A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

"Take care," Joseph says.

THE SIXTH DAY of silence. Today is all about violence. Incredible violence welling up, the urge to smash, to hit, to lash out. He can feel how it happens, how rage erupts. He thinks about children who bring guns to school thinking of getting even, expressing themselves, not being ignored. He thinks of men who wander into convenience stores and point guns at the clerks' heads. What would he do if he was in a store and someone came in with a gun? Would he attempt to strike up a conversation? What brought you here? Did you feel it building? How do you feel now? Have you ever killed someone? Did it feel good? Was there a rush of power, a release a thousand times better than sex? Is it ecstasy, making someone suffer as you have suffered? He spends the day soaking in rage, worrying that when he leaves here he will go and do something — what?

Instead of killing someone, he writes on the bathroom stall with a pen he finds on the floor. "Meditating is for people who just want to sit around. Navel contemplation is not novel. Stop the Silence!"

During the afternoon session, he realizes that he's angry because he's going to have to leave here; he's found comfort in the structure, the constant presence of other warm bodies, the wake-up bells at 4:30 a.m., the same lousy food every day, the opportunities for expressing hostility — stealing someone's spot, failing to replace the empty roll of toilet paper, eating the last of the rice.

The next morning, he's up and packed before the bells even ring. At the morning meeting, Joseph speaks briefly: "Let's take some time to prepare to re-enter, to talk about what we take with us from this experience. Life isn't ruminating, replaying your past; stay in the moment, notice your feelings, the passing states of feeling, and let them go. Embrace the fluctuation, all that happens." As he's sitting, he's very aware of his ass; it's almost painful, but also feels kind of fantastic, alive in a way it was never alive before. He sits, smiling, sometimes rocking from side to side. Maybe the shaved-headed guy, Mr. Happy Arrogant, gets his ass rubbed every day.

"Let's warm up our vocal cords with some chanting." Joseph begins, and they all follow, a kind of call and response that makes the hair on the back of Richards neck stand up.

After breakfast, Richard is hugging people he has never spoken to. "You have a beautiful back," he says to one of the women.

"I stole your spot," Mr. Happy Arrogant says. "You thought it was yours but it was mine, I always take that spot. I'm sorry. I shouldn't need that spot, but I did, I do, I guess I have a long way to go."

"We all do," Richard says.

He walks out the front door and spends twenty minutes wandering around the parking lot, looking for his car. He becomes anxious, losing the calm, feeling the difference between the silence and the rest of his life. He begins thinking that the car has been stolen, and then he looks down at the key, sees the Toyota insignia, and remembers that he didn't bring his car. It's like some weird joke.

HE DRIVES to the donut shop. When Anhil sees him, Anhil's upper lip quivers, his eyes fill with tears. Richard is surprised by the emotion, that this man cares so much for him, has missed him. Richard hugs Anhil.

"I took your car to the annual Blessing of the Cars to pray for a maintenance-free ride, holy assistance in road service, and ease of locating replacement parts, and something went wrong," Anhil confesses. "It is so horrible, so against the spirit of the event. Someone scraped the car with a key, they cut into the paint. Your car is wounded. I do not know how to apologize. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't call you in your silence. I took her to the shop, and it can be fixed, but it is very expensive. Does assurance cover that?"

"The good thing is, it's only a car."

"A beautiful car, and now she has a mistake."

"It will be fine."

"It's nice you are not angry or thinking that I mistreated the car."

"I am not angry." Richard smiles, a little disappointed that the show of affection wasn't for him, but happy to see Anhil regardless.

"Can I give you a donut?"

"Just some hot water and a piece of lemon, if you have it."

"The ceremony was so beautiful, so respectful of the automobiles, people blew their horns." Anhil pours him the hot water. "I have your cereal."

Richard shakes his head. "I had a very early breakfast."

"How was your silence, was it clarifying? Did you hear voices? That's what happens sometimes: all the great religious figures — the visionaries and prophets — heard voices. I didn't want to say anything before you left; I could have made you worry."

Richard checks his watch. "I should go."

Anhil walks out with him and shows him the car. All along the passenger side is a thick scratch.

"Only a very unhappy person would do something like that."

"It's fine," Richard says, getting in. "I'll see you soon."

SHE IS THERE: sitting on the doorstep looking well rested, rejuvenated, hair done, in a Golden Door sweatsuit — Our Lady of LA.

He doesn't even open the front door. He just notes that the house is where he left it, the hole is still there too. Everything is as it was, with the exception of two orange cones by the curb and a series of marks spray-painted from the middle of the street up onto the grass.

"How was it?" he asks.

"Amazing," she says. "Really great. You look thin."

"Everyone got diarrhea. It was either food poisoning, a stomach bug, or too much fiber."

"Every morning we went for a five-mile hike," she says, following as he walks up the hill. She is pumping her arms, making circles around him.

"Go slow," he says. "I spent the last five days sitting. Every day there was an hour of walking meditation, but that was it." Richard does an imitation of a walking meditation. He looks like Marcel Marceau on a space walk.

"So where are we going?" she asks.

"Tad Ford's house."

"No, we're not."

"Yes, we are."

"Why didn't you say something? I'm not dressed, I'm in a sweatsuit."

"It's perfect."

"I won it playing bingo. How do you know him?"

"I met him when the horse fell into the hole."

"That's weird."

Richard nods.

"I just came from a seven-thousand-dollar spa week, and now I'm going to a movie star's house for lunch with a man I met in the produce section. It's like one of those Touched by an Angel TV shows. By the way, how is your leg?"

"Better."

"I told Andy to pick me up at four; is that workable?"

"When did you finally call him?"

"One of the women sneaked her cell phone in and let me make a call in exchange for not turning her in. When I called he said, 'I've got your number on Caller ID.' 'It's not my number,' I told him, and he said, 'You have to tell us when you're coming back; the laundry is piling up, the dishes are everywhere, we're running out of food.' I told him, 'There's detergent in the laundry room, a scrub brush under the sink, and a grocery store just down the road.' And then I said, 'I have to go now.' "

Richard has the sensation of being without skin. Everything he sees, smells, touches has a profound impact. He is entirely permeable, and it's not exactly a good feeling.

Tad's little sister lets them in. "I'm Savannah."

"Her name's Julie, but she changed it," Tad calls from the kitchen.

"It's a free world," Savannah says.

They walk through the movie star's living room and onto a patio that hangs cantilevered out over Los Angeles. Savannah hands each of them an icy-cold red drink.

"Pressed-pomegranate lemonade," Tad says, coming out with an apron tied around his waist.

"It's incredible," Cynthia says. "Where do you get it?"

"I make it, starting with a lime-sugar base that I cook down, and then adding fresh pressed lemon and pomegranate. I filter it, chill it, and just before serving rub in some mint from the garden."