelina’s skin against her own. Kaya brushed her lips against Angelina’s neck, which smelled like nutmeg.

It was Angelina who said, “Think anyone would miss us if we visited your place instead of listening to the band?”

“You could spend the night and no one would notice.”

“Polly might.”

“Angelina,” Kaya said, kissing her hands, “will you spend the night with me? You’ve no idea how I’ve missed you.”

“Let’s go,” Angelina whispered for no reason.

“And when we get there,” Kaya likewise whispered, “we’ll turn the lights down low.”   

(To Be Continued)

One Hundred Percent Used-to-be

In the shadow of the garage across the street, I bend to catch my breath.  In a minute I will storm the compound.  I’ll hoist the boy over my shoulders and race him to safety . . .

The frightening thing is how suddenly, perfectly easy it is.  I saunter through the massive shop—no boy in sight!—knowing just what to do.

[This is an excerpt from Diary of a Heretic, the novel. Click here for the first episode, or here for the previous one.]

“Yes, hello!  It’s so good to see you.”  Gamely, I pat a stolid man’s shoulder.  He’s eating a sticky pecan roll and his beleaguered face with its puffed, almost shut eyes elicits more tenderness than despair.  Not that I’m not heartsick:  Who knows what’s ahead?  And what Carlos is capable of?

But the stolid, dejected man stops chewing.  And I say, “Hang in there.  In the end, it will be okay.”  We exchange honest, timid smiles—that’s all he wants—and I’m on to the next one.

A pale, thin woman in a corduroy dress jumps up and extends her hand.  “My name is Agnes McKinney.”  There’s a flicker of sprightliness behind a pre-assembled expression.  Her real smile is unpredictably shaky. “We need to have faith,” she says.

“No, no.  We’re supposed to doubt.”  For once I’m sticking to the premise.  “Faith and doubt go hand in hand.”  And like an amnesiac come to his senses, I say the words and shudder with revelation;  how long had I blanked on Religion Without Rules’s central tenet?

“Okay,” She tugs at her reddish, helmet-like hair.  “I’ll grant you that—”

“Thank you.”  A bubble, a tickle, a nice, normal exchange.  That’s how far I am from anxiety. 

So why am I sick with foreboding?  Why am I. . . Oh yes, here’s the reason.  Here comes Carlos, tongue wetting his lips.  He hurries out from behind the long, sleek countertop.  We immediately make eye contact, and—I do not flinch.  Something happened back there in the birch grove.  A transformation?  A connection or communion from Colin and me. Tyler and Colin are not alike; I invented a connection out of nothing. To be honest, Tyler doesn’t even resemble Colin. He’s no longer someone I desire.

And further, how odd that someone decided he should replace Maggie as my personal assistant, someone paid to be friendly and understanding. Who decided I needed someone like that? Only Carlos would have the idea that being friendly toward me was in fact a job description. But now she’s not here and if Tyler has signed on for a position, someone must tell him the position no longer exists. Maggie and Carlos invented it.

Carlos and I have battled telepathically for so long that next time we find ourselves in the same room, he’ll know. Tell the young guy that the offer of any paid position was a mistake. Even the biggest, savviest corporations do this to potential employees all the time: a person applies for work, sees half a dozen corporate-title men and/or women in serious, time consuming interviews. One or more business directors may say, “The job is yours. Can you start next month? The human resources department moves slowly.” And then, a week or so later, someone phones to say, “Sorry. We made a mistake. We have your resume on file. Perhaps the right position will become available before long. Because otherwise we’re sure you’ll soon be so far out of our league…”

Maybe only publicity agents and marketing people add that last bit. Or maybe no one does. I heard it before, though.

So the next time Carlos and I are within spitting distance, he’ll know: Tyler Dineen can’t work here. We can’t afford it. His life and career will come to him, but neither Carlos nor I will interfere. Forcing Carlos to honor my decision may require exertion. We must agree with or without discussion. For once, I’m determined to do whatever it takes.

So what if whenever I so much as read the newspaper, Carlos, real or imagined, hovers over my shoulder?  He sighs and shifts his weight, as if I have no right, but only if I acknowledge as much. He can fuss and fume till kingdom come. No actual empire is depending on my every move. There’s no reason I shouldn’t kick back with the crossword puzzle, if I want! Whatever we once fantasized might be at stake has vanished, abracadabra—poof!

Carlos has been inside my head, tormenting my heart all year. He’s stayed with me and, yes, in his way, as long as Maggie was there to talk me down and hold my hand in the morning, he’s loved me.  But now, that’s gone; I’m holding his gaze without flinching.  Carlos ruling my body and soul is one hundred percent used-to-be.  He can’t hurt me!  He can’t touch me! 

(Click here to read the next episode)

Memorize This

I turned and ran, ending up in a grove of birch trees between Northwestern and the beach.  Something about the low invisible sun, the stark white branches and the imperceptibly changing sky cut a gash of desperate grief in me.  Shadows shifted and I realized that Colin and I in our brief, hectic comings and goings had come here.  More than once. Or else the one time seemed like many. We’d taken turns pressing each other up against the slender, white-barked trees, me on him, him on me.  It was a game; there was a rhythm:  first be serious, for real, the lover and his beloved.

[This is an excerpt from Diary of a Heretic, the novel. Click here for the first episode, or here for the previous one.]

Pinning my beloved to a tree, I clasped his two wrists in my one hand, and stared into his infinitely deep-lit eyes, half-stunned, half-searching:  Where was Colin?  In there?  In me?  And then, mystified, I leaned back and noticed his mouth, which as soon as I saw it, I had to have.  We kissed and laughed at how stupid we were being. Should we run back and do it again? Why not?

You can set it up anyway you want.

We didn’t know.  We couldn’t guess.  Except—whatever it was that happened to everyone else would never happen to us!  Colin and I were incorruptible.

We took turns playing lovers among these trees.  We stood motionless in the snow.  Ice glinted from every twig but we were not cold.  We were extraordinarily alive! in love! And if somehow I got stuck as lover and he as beloved, why even keep track?

Now you be me and I’ll be you.

It was for fun.  It was also incredible and wonderful and way too much to control! 

So why is it, when the one thing you’ve always wanted finally appears—it’s here, it’s yours. And then? It’s already practically gone. Love in the birch grove was that kind of juncture.  A beginning and an end—which I was aware of even as it was happening.  It was like:  Let me remember this, give me a second to fix it place, because this is where I’m going to live my life from here on in.  Memorize this so you can come back. 

And now, I had—come back.  Accidentally, all these years later.  Overhead a caw, a creaking bough, something made me look up.  If only I had known then. . . And here, my mind stuck.  Since, I had known enough to isolate, and savor, and commit to memory what every minute being with him was like.  I had had premonitions all along that being in love with Colin was too good to be true.  Terrible, unexplainable twinges and ominous inklings that everything changes; nothing lasts.

Shivering in this isolated birch grove, I am beside myself where once upon a time—to Colin and me together—everything was a miracle!

I’m blind for a second until I discover I’ve involuntarily shut my eyes, that’s all.  Opening them, I think, oh yeah, cause and effect!  Is there anything more steadfast than that?  And then. . . here it comes—I start to see what’s been in the offing all day.  At the edge of the trees, along with far-off voices, I catch a glimpse of red, someone’s ski jacket.  My gaze tracks the curve of another’s arm (purple jacket and black mitten).  Head back, I stretch and spin, competing with the treetops.  We’re swaying for position beneath shimmery banks of clouds.

Embarrassed, I think have to do something! Carlos has that boy in his clutches!  In fact:  Please, God help me rescue this perfectly innocent boy from evil. I mean:  Let me resist the thrall of his beauty and that deep, high and low swing as I recognize in him the soul of concern, of sweetness, light, peace, joy and hope!

(Click here to read the next episode)

The Lucky Rock Salesman

(Trough Thanksgiving weekend, Malcolm holds the stage. Brian and Trevor et al. will return late Monday.)

After Maggie ducked inside the car, leaving me forever, my recollection produces a dank haze and a dearth of signs of life.  I know I ambled for hours, in the dark—during the day—as if in shock.  If I treaded on grass or asphalt, beneath trees and birds, above worms and bugs;  if, in transit, I passed people on limb-flapping power walks, crossing guards, school kids—nothing penetrated.

I remember feeling suspended, adrift, as if my soul were holding its breath.  My goal was to keep moving.  Please God, let a path form, a door open, as long as I stay on my feet.  If I act natural. . .  If I behave scrupulously, a clean and perfect way out might—might—appear out of nowhere.

As Maggie’s adieus ebbed into history, a crest of admonitions—don’t worry, never fear—buoyed me along.  Hopping from foot to foot, I decided my existence was not marginal as I’ve always feared; it’s grotesque!  It’s glaring and conspicuous!  There’s no disguising what a bulbous, quivery thing I am.

[This is an excerpt from Diary of a Heretic, the novel. Click here for the first episode, or here for the previous one.]

At the intersection of Green Bay Road and Maple, a show-off-y couple (mink coats, silver Mercedes) blatantly ran a red light.  The driver behind them, inching forward in a Dodge plastered with Jesus stickers, was singing at the top of his lungs.  Hands on the steering wheel, head back, mouth open, his chest was heaving, his eyes shut.  As the light changed, a cigarette-smoking young woman behind him leaned on her horn, making me jump.  A simultaneous gust of cold lashed at my skin.  I felt it pierce my bones, and on the outside, push things, so that I stumbled and shuddered and oh, I don’t know:  This business of us each being separate, fixed creatures struck me as slim hope and nonstop neediness, no matter what. 

I crossed onto Washington Avenue, away from the wind, toward, I hoped, normalcy with its little shops and single-family homes.  For a while I encountered no one.  Then a blotchy faced man in outdoor coveralls lurched—drunkenly—from a pink gravel driveway.  With a can of Budweiser in one hand and a rock in the other, he headed straight for me.  I was backing away, but he begged, “No, come on, wait.  Take a look at this.”  He turned over the rock, revealing a dazzling purple and white geode the size of a cut-in-half grapefruit. 

“Go on,” he said, “take it.”

“No, but thank you.”

“I want you to have it, achu-ally.”  He swiped at my shoulder.  “Because achu-ally, it much more belongs to you than to me.”

Assuming he wanted money, I slapped my pockets.  “All I’ve got is a twenty.”

“Will you fuck that?  What do you think I am?  A fucking door-to-door lucky rock
salesman?  Don’t you know you are looking at your biggest, truest, hard-fucking-est-core believer on the planet?” 

Not facetiously (at least at the time, it didn’t sound as bad to me as it does here), I said, “You do look familiar.”

“Take the rock.”

“Thank you.”  And upon inspecting the geode, I mumbled further appreciation.
My biggest hardest-core believer on the planet drained his beer, tossed the empty can in some bushes, and said, “Now give me your blessing.”

I cleared my throat and was about to resort to a tap on the cheek and a Dominus Nabisco, when the man ranted instructions at me.

 “Touch my head,” was all I could clearly make out.

 So, “Here, hold this— ”  I handed him back the geode and stroked wiry tufts of his mustard-brown hair.  For good measure, I pressed my thumbs against his temples.  Go, I thought of saying, and drink no more.  But that seemed pretentious, even for me. 

Instead, I asked, “What can I do for you?”

My rock-giver bowed his head, saying “Keep me steadfast in love,” as I mentally sifted through nostrums:  Okay, sure.  Go on and be steadfast.

“And,” continued the drunk, “keep me forever in awe of your holiness.”

What can you say to that?

I said, “Go. And drink no more.”

(To Be Continued)

It's Simpler Than You Thought

For half an hour, Maggie and I stroll along, two ordinary friends on an ordinary afternoon.  She points out a flock of crows tottering on someone’s lawn.  We’re scuffling through a carpet of leaves, when a little girl skates by, holding a sheet cake with a big 9-shaped candle stuck in the frosting.  “ ’Scuse me,” she says, gliding past.  We watch the swing of her beaded African braids, her long legs, and the fluttering back of her velvet coat as she disappears around a corner.

We cross back on to Sheridan Road and a high-speed cyclist, all muscle and Lycra, spokes, gears, plastic and chrome, spins past us.  He or she rips right into the horizon, so it seems we’re a blur.
We cut through the plaza of candy and jewelry stores.  A man in headphones coming from the other end is waving a phantom baton.  Upon noticing us, he freezes, then decides—you can see his mind working—to resume his fantasy, a notch lower in volume and velocity.  Up close the would-be conductor’s face is red and wet.

[This is an excerpt from Diary of a Heretic, the novel. Click here for the first episode, or here for the previous one.]

“He doesn’t look so good,” Maggie says as we approach a stone entranceway.

“No,” I agree.  We emerge through the arch, and its open gate.  We round a corner of wrought iron fence, slip past a tremendous pine tree, and then, just like that, it’s happened:  We’re on our way back. 

With the window boxes of home in view, Maggie turns sideways and grabs my wrists—shouting:  “About my replacement:  Whatever your problem is, you’ll handle it.”

“It’s funny you should say that.”  I lunge to keep up with her.

Her hands describe a horizontal plane as she says in wry amazement,  “It’s just so much work being out in broad daylight.  It’s like you have to figure yourself in, in terms of the world.”  Tossing her hair from her eyes, she grins.  “I sound just like you.”

I’m all set to protest, Hey, come on, that’s not what I sound like; when an unsettling clamminess creeps over her face.  Her expression flattens and off her skin comes an oily chill.

I shade my eyes, trying to see what she’s seen.  Through the plate-glass window Carlos is blocking someone from view.  Vaguely lithe and long-haired is my impression.  Of course, I know it’s Tyler, but I won’t admit it.  It’s nothing.  Why sweat?  It’s nothing. 

Then Maggie pounds me in the small of my back.  She shoves me ahead of her, and runs on my heels.  After half a block it occurs to me to refuse, and stop dead.

“What?”

“It’s no excuse, but—”  She takes my arm and proceeds farther down the street.  “But God—why do we only get impossible choices?  It may seem like I’m running out on you, Malcolm, but I’m really not.  It’s going to be fine.”  Maggie’s hurrying backwards, away from me.  “You’re going to discover it’s much, much simpler than you thought.”

“What is?” 

Maggie looks over her shoulder, “I know you won’t hurt him.  You’ll see.”

And she runs over to a two-tone, beige and tan, Seventies’ model Cadillac I hadn’t noticed before, but which, with her racing to it, I realize has been cruising behind us for several minutes.  She’s calling, “I believe in you, Malk!  I love you!”  And I’m aware of a driver leaning over to open the passenger’s door.  Maggie’s crying and waving good-bye, don’t worry, it’s all going to turn out all right.  She’s sure, she believes, she has complete faith.  And then the car pulls away and she’s gone.

(Click here to read the next episode)

No Eye Contact, Please

Maggie’s plane leaves in three hours, and a car is picking her up.  For us, no awkward hugs in front of the metal detectors at O’Hare.  Instead, I wait in the sun room like someone about to undergo day-long tests at the doctor’s.  Flipping through a three-year-old National Geographic, I wonder if I’ll ever climb the Himalayas.  A line of thought as grandiose as it is tenuous.  Or wait—maybe not.  Who’s to say I can’t enroll in rock climbing school once I flail out of this financial mess?  I can hire a guide, join an expedition.  I can begin again.

[This is an excerpt from Diary of a Heretic, the novel. Click here for the first episode, or here for the previous one.]

Speaking of which, here comes she comes.  Maggie and I are still locked in our same little game of chicken:  who’s going to say good-bye first?  She plunks herself beside me with a teasing sing-song.

“Hey, sweetie, want to go on a walk?”

“Why?”

“Because that way we can walk and talk together without feeling awkward about looking or not looking at each other.”

“Okay.”

“And,” she babbles on, “just being outside is a kind of improvement.  Natural surroundings, wider perspective.”

“Sounds like you’ve thought this through.”  Basically, it’s been my plan to shake Maggie’s hand and part with a businesslike, “Best of luck.”

But she stands up and half-bows.  Her face and posture, her whole demeanor beseech me.  “It doesn’t have to be a long walk,” she says.  “Around the block.”

My face burns and I stare at my shoes.

“Malcolm, you know I believe in you, and your spirituality.”

Disgusted, I practically spit.  But uh-oh!  Her eyes are misting up, her hands are twisting, knuckle over knuckle.  And I am pure jellyfish.  My arm around her, I’m up and cooing, “Of course I’ll go on a walk with you.”

“Wait.”  She’s snuffling and wiping her cheeks.  “Carlos is getting someone to take my place, and it won’t be easy for you.”

“Maggie, isn’t there enough going on?  We’re supposed to be saying good-bye.”

“Jesus, I know that!  It’s just—well, you acted so weird about Tyler’s cell phone and got so panicky when I said, ‘Why don’t the three of us have lunch?’ ”

“Oh,” I stagger back.

“I tried to talk Carlos out of it.”

“Whatever you do, Maggie, don’t tell me anymore about this.”

“Okay.”

And though it’s midday, there’s a twilight cast in the room, ephemeral specks of silvery dust.  There’s a strangeness at hand, a dull and staticky foreboding.  Maggie sighs:  “It's just too much.  You and Carlos are going to have to do whatever it is you need to do, make up, break up, start over—without me in the middle.”

“Maggie, if that’s why you’re moving to LA, don’t go.  And don’t go thinking you’ll do conferences there.  We’ve got about a week, a month at the most, before they shut us down.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”  And ambling beside her in the stark, gray, completely uncontrollable atmosphere outside, I latch on to this she-done-me-wrong scenario.  As if Maggie were leaving me for some younger, sexier, holier holy man.  I brood, my bottom lip out.  You’ll be sorry someday.  She cocks her head, flashing me a wicked smile.  And you’ll have hell to pay.  I stamp my feet, kick the curb.  We should write a song.

Out in the open, in a cross walk, we’re hanging onto each other.  We’re stumbling over our feet, tugging at each other’s sleeves.  On the other side I think, I’ll miss you.  My eyes refocus and I watch her expression trump mine, Well, I’ll really miss you.

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Craven Choke Puppy

Brian and Police Chief Everett slapped at the blue jay attacking Trevor. Angelina screamed like a girl. After a whirl of wings, the men’s hands slicing like blades, the blue jay flew high, traced a distant, tight circle and then swooped low, cawing and flapping just inches from Brian and Everett. Both men jumped, arms covering their heads.

Trevor laughed; the bird hadn’t hurt him at all.

“Blue jays have attacked me since I was little. Remember, Brian? How they’d go at me on my bike? Peck my head open.” 

“Let me ask Jacob what he thinks.” Brian registered mild surprise that he now believed Jacob recognized omens. And more: Jacob could ward away evil spirits with a mix of protective herbs.

“Jacob and I see it the same way, Bri. Blue jays need to hurt me.”

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

“Trevor, let me drive you to the doctor.” Angelina held Trevor’s head of countless, tight, shiny braids. She peered into his eyes and scanned his face for injuries. “You’re sure, darling?”

A week ago Trevor had received a series of shots for rabies and tetanus. And a cherry-size bump still topped his head where a brick had fallen on him. Otherwise, he was fine.

Angelina resumed telling Everett about the need for dormitories and a main college building. “We’re fine through August. Two weeks left to this session, which, ask anyone, has succeeded beyond expectations, barring the scene with Carla. But incidents like that occur at UNC, too.”

“Even if you start in early October,” Everett said, “which is the absolute earliest we can get the permits through, you’ll need to quit come winter.” Everett casually draped an arm over Angelina as she watched her sandaled feet.

Brian, who was so anxious to talk privately with Trevor that he intended to lead him up the mountain at the next trail marker, hurried forward, pushing his head close behind Everett and Angelina. “I had an idea for the winter semester,” he said. “I’m still researching it, but at the original Black Mountain College, they developed the geodesic dome. Remember those?”

Angelina did. “Buckminster Fuller, of course. If we take fifteen students again, they and the faculty can stay in the new, improved cabins. And, if necessary, I can always house people at my place. But a big dome with space heaters and extra light would work well for classrooms. Brian, that’s brilliant.”

“I haven’t nailed down the details. But I talked to Royce, and strange but true, he’s built domes before, in Florida.” 

Everett was holding Angelina’s hand. “Make sure everyone honors you for this, baby. The Arts Consortium is gonna be a long term contribution.”

Angelina blushed and glanced back at Brian and Trevor, who either had not heard the police chief call her “baby,” or else thought nothing of it.

The trail forked and Brian asked his brother, “Little hike, a little while?”

Angelina frowned, still not convinced the bird hadn’t harmed him. But Trevor grinned and swung his head, braids flying. “We’ll see you at dinner.”

Brian hurried uphill and resisted the impulse to pull Trevor along. But within a few feet, Trevor was flowing swiftly along the narrow path, and answering questions Brian had dreaded asking.

“You can go easy with Hailey, take your time. But let her know.”

“Did you choose her for me, Trevor?”

“You mean, try her out first? I wouldn’t do that, Brian. Trust me. I like Hailey. We linked a while but then kept going apart, like from loop to loop.”

“Why would you move away from her, though?”

“That’s ’cause you and Hailey are one love. We talked about this before.”

“My one love, you call her, was your girlfriend for months. It makes me uneasy, Trevor. And, how’s she supposed to feel? Passed from you to me?”

“She feels no way about that. Hailey’s waiting for you. Everybody sees it.”

“You keep saying that.” Since when did everybody feel what Brian felt? When? Because the way he saw it, no one had felt what he felt. And, no one had ever cared how he felt. Ever.  That was how Brian felt. That was how he always felt.

Trevor said, “Our daddy’s never gonna hurt you again. Our mommy’s gone forever. Go forward and you’ll see—Hailey’s waiting for you. Unless you’re a craven choke puppy.”

“A what?”

“A craven choke puppy wants something desperate. But when he gets it, he can’t handle it. Big up and don’t choke, Brian. Hailey’s the one.”

“If you’re wrong, Trevor, if Hailey feels like I’m taking advantage of her, I’m gonna kill you.”

“If I’m wrong, do it. Kill me dead.”

Brian stuffed his hands in his jeans—no trembling fingers in sight. “What about you, Trev? If Hailey’s not your girl, who is?”

“Ah, Jazmine. Crescent sometimes. And I might check on Carla. Make her happy.”

“Don’t make her feel worse. Doesn’t that ever happen to you? Happiness back-fires?”

“I’ve got a sense about women, Brian. And, if I can’t help Carla, I’ll see that and step back. But just for fun, guess one more girl for me.”

“You’re gonna get caught, Trevor. And when you do, it’s gonna be bad.”

“Maybe.” Trevor grinned, light bouncing around his face. “Lauren Clay. Police chief’s daughter. She’s ready for me. Very ready.” 

(Click here to read the next episode)

Waiting in Vain

 “Angelina knew I was on my way over here,” the police chief said, adjusting his cap.

Hailey’s quick wave and weightless steps into the house indicated: Don’t worry; Angelina should be out in a minute.

Brian tried not to watch Hailey’s every action, but she mesmerized him even when she wasn’t around. He continually saw her face and felt her lithe gait, coming and going.

Meanwhile, Trevor introduced Brian to the man who had kept him from his first gig at the Avalon. “Bri, big up fi Chief Clay. Chief, mi cris brudda, Brian.”

Brian and the Chief shook hands and Brian elbowed Trevor, signaling yet again: “Talk straight.”

Advice that should be unnecessary. Trevor rarely fell into his accent anymore. Lloyd and Andrew teased him for falla fashin, acting the copycat who never got it right anyway.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

But in the few minutes they waited for Angelina, Trevor asked the Police Chief, “Who inna crosses, boss?”

Chief Clay sank into a rocker, wary of Trevor’s charm, which affected even him. Everett Clay supposed Trevor might have stepped out of a storybook, a modern, pot-smoking pied piper. 

The screen door opened and shut and Angelina said, “Hey Everett. Guess you can see why we need dormitories.” She offered the three men lemonade, and Hailey arrived with a tray with a pitcher, ice, and glasses. The chief claimed he didn’t have time. Hailey turned her head, smiling privately at Brian before returning inside.

They walked along the narrow path to the adjacent field. Angelina wanted to build two dormitories, one for women and one for men, and a big, multi-storied building for classrooms.  When they reached the sun-drenched acres, Angelina pulled Royce’s blueprints from her apron pocket.

Everett glanced back at Brian and Trevor. “Brian’s the college president,” Angelina said. “Or he will be after he gets his degree. Right now Kaya is the nominal head, but Brian has run the show from day one.”

“Who’s Kaya?”

“Pat Cluny. The professor. She changed her name.”

“So all you ladies changed your names.”

Angelina told him that Trevor had rechristened those whose names were obviously not right. Chief Clay said, “Ah, yes, well, that makes sense then.”

Near the high hedge surrounding the field he touched Angelina’s hand. “And you’re sure this is what you want, this arts school? In town, people are saying you’ve put all your money in this project.”

Angelina wanted him to tell her exactly how “people in town” might know that.

Brian and Trevor had fallen behind, discussing different circumstances. “Carla knew what she was doing,” Trevor said. “So why feel guilty? You’re the most blameless person in the world.”

“Trevor, no extremes. Carla must have known I didn’t care enough about her to protest. I mean, that’s what happened. She left and I didn’t say a word.”

“What were you supposed to do, Brian? Challenge the video maker to a duel?”

“Trevor, come on. I could have warned her. Or, you know, tell her I wanted her to stay. Instead, I didn’t even notice. Remember? You had to tell me.”

“So what? Carla wasn’t worrying about you. She moved out without even saying good-bye. That’s why you didn’t notice.”

 “So what do I say now?”

“Don’t say anything,” Trevor said. “The one you should talk to is Hailey. Everybody sees that. Everybody’s waiting.”

“Everybody’s waiting?” That was a frightening thought.

The police chief was assuring Angelina that the building inspectors, who would visit tomorrow, would hurry the approval through.

“Even so, I’ll need to set up something for the fall and winter.”

Trevor was telling Brian not to be shy. Trevor and Hailey were like brother and sister. Brian shouldn’t read more into their past than that. Midway through the connecting trail, a blue-jay swooped on to Trevor’s head. He and Brian slapped at it, while it pecked Trevor’s scalp and beat its wings as if to suffocate him.   

(Click here to read the next episode)

At Any Furious Moment

Carlos really gambled on the stock market. Managing or should I say mismanaging this wildly fluctuating portfolio with the help of Herb Plochman (a broker, not an accountant; that was one of Carlos’s countless little lies) we took out second and third mortgages on four different properties.

 Besides our six up and running bakeries, we’re in arrears for twelve very expensive and long vacant places. The computers and cars, bakery and restaurant equipment, residential and commercial furnishings, Carlos bought with an appalling series of small business loans. Salaries he paid out of our cash flow, which makes me worry about the tax set-up. I think because we’re a religion—and he lied about hiring an accountant—Carlos assumed he could pay the acolytes, clerks, novitiates, et cetera out of pocket!  In September, when the stock market took another downturn and the Linden Street store was opening, he consolidated with a ten million dollar loan Fletcher and Franklin helped him get from First Chicago.

[This is an excerpt from Diary of a Heretic, the novel. Click here for the first episode, or here for the previous one.]

Then, with his plan to “go national” he decided to try taking the enterprise public. He sent Maggie off to California, and got Fletcher and Franklin talking to Credit Suisse to plan a stock offering. Credit Suisse naturally backed out. So we’ve been floating on infomercials and T-shirts, meetings, and music videos since October, but now it’s all collapsing pretty fast. We’ve maxxed out a 52-card deck of Visas, MasterCards, American Express, Discovers, and Optimas.

Which is so pathetic and predictable, I can’t stand it!  Once I realized how bad it was, I pathetically called my parents. Two or three times a day now I have to deal with Mom and Pop on conference calls, my raw anxiety bringing on fake but terrible heart attacks. I die a thousand times a day. And not even “Mr. and Mrs. Got-Rocks Tully” can bail me out this time. It’s too far gone. My father’s hired a law firm, Simon, Wagner, Gifford, and Dorman, but my prospects are far from pretty. Waking up in the morning, from at best a grainy semi-consciousness, I wonder if jail would be a relief.

“You’re not going to jail over a run-of-the-mill bankruptcy and a couple of tax mistakes,” Carlos says. “It’s not like you’re Al Capone.”

“If you say so.”

And though it’s nuts, we’re in desperate straits, we end up giggling.  He’s still saying,  “Do more meetings.  Make more videos.  Push the merchandise.  And above all—have faith!”  And we’re so disoriented, everything blends into its opposite.  Love, hate, light, dark, are all the same.  Disaster is amusing.  Life and death are equally gruesome and sublime, and in any furious moment, so real, they’re surreal.  Twice today when Carlos staggered in to moan, “This is awful, terrible, disastrous!”  I sputtered and he snickered.  And then we howled together over the next inevitable remark which we both made in fits of tears and laughter.  “Hey, it’s not funny!”

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No Way Out

Maggie is leaving in three days, but she says, “Don’t for a second think I won’t stay totally, totally involved.”  She taps her chest and purses her mouth in a please-oh-please expression.  “You know I believe in you, Malcolm.”
 
I glance at her sidelong.  “Has the day has finally come?  I’m ‘Malkie’ no more?”

She grins and gives me a little shove.  “It’s not my fault you’re so cute.”  And then, hurt and baffled as I am, I still have to ask, where would I be without Maggie?  Why, even as she’s packing her bags, she intervenes on my behalf, insisting to Carlos they lighten my schedule.  Too many meetings, with suddenly small, touristy audiences.  Religion Without Rules, I’m afraid, is fast becoming a curiosity.  Last night there were only about twenty people.  Mostly dentists was my impression, who’d come from an association dinner at the Hyatt.

[This is an excerpt from Diary of a Heretic, the novel. Click here for the first episode, or here for the previous one.] 

“Give him a break,” Maggie says.  “Concentrate on videos and Doctrine signings.  The meetings are worse than a crap shoot and they take a terrible toll.”

Carlos’s voice is flat and fragile.  “Well, we must do something.”

 “The three days until you leave,” I tell Maggie, “are starting to feel like a long, long time.”

“To me, too,” she says.  “I’m sorry.”

To which I answer, “Sorry, sorry, sorry, that’s your mantra.  Well, I don’t care anymore.”

“Don’t say that,” Maggie’s at my side, her voice soft, her arm around my waist.  “What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Exactly. What have I got to lose?”

“I mean,” Maggie says, “see this through.”

“No.”  And this is fun—I turn and walk away.  As if it were that simple.

“You won’t get anywhere,” Maggie says as I reach the threshold.
 
And, much as I hate to, I stop to hear what else she has to say.  Because for all my righteousness, I don’t know where I’m going.  My plan is just to walk and keep walking.

“You’ll still be you,” Maggie says, “and for a long time everyone who sees or hears or knows of you, will recognize you.”

In bewilderment, I shake my head.  “So it’s like I’m trapped?” 

“It’s like that for everybody,” she says.

Which can’t be true but never mind.

Carlos butts in with, “Don’t put so much pressure on yourself, Malcolm.”  And I laugh.

“Me?  You think I’m doing it, Carlos?  You’re the one that’s got me looking at bankruptcy!  And probably tax evasion. ‘I know what I’m doing, Malcolm.  I’ve wanted this all my life.’  You know shit!”

A paragon of level-headedness, he says,  “I was thinking of that time you went silent on stage.  And since now we’re scrambling, if that happens again, simply sustain it.  Stand there and let it build.  Don’t run out like last time.”

“Don’t run out,” Maggie says.  “And remember to smile.”  (She steps aside to mug this last bit.)  And I search the air:  abracadabra, anger disperse!  Maggie can kid all she wants, she’s leaving.

Carlos and I are stuck with each other.  I feel like that archetypal guy dragging himself through the desert in search of water.  There’s no turning back, no end in sight.

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