Randy White: Everglades

I watched her smile as she lifted the mug of tea to her lips. “Marion Ford. Back when I was a little girl, and you were the big, star high-school jock, people used to say you were strange because you collected bugs and fish and all kinds of stuff. But I always stuck up for you. I told them it was because you were so smart, not weird. My opinion hasn’t changed.”

Smart? I felt an urge to tell her: I’ve done so many stupid things in the recent past that it’s laughable. Instead, I said, “You both went through the organization’s programming process. Geoff broke, you didn’t. Any idea why?”

She thought for a moment. “I think he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He was vulnerable. It was awful, those three weeks. They just about killed my self-confidence. My therapist says it may take me years to recover. But I never gave in because… I’m not sure why. I used to think I was a fairly strong person. Not the smartest, but fairly bright-”

I said, “You were a strong person. You still are. And you’re among the brightest people I know. So there’s my answer. You were too strong to be brainwashed. Congratulations.”

“It was more than that, Doc. I think… I think God was there. I think He helped me and I didn’t even know it. That’s why I pray so much. Even now. You asked me, so I’m going to tell you.”

She said, “You’ve been to Coconut Grove, south Miami. It’s kind of an old Bohemian kind of village, so it changes every couple of blocks. That’s one of the reasons I love it.

“The reason I know God was with me is, not far from our house, three blocks off Dixie Highway, there’s this little Pentecostal church. A couple of days after I got out of Shiva’s compound, a Sunday afternoon, I was about at the end of my rope. I was alone, wandering around like a crazy person, and I heard an organ. It was like angels playing. I followed the music to a two-room church. Inside, I could hear people singing. I walked in-just like someone’s hand was steering me.

“It’s a poor church. Mostly Haitians, Cuban refugee types and poor whites. But that little church changed my life. I’ve never felt such unconditional love. It became my lifeline, Reverend Wilson and his wife, the whole congregation. Lots of clapping and dancing and hugging. That pretty little white church is still my favorite place in the world.”

Sally had been staring at the deck as she spoke, but now she looked up at me with eyes that were shadowed, dark. “Look, Doc, I know that lots of people make fun of religion. Us Born-Again types. We maybe scare them for some reason. But it’s changed my life. I think it saved my life.”

I smiled at her, as I said, “A person who makes fun of anyone’s religion lacks the brains to be taken seriously.”

“It doesn’t bother you that I’ve accepted Jesus as my savior? That I’ve changed?”

Yes, it bothered me that she’d changed, but only because her transformation exceeded any new passion for religion. There was pathology involved-to what degree, I didn’t yet know. But I told her, “We’re friends. So, no, it makes no difference. Right now, I’m more concerned with why you’re here. Something weird’s going on, or the insurance company wouldn’t have hired DeAntoni to follow you.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “My gosh, I’d already forgotten him. He’s going to be here soon, right?”

“If you want to talk to him, yes. If you don’t, no problem. I’ll send him away.”

She said, “That’s another symptom, by the way. More inappropriate behavior. A bad memory, a short attention span.”

She walked across the deck, retrieved her purse from a teak table and checked her watch. “No wonder,” she said. “I forgot to take my medication. The doctor’s been giving me Neurontin, plus some Valium. That’s how bad Shiva’s group screwed me up. Shiva. I even hate the sound of his name.”

Her smile seemed too theatrical, her laughter too loud, as she added, “But the pills can’t work if Miss Forgetful doesn’t remember to take her meds on schedule!”

Izzy

Lying on a table in a steam room built of herbal wood and tile, Shiva opened his eyes, lifted his left arm toward his eyes and looked at a bare wrist.

He’d dozed during the massage, and now remembered: His watch was outside, on the vanity.

To the oldest of the three women attending to him, he said, “Sister Mary, please check. What time is it?”

The women were naked beneath white robes, but Mary still wore her rubber Timex.

“It’s a little after six, Teacher.”

Shiva closed his eyes again, relaxing. The office at his Ashram Center in downtown San Francisco closed at five on Fridays, and he had a conference call scheduled with the office manger and two advisors at four-fifteen Pacific time. The Sacramento Bee had just published the last of a scathing, three-part series on the International Church of Ashram Meditation Center, in which three former women disciples claimed they had been drugged with something, then raped by “one or more church leaders.”

There were quotes from the L.A. County District Attorney’s Office promising an investigation, and quotes from an IRS spokesman saying that the personal files of Bhagwan Shiva and the files of the San Francisco Ashram were already being subpoenaed.

Devastating.

But they hadn’t ruined him yet, The American legal system, Shiva knew, was a calculator of wile, not a scale of justice, and it could be manipulated-if you had enough money.

He needed cash. Lots of cash. He knew how to get it.

Shiva stretched, irked by yet another problem. He had about an hour before the conference call, then he had to meet with Izzy again, go over some details. So why not enjoy the little bit of free time? One of the maxims he required all initiates to learn was a favorite: Grasp the moment and you will capture eternity.

Something to relax him, that’s what he needed. Something beyond a massage.

To Mary, he said, “My sister, please tell me. This person, the pale blonde-” He used his finger to point at a girl who could have been sixteen, could have been twenty. “Is she new? I don’t remember seeing her in the compound. What’s her name?”

When the blonde began to answer, “I’m Kirsten Williams from Lauderdale-,” she was shouted down by the older woman, who yelled, “You may not address Shiva directly. Have you already forgotten? Until you finish Basic Auditing, you’re not even alive. ”

“Temper, my dear Mary,” Shiva said. “Learn patience. Be patient, and our cause will be stronger.”

The older woman bowed at the waist, touching both palms to her forehead-an ancient gesture of deference. “I know, Teacher. But I work so hard with these new ones. It’s like my words bounce off their idiotic heads.”

To the blonde, Shiva said, “You have not yet been given a name.”

Sister Mary said, “She is worthless, so she is nameless. It will be another three weeks before she has earned a name.”

“How did she come to us?”

“Another runaway. Tired of the imaginary world, no place else to go.”

“Have the parents tried to find her? Or friends?”

“The father came twice. We sent him away.”

Shiva addressed the girl. “I give you permission to speak to me. Are you happy here?”

“I… I think so.”

“Do you understand that I care more for you now, about your happiness and spiritual contentment, than your mother or your father ever cared?”

“Yes… I’d like to believe that.”

Shiva said, “Please remove your robe.”

He watched the girl hesitate, then pull the white robe over her head, willing but self-conscious. He looked at her for a few moments, smiling, before he said, “God has given you a beautiful body. It’s a gift to be shared. Your breasts-like white pears tipped with berries. My body desires my hands to touch them. Come closer, girl.”