Evan Hunter - The Moment She Was Gone

Which Annie literally translated for us as “The jewel is in the lotus.” Or, in other words, “The lingam is in the yoni. ” Or, more simply put, “The penis is in the vulva.” But, hey, Tantra wasn’t all about sex, right?

“I know you love your sister,” Maggie whispered in my ear, “but I’m not sure I can stand another minute of this.”

“She’ll be gone in a few days,” I whispered.

But she wasn’t.

Under the best of circumstances, Annie would not have been an ideal house guest. She left dirty bras and panties on the bathroom floor, presumably hoping Maggie would toss them into the wash whenever she laundered her own. She never washed her own dirty dishes either, eating whatever meal she’d cooked for herself, and then leaving dishes and utensils on the dining room table, dirty pots and pans in the sink. Nor did she ever volunteer to do the marketing or take out the garbage, or clean the apartment, even though both Maggie and I were out working all day long.

In the evening, Annie smoked marijuana as part of her daily chakra-puja or “circle worship,” the basic Tantric religious ceremony, lacking — in Annie’s case — only other worshippers and a guru. The grass was a mind-enhancing soma that was supposed to precede four other Tantric “enjoyments,” as she called them. Three of these involved the consumption of various exotic grains, meats, and fruits Annie bought in Chinatown. The fourth was supposed to be sexual intercourse with a male worshipper...

“... but unfortunately I haven’t got one handy just now,” Annie said. “Maybe I’ll find one up in Maine.”

After she smoked her pot, and enjoyed her other three Tantric delights, she put on her nightgown — a long cotton one she’d bought in India — went into her bedroom to say her mantras and was promptly asleep by nine o’clock. This meant she got up early every morning, and was once again reciting her Oms and Aums before either Maggie or I was awake. I didn’t mind this too much. My teaching day started at eight A.M., anyway. But Maggie didn’t open the shop till ten, and she didn’t appreciate being awakened at the crack of dawn by my sister’s incessant chanting.

All in all, it was a difficult time for both of us, and we were delighted when Annie said she’d be leaving for Maine that coming Saturday. As it happened, an author named Carlo Zannetti was coming to do a reading and signing in the shop on Friday night, so Maggie proposed a farewell dinner in the apartment afterward. Annie was thrilled when she learned that Mr. Zannetti was a hypnotist, and that he’d written a book called MindSet.

“I can’t wait to meet him,” she said.

In the eight months and a bit more of our marriage, Maggie and I had developed a sort of laissez-faire attitude when it came to routine household chores. Since we both worked, any task that needed doing was usually tackled by whoever could find the time to do it. We never even discussed such matters. See an unmade bed? Make it. Spot a pile of dishes in the sink? Wash them. It was as simple as that. We were truly partners.

So while I was off teaching that Friday, Maggie did all the marketing for our dinner. And when I got home late that afternoon, we both worked side by side in the kitchen, slicing and dicing the ingredients for our salad, mixing an oil and vinegar dressing, scrubbing the potatoes I would later bake (for some peculiar reason, I have always had an aversion to mashed potatoes, gee, I wonder why). Maggie had one eye on the clock. She was supposed to meet Mr. Zannetti in the shop downstairs at five-thirty. We were salting and spicing the lamb chops I would later pop into the oven, when my sister breathlessly rushed into the apartment and locked the door behind her.

“They’re here,” she whispered.

Maggie must have thought she was referring to the people who’d be attending the book shop event. But that wasn’t due to start till six, and it was still only five-fifteen.

“That’s okay,” she said. “I still have fifteen minutes.”

“The ones from Charing Cross,” Annie said.

“Who do you mean, honey?”

“When I had the shop there.”

“What about it?” I asked.

On her way over to India this time, she had stopped over in London, and had briefly opened a shop exhibiting her own jewelry. The shop closed in three months, after which Annie moved on again. But while it was still functioning, she now told us, a pair of men in blue jackets with the letters FBI in yellow on the back came to visit her one day, pretending to be interested in her jewelry, but really there to check up on Sally Jean.

“Who’s Sally Jean?” I asked.

“She was my roommate when I was living in Amsterdam,” Annie said. “She used to do translations for the UN. That’s why they’re so interested in her.”

“Who, Annie? Who’s interested in her?”

“The FBI! Are you listening to me, or what? They’re downstairs!

They followed me here.”

“You’re saying there are FBI agents...”

“The same ones from Charing Cross,” Annie insisted. “After the FBI left that time, some skinheads in tight pink trousers showed up, you could see the outline of their genitals and all, it was awful.”

“Sounds good to me,” Maggie said, and winked.

“This wasn’t funny, Magg. They stood outside on the sidewalk, outside the front window, making threatening gestures, you know, running their fingers across their throats, you know, like slitting their throats? To indicate they were going to kill me?”

“She’s serious,” Maggie said to me.

“Oh, you bet I am. These people don’t play games. They’re after Sally Jean, and they want to know what I know about her. It’s the same as what happened on the Air France flight from Paris to Luxembourg, when a female agent...”

“Annie, slow down,” I said.

“I’m sure I told you about the female FBI agent who reached over from the seat behind me and kept my arms pinned...”

“No, you never...”

“... while two big male agents carrying nine-millimeter Glocks boarded the plane and demanded to see my credentials. They carried me off the plane in handcuffs, Andy, I’m sure I told you all this.”

“No, I don’t remember your...”

“They cook me to a secret room and examined all my orifices. They told me they were looking for contraband narcotics, but who knows what they were really doing? They have ways of eavesdropping, you know. They have these little transmitters. Whatever they did to me that time in Luxembourg, it worked. They were able to trace me here, weren’t they?”

“Annie,” Maggie said, “there is no way a pair of FBI agents...”

“Three of them this time! Right downstairs!”

“... would go marching around New York advertising themselves in jackets that say FBI on the back.”

“The two from Charing Cross and another one I never saw before!”

“Okay, I’ll go downstairs and talk to them, okay?” Maggie said. “I’ll tell them to get the hell away from my shop.”

“No! Stay here! I don’t want you getting mixed up in this!”

“If somebody’s stalking you,” I said, “let’s call the police.”

“No, they’re probably in on it, too.”

“The police? Why would they...?”

“The UN is here in New York, isn’t it? And Sally Jean used to do translations for them.”

“Well, then I’ll explain that you’re entirely innocent in this matter. Yow never did translations for the UN, did you?”

“No, but I know things about the health care system.”

“I doubt the FBI...”

“Oh, that’s what you think.”

“... or the NYPD would be interested in your experience as a candy striper at Lenox Hill.”