This One Is Mine: A Novel (17 page)

“The temperature will reach a hundred and fifty degrees,” said Ruth, oblivious to the growing terror in the Westsiders’ eyes. “I will pour water onto the stones throughout the ceremony, which will make it about two hundred degrees with humidity.”

There was no way Violet would have been able to take this. David remembered when she was pregnant and she tried to cajole him into letting her have a home birth. He pointed out that she had once complained for three days after swallowing a piece of gum. “I have a high tolerance for pain but a low tolerance for discomfort,” she had explained. It was very Violet, and David was charmed, as ever.

“Earth Mother,” Ruth intoned to the night sky, “we ask you to accept us into your womb and return us to our innocence. Please cleanse us of our ignorance and spiritual
dis-ease
. . . .”

Dis-ease
. This, too, would have sent Violet fleeing to the nearest Four Seasons. Nothing vexed her like hippies mangling the English language. Once, during a yoga class at home, Shiva had said, “We’re all members of the
one song
.” She repeated it several times,
one song
this,
one song
that. Finally, Violet couldn’t take it anymore. She stood up out of her Warrior II pose and demanded, “Why do you keep saying that? What is that?
One song?
” Shiva answered, “Uni-verse.
Uni
means one and
verse
means song. One song. Uni-verse.” Violet rolled her eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake,” she said, always her father’s daughter!

Ruth started banging on a drum. “We call upon the spirit guides of the Four Directions. We beseech you to grant us your wisdom so we may be re-birthed into the world with a healed heart.”

A pleasing array of yoga asses swayed to Ruth’s
a capriccio
drumbeat. David used to fetishize yoga chicks for their hot bodies and free-loving spirits. But enough yoga classes had made him realize these hotties were no less crazy or manipulative than strippers. Both were willfully ignorant and directed their limited intelligence into their bodies. There was a yin-yang to it. Yoga chick on the one side, crazy stripper on the other.

“Now that we’ve blessed the stones,” Ruth said, “it’s time for us to take off our clothes and enter the lodge.” She ripped off her T-shirt and sarong. David wasn’t the only one to quickly look away.

If Violet were here, she’d have been having a complete breakdown. He’d have to go through the whole rigmarole about how she wasn’t fat. A lie! But what else could he say? David had never pressured his wife to lose the baby weight. He was painfully aware of the looks on people’s faces any time Violet stopped by the office, their eyes aglimmer because the almighty David Parry’s wife had gone fat on him. He had been heartened this past month to see Violet exercising and losing weight — for Teddy!
It was for her new lover, Teddy
.

“Aaagggh!” He punched a nearby tree. The skin across his knuckles split open. He felt the sting but didn’t bother to look.

Apparently, nobody wanted to be the first to strip. All just stood there, eyes downcast. At least nut job strippers had no problem getting naked! David pulled off his T-shirt, stepped out of his shorts, and walked over to Ruth.

“What is it you want us to do?” he said.

“Enter the lodge on your hands and knees, prostrating yourself to Earth Mother. Crawl counterclockwise until you’re nearest to the door on the other side.”

David spiked his clothes, dropped to his hands and knees, and hightailed it into the so-called lodge. Inside, he hesitated. It was darker than dark, the dark of nothingness, and impossible to determine where his body ended and the blackness began. He proceeded gingerly, the twig wall brushing his right side. Suddenly, a pain pierced his knee. A sharp rock was sticking out of Earth Mother. David’s hand was already raw and throbbing from the tree. He didn’t want to fuck up his knee, too. He stood up, and the whole lodge popped off the ground with him. He fumbled for a branch to balance the sweat lodge before the whole goddamn hunk of junk capsized.

“Jesus Christ!” He dropped to his knees, and the structure crashed down on his back. “Fuck me!”

“Hey, what happened?” called Ruth. “Stay prostrated close to Earth Mother.”

David continued crawling, then felt something soft on his face. Before he realized it, he was inhaling a musty animal pelt. “Gaaah!” He slapped the germs off his face, then a head rammed his legs.

“Did someone up there stop?” asked a voice.

David decided to bail on this perimeter bullshit. He clambered across to where he sensed the door would be. But then his arm buckled and his face was planted in some loose dirt: he had fallen into a pit. “Cock-sucking fucking shit cock motherfucker.” David spit out a mouthful of dirt and licked the rest onto his forearm.

“I think someone’s hurt,” called a frightened woman.

“I’m fine!” David lifted himself back on all fours. He had lost any sense of direction. He decided to crawl until he reached the wall, then hang a left. He put one hand in front of the other until the crown of his head tapped a branch. He turned to the left. He felt something soft and fuzzy against his arm. Only when it pressed harder against him did he realize he had brushed up against a dick and some hairy balls. “Aah!” David jerked his arm away.

“Just breathe in, buddy.”

“Yeah, I’m trying.”

“One hand, then one knee,” offered another voice.

“Then the other hand and then the other knee,” someone else pitched in. “Break it down.”

How had this fucking happened?
Just this morning, David had booked Hanging with Yoko to open fifty dates on the Green Day tour. And now a mob of new age dipshits was instructing him on the finer points of
crawling?
These privileged half-wits who drove up for the weekend in their Mercedes Kompressors, did they actually think they had money? David would put his portfolio up against theirs any day.
Bring it, motherfuckers!

“Why are we stopped?” squeaked a woman.

“I thought we were supposed to go counterclockwise,” said a deep voice.

“Is something wrong?” It was Ruth. She must have stuck her head in. “You’ve got to keep moving in there. Is someone confused?”

“It’s the guy who punched the tree,” volunteered a woman.

Anger ripped through David. Violet would pay for this. He would put a dollar amount on his rage and humiliation and deduct it from her settlement. He took a deep breath, then knocked heads with somebody.

“Ouch!” cried a woman.

At least it meant he’d reached the door. David felt for the edge, then planted himself beside it and pulled his legs into his chest. The dick-and-balls guy plastered himself next to David. Why didn’t he just lean in for a kiss while he was at it? David attempted to get comfortable, but a knot from a branch poked into his upper back. He reached around and broke it off. It didn’t do any good. He shifted his weight and nestled between some bigger branches. He licked his injured knee and sucked the dirt from the raw wound. Big salty flaps of skin came off in his mouth. If Violet were here, she’d give him a peck on the cheek. She understood how hard his days were. . . .

A fleshy ass dropped onto David’s feet. He quickly widened his stance to avoid his toe up someone’s butt. A slender back leaned into his shins. He scrunched his legs closer, but the person just pushed deeper into them.

Something heavy landed in his lap. Jesus Christ, it was a
braid
. One of the yoga-chick-slash-strippers had a big one. He had marveled at its lack of hygiene in the dinner line. David lifted the braid with his thumb and index finger and dropped it off to the side. In an instant, it was back in his lap. Once again, David picked up the braid.

“Excuse me,” whispered a woman. “It throws off my alignment if my braid falls to the side.”

“How’s that my problem, Rapunzel?” David tossed the braid off to the side.

“I need it to fall straight back,” she said. The braid-that-wouldn’t-die landed in David’s lap.

“Cut your hair, why don’t you?” David chucked the braid to the side, making sure to yank the woman’s head in the process.

“Ouch!”

“Fuck you!”

“Hey —” admonished someone. “Language.”

“That energy is totally inappropriate,” said another.

The fetid thing once again appeared in David’s lap. He wiped his bloody hand and knee on it.

“What are you doing?” said the woman.

“Nothing.” David spit into his palm and smeared that on the braid, too.

Violet would have found this hilarious. If she were here, this incident would be added to their rich annals of happiness: how the sweat lodge kept getting worse and worse and then . . . the hippie braid fight. Knowing it was being shared with the woman he loved would have made David’s increasing misery almost thrilling. But no, it was just David, alone in the dark with a bunch of strangers.

Fat-lady grunts announced the arrival of Ruth. “O Great Spirit of Life,” she adjured, “we are gathered below in our pitiful little lodge on Earth Mother.” Ruth needed to read that book of Dot’s about using your “inside voice.” If David had whispered that to Violet, she would have cracked up. He smiled. Violet had a zesty, unapologetic laugh. After all these years, it still took him by surprise.

“We shall invite the helpers of the Great Spirit to enter our lodge,” said Ruth, who continued on with some mumbo jumbo. The drum sounded three times, then there was silence. Not even the river could be heard. Did their bodies absorb its roar? The hides deflect it? David couldn’t comprehend the physics of it. A glowing orange orb floated past him. Smooth wood touched his shoulder. The fire guy must have been using a pitchfork to lay down the hot stones. Three more were brought in and lowered into the pit. Sweat dripped down David’s face. A hiss filled the darkness. Wet heat blasted him.

“O Wakan Tanka,” Ruth said, “we thank you for providing us with life-giving rains, which this water symbolizes.” Her voice had become low and spooky, like Sally and her little friends when they’d put on séances.

David closed his eyes. It seemed no darker than before. He opened his eyes to make sure. Indeed, there was no difference. His eyelids fell and, in turn, his body levitated slightly. He knew it wasn’t levitating. Obviously, his body wasn’t levitating. Still, he kept his eyes closed to enjoy the strange sensation.

“We will now begin our four rounds of prayer,” said Ruth. “I will begin, then we will go around one by one, starting with the first gentleman who entered.” That would be David. He smiled as he imagined Ruth’s words entering through his legs and traveling up to his brain that way. “When you are finished praying, you are to say, Ho! Then, as a way of acknowledging your prayer, the group answers, Ho! That will indicate that it’s time for the next person to speak.” David didn’t really understand what he was supposed to do and didn’t really care. “Great Father Sky,” entreated Ruth, “you are the protector of Mother Earth. We call upon your power to heal our hearts. May we be free from danger. May we be free from
dis-ease
. Until we feel happiness and peace ourselves, we will be unable to walk down your great Red Path. Kindly listen as we go around the circle and pray for ourselves.” Ruth shook her rattle. “Great Father Sky, I ask you, please free me from depression,” she said. “Ho!”

“Ho!” answered the chorus of yogis.

Shit, that was quicker than David had expected. It was now his turn to pray for himself. What did he want? The man who had everything. David liked to tell people that the only thing money couldn’t buy was poverty. Maybe he could lay that line on these new age bozos. Or, better, he could say, “My wife’s back home fucking a Mexican. What does that make her? A . . .” And then they’d answer, “Ho!”

Instead, David found himself saying, “To be understood. Please, let me be understood. Ho!”

Violet thought he was an asshole. Everyone at this retreat thought he was an asshole. LadyGo walked around on eggshells because she thought he was a big asshole. Hanging with Yoko had signed with him because, after meeting with all the top managers, they said, We wanted an asshole on our team. None of them understood: David was no asshole. He was responsible.

“Free me from attachment,” said the man to his left. “Ho!”

“Please,” said a woman, “let me live in a world . . .” She paused to gather her thoughts, then continued, “. . . not
without
men, but with men who are more in touch with their inner woman.”

David had taken care of Sally since she was two. Their dentist father had died suddenly of a heart attack, leaving the family shockingly in debt. Their mother’s response was a rapid descent into frailty: physical, mental, emotional. Twelve-year-old David had no choice but to quit sports and devote his afternoons and weekends to working. A year later, Sally was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes.

“Money problems,” someone was saying. “I promise I will get everything under control if you remove my debt. Ho!”

It was up to David to take Sally to her doctors, check her heartbreakingly tiny feet for cuts, monitor her blood sugar, ride his bike to the pharmacy to get her insulin, cut the Chemstrips in thirds to save money, fill out reams of insurance forms. And always, the shots. Any kiddie birthday party, David would take the bus to the only bakery in Denver that carried sugar-free desserts. It was down on Colfax and Franklin, the one that stuck day-old doughnuts on tree branches for the birds. He’d buy something for Sally so she wouldn’t feel any more ripped off by life. On Halloween, he would tie ribbons around baggies of celery and deliver them on his paper route with a note that read “When the drum majorette trick-or-treats tonight, please give her this. She’s diabetic.” He’d stay with her at ballet class, long past the age when the other girls got dropped off, making sure she ate, and ate properly. But he never saw Sally as a burden. It filled him with lofty purpose, doing the work of Sally’s pancreas so she could remain a child.

“Free me from fantasy,” a voice cried in the dark. “Ho!”

But everything changed when Sally turned eleven. David had driven her to Dr. Turner to discuss recent advancements in diabetes treatment. The doctor asked Sally about her regimen and David jumped in with the answers. The doctor instructed David to step into his office, where he called the Denver Children’s Hospital and requested a bed for the next week. “It’s time Sally learned for herself how to be a diabetic.” David said, “But I’m her big brother; I want to help her.” The doctor replied, “Help her, you’ll kill her.” David didn’t visit Sally once that week, as she learned for herself to count carbs, prick her finger, read a glucometer, and give herself multiple shots. A month later, Aerosmith offered him the job. David’s first call was to Dr. Turner. He said leaving Sally would be the best thing for her. So David left. She didn’t tell him about the amputation until after it happened, after she moved to LA. He could see the terror in her eyes as she pshawed it as a silly inconvenience. His heart broke for her, so he went along with the charade. A charade he’d kept up for the past ten years.