Evan Hunter - The Moment She Was Gone

“Anywhere near Ridley Hills?”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s near Princeton.”

“She never heard of Princeton, either,” Buck said.

I had the feeling he was trying to tell me he’d been to bed with Jessie, too. I suddenly wondered if the three of them had been to bed together. I suddenly remembered that my sister was a Tantric adept. I suddenly remembered that there were four enjoyments in the Tantric religious ceremony, the last of which was intercourse with a stranger.

“So how’d you end up here in Maine?” I asked Jessie.

“I’m into health,” she said. “Not health care, ” she added quickly and spread her hands wide to my sister, as if to ward off an impending blow. Buck laughed. My sister didn’t. Neither did I. I had the feeling both Annie’s friends were familiar with her views on health care, and had teased her about it in the past. “I’m an organic farmer,” Jessie said. “I grow all the food I sell in my shop. No pesticides, no herbicides, no commercial fertilizers. Just good clean natural ingredients.”

“She’s got a compost heap a mile high in her back yard,” Buck said.

“Grass clippings, weeds, garden and kitchen waste, animal manures...”

“Please, not while I’m eating,” Buck said.

“I enjoy selling food that’s grown in healthy, vibrant soil. I enjoy breathing air that isn’t polluted,” Jessie said. “I enjoy...”

“She enjoys fucking in the outdoors,” Buck said.

“As if you would know,” Jessie said.

“As if anyone would care to know,” Annie said. “Who wants dessert?”

We ordered fried bananas and vanilla ice cream.

“How big is your store?” I asked Jessie.

“It’s just a little hole in the wall,” Buck answered.

“About as big as your gallery in Kennebunkport,” Jessie said.

“It’s not my gallery,” Buck said.

“And it’s a nice gallery,” Annie said. “Small, but nice.”

“Will this be a one-man show?” I asked.

“No, just one of my paintings,” Buck said.

“Tugging at the canvas from all four corners,” Jessie said.

“Well, it’s a small gallery, and I paint big,” Buck explained.

“My father paints big, too,” I said. “He’s a painter, you know.”

“He knows,” Annie said.

“I know. Big famous artist, I know,” Buck said. “I heard it a hundred times.”

“It happens to be true,” I said.

“Oh, sure.”

“He is a big famous artist. He’s Terrence Gulliver.”

“Sure, I know.”

“The show m Kennebunkport is for six area artists,” Annie said. “It’s difficult for emerging artists here in Maine, you know.”

“It’s difficult for emerging artists anywhere, ” Buck said.

“At least you can breathe fresh air here,” Jessie said.

“Well, there are other places that have fresh air,” Annie said. “Where you don’t have to be harassed all the time.”

“Who’s harassing you, hon?” Buck asked.

“Forget it,” Annie said.

“No, seriously. I’ll go talk to them.”

“He’ll go bury them alive in their trenches.”

“Just some people who came by the shop,” Annie said. “I have to show you the shop, Andy. It’s really very cute.”

“What people?” Buck insisted.

“The Indecency Police,” Annie said, and pulled a face. “People who have certain opinions about what constitutes high art, and what doesn’t.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t make dirty jewelry,” Jessie said. “Am I the only one who finds these bananas a little too sweet?”

Annie was looking at her.

“What?” Jessie said, meeting her eyes dead on.

It looked for a moment as if my sister would burst into tears. Instead she only shook her head.

“Maybe you shouldn’t sell food grown in pig shit,” I told Jessie.

Buck laughed.

Jessie gave me a look that said You want to fuck me or insult me, which?

“I had a long drive today,” I said. “Let me get the check.”

Annie’s shop was at the northern end of a strip mall directly on US 1. The plows had been through early that Sunday morning, but the snow heaped on either side of the highway was already turning a sooty gray from the steady stream of traffic in either direction. The shop itself was pencil-thin, a narrow sliver wedged between a barbecue joint on one side and a discount shoe store on the other. The lettering on the plate glass window of her shop read ANNIE’S JEWELRY. A small display in the window exhibited some of her less explicit pieces.

She unlocked the door and flicked a switch. Fluorescent light filled the small, cramped space. Easing herself behind a narrow display case, she slid open one of the glass panels, and then laid out several pieces on a black velvet pad.

“These are some of the latest ones,” she said.

I was looking at an array of formless, unstructured, vaguely erotic pieces done in silver and copper. But I had learned my lesson well.

“They’re beautiful,” I said.

“Aren’t they?” Annie said, smiling.

“So what’s this about the Indecency Police?”

“Please,” she said. “Don’t get me started.”

“Is that what they call themselves?”

“No, that’s what I call them. But that’s what they are, all right. This self-appointed group determined to stifle any form of creativity that isn’t absolutely orthodox.”

Her breath was pluming out of her mouth as she spoke. I realized that the shop was frighteningly cold, and wondered if she could afford to heat it during the daytime.

“They actually came by to see you?”

“Oh, on more than one occasion. Two men and a woman. The first time, they pretended to be interested in my jewelry. But I was onto them the second time. The third time, they became actually threatening.”

“What do you mean, threatening?”

“Oh, making all sorts of veiled threats, you know how these people are.”

“Well, did you call the police?”

“What good would that have done? You think it’s only here this is happening? It’s all over America. That’s the main reason I want to get out of here. Look at what happened in New York. Remember that big imbroglio at the Brooklyn Museum of Art, where I forget the painter’s name, he put a clump of elephant dung on the breast of a black Madonna, and there were cutouts of genitalia in the background — Chris something his name was, this black kid from London? Well, the Indecency Police felt this was an insult to Christianity or whatever, and threatened to cut off financing to the museum, that’s the way they get you, you know, they cut off financing. They don’t need a reason to close you down, they just come and do it!”

“But, Annie, they didn’t close it down. In fact, the exhibit was very successful. Besides, why would anyone... honey, can we get out of here, please? I’m freezing to death.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she said, and grinned like a little girl.

The shack seemed almost cozy.

Annie started a good fire the moment we got home, and we sat in front of it, drinking her good herbal tea, and talking again about her impending trip, which really seemed to excite her.

“I hear that Lu might be in Italy this summer...”

“Lou? Who’s that, Annie?”

“Lu. L-U. He’s a teacher of Buddhist Tantra yoga, don’t you read anything, bro? Sheng-yen Lu? The Grand Master? Doesn’t that name mean anything to you? I don’t know where he’ll be yet, or even if, he may be dead for all I know. But that’s what I heard. And wow, would I love to hear him speak! Can you imagine!”

“Do you think you’ll get on a charter flight?”