Randy White - Everglades

She continued to scrub as she added, “No offense, but this kitchen isn’t what I’d call spotless. You’ve got cobwebs in the corners, grease everywhere. And it could use some paint. Plus some new furniture.”

Once again, her voice had a troubled, manic quality that was disconcerting. Made the little hairs on the back on my neck stand up like hackles.

She was still kneeling, so I leaned and placed my hand gently around her left arm. The cinnamon blouse had a silky quality. Her skin was cooler than the April air.

“Sally. I want you to stop now. Please. Have a seat. There’s no need for you to clean my house. It’s not… it’s not an appropriate thing for you to be doing.”

The word appropriate seemed to key in her an involuntary response that was like a mixture of distress and comprehension. I watched her glazed eyes clear momentarily, and she touched a hand to her mouth.

“Oh my Lord, I’m doing it again. I’m so sorry. My therapist has been working with me-we’re doing biofeedback; some hypnosis. She’s trying to help me condition myself to recognize the symptoms and stop myself before the behavior takes control. Inappropriate behavior. That’s what I’m trying my best to stop.”

I was still holding her arm, feeling the gooseflesh sensation that accompanies alarm. I said gently, “What behavior?”

She stood, her expression gloomy, vulnerable. “Something happened to me. I’m not the same person you used to know. They call it manic behavior. Or obsessive. I might even be bipolar, but my therapist wants to get some other opinions before she commits to that diagnosis. I get my mind fixed on something, and I completely lose control. I can clean for hours. Or sew. Or… or pray.”

I said softly, “Pray?”

She nodded. “I can tell you about it, if you want.”

“I want.”

“Okay. Well… about three years back, Geoff and I began a hard time in our marriage-it was around the time you called and invited me to Guava Key. You don’t know how close I came to saying yes.”

I said, “I remember.”

“You never met him, but he was one of the biggest developers in Dade County. All he thought about was his business. And he was so critical. I just couldn’t do enough. I wasn’t sociable enough, smart enough. Pretty enough.

“He worked twelve, fourteen hours a day, just pushing and pushing until I think something in him finally broke.” She stopped for a moment, thinking about it. “Not long after that, something happened to me, too.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Geoff-Mr. Dade County Entrepreneur of the Year-got involved with a cult religious group. I’ve read enough about it to call it a ‘cult’ now. You’ve heard probably of it: the International Church of Ashram Meditation. Everyone has. The founder-the guy gave me the creeps from day one-calls himself Bhagwan Shiva, supposedly some kind of charismatic prophet.”

She said, “He’s got Ashram Centers all over the world, plus a big compound on Palm Beach. You do know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”

I said, “He’s the one who collects expensive cars, right?”

“Rolls-Royces, yes.”

“I read something about his group trying to take control of some western town a few years back.”

“Exactly. He sends his followers to live in a small town, enough of them so they become a voting majority. Then they take over the place. Literally. They change the zoning laws, build whatever they want, do whatever they want. He did it in Washington State, Alabama, now he’s doing it in Florida.”

I was nodding. “I know who you mean.”

“The Church of Ashram, that’s the group Geoff got involved with. He met Shiva at some Palm Beach fund-raiser. At the time, we were having cash-flow problems-later, I can tell you about the housing developments we were building. Shiva’s group got financially involved. In a big way, they got involved.

“Next thing I know, my husband was attending Shiva’s lectures, taking classes, going to meetings. Then he joined the church. I don’t know how many tens of thousands of dollars he gave them, how much property. But it was a lot.”

Sally told me that, worse, Geoff insisted that she join him in the church and go through what she called “Introductory Auditing.”

“It was like hell,” she told me. “They kept us awake day and night, screaming at us, making us memorize Shiva’s prophecies, telling us all that we were worthless. I was nobody, nothing. Over and over, they shouted that into my head. That we were dead people. Meaningless. ”

I noticed that her voice was trembling, on the verge of tears, as she added, “I spent a month listening to it. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.”

I was still holding her arm; had finally stopped her from using the scrub brush. I said, “Calm down. You’re getting upset. There’s no need.”

“It makes me so furious!”

“I understand. Take all the time you need. Have a seat-stop cleaning, please. I’ll fix myself a drink, then we can sit down and talk about it.”

I felt her eyes on me as I half-filled a tumbler with Nicaraguan rum, added ice, juice from a whole key lime, and topped it with seltzer water.

The marina’s black cat, Crunch amp; Des, sat next to me on the outdoor teak table between two rockers, on the northeastern side of my porch. It’s the portion of porch that hangs over my shark pen, and looks out over the bay.

Unseen below us, beneath dark water, two bull sharks and a smaller, seventy-pound hammerhead circled. They were always moving.

The cat was close enough that I could reach over and scratch his ears if I wanted to. He’d never been an affectionate cat, but, in the last half year, he’d become more attentive toward me. Spent more time following me around the house than he did hanging out by the marina’s fish-cleaning table.

Unusual.

I’d dismissed Tomlinson’s explanation out of hand (“You’re fighting demons and he wants to provide comfort”) but it was nice having the cat around more. Crunch amp; Des was good company. Tail twitching, he liked to lie on the stainless-steel dissecting table in my lab, beneath the rows of bubbling aquarium tanks, and stare down octopi.

I scratched the cat’s ears now, sipping my drink. I’d given Sally the abbreviated version of my encounter with Frank DeAntoni, and told her that he was interested in talking to her. Didn’t mention the photo.

While we waited, I sat quietly and let her vent. Told her I’d have one drink before showering, so it was a good time to help me catch up on what had happened in her life. It was a nice night to play the patient, friendly ear. A southern breeze, water-dense, weighted with salt and iodine, drifted out of the shadows while the rim of the moon ascended above mangroves.

I listened to her say, “At first with Geoff, our marriage was pretty good. We live-we lived -in Coconut Grove, just off Bayshore, a great view of Biscayne Bay. This little gated community called Ironwood. You have to cross a canal that’s more like a moat, and there’s not a home under four thousand square feet allowed. Luxury homes, that’s the real estate term. Screened infinity pools, boatlifts, everything. Most people’s dream place.

“Our next-door neighbor is a U.S. senator. Another owns part of the Dolphins. You add up all the wealth, all the political power, there’s no place in Florida that probably compares.”

She said, “When my husband got involved with Shiva, he would stand around at parties, barbecues, whatever, telling our neighbors how great Shiva was. That’s when invitations started dropping off, potential investors started avoiding us. Then our whole business operation began to slide right into the tank.”

I said, “The more your husband promoted the cult leader, the more he became dependent on the cult leader’s money.”