Simple Simon

by William Poe

  I went to each side and shot out the front tires, then jumped into the station wagon and raced toward the airport. “They won’t follow us now,” I laughed.

  Dorrit, who had been cowering in the front seat, sat up to scan the dark road behind us. “Holy shit!” she exclaimed. Even demure Dorrit was unable to restrain herself in such a moment.

  After passing the tollgate at the airport, Dorrit finally began to relax. “Did you see their faces?” she said. “They must have soiled their pants!”

  “I’ve never done anything like that before. Must be something in the Texas air!”

  “Cowboy spirits,” Dorrit suggested. “I’m going to miss this crazy place.”

  “So now we need to decide from where you want to miss it.”

  “How about San Francisco? It’s as far away as I can get.”

  “Conrad Pearson is a sensible commander,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll take good care of you.”

  I parked at the Braniff terminal, an airline sure to have early morning flights to California. Luckily, a plane was ready to leave within the hour. I waited to see Dorrit safely on her way and then telephoned the center, wondering if I, too, should get a flight out of town. If anyone called the police to report rifle shots, I might be in trouble.

  Nancy answered. “Commander! Are you all right? We can barely stand the suspense.”

  “Everything’s fine,” I said. “Dorrit’s on a plane.”

  “Those guys, Commander!” Nancy said, half laughing. “They ran down the road, scared as rabbits. I can’t believe you shot at them!”

  Nancy told the members that Dorrit was safe. I heard cheering.

  “Any sign of the police?” I asked when Nancy came back to the phone.

  “One of the deprogrammers came back with a tow truck. That’s all we’ve seen.”

  “Just in case they return, can you and Philip stay awake until I get there? Make sure the members go to bed. We still have to fundraise tomorrow.”

  “They really want to see you, Commander. It won’t take long for you to drive back.”

  Nancy understood better than I did. We needed to come together as a region, as a family.

  When I pulled in the driveway, the members were outside. Philip and another brother hoisted me onto their shoulders. Everyone shouted, Mansei!

  When they set me down, I went to the car and took out the gun.

  “A salute to Dorrit,” I said, firing a shot into the air. I held the rifle over my head and shouted, “A new beginning for the Texas region!”

  The members cheered.

  I heard no more about Stanley after that night. I was their commander now.

  CHAPTER 29

  Itook a break from writing about my gun-toting days in Texas and went outside to watch the riverboat race between the diminutive Belle of Arkansas and the impressive Delta Queen from Mississippi. The larger boat pulled ahead until the two vessels attempted a turn at the railroad bridge. Arkansas’s riverboat quickly darted downriver as the Delta Queen navigated a wide arc.

  The anachronistic scene had so captured my attention that I didn’t notice when Vivian’s Pontiac turned into the parking lot. Thad helped Vivian out of the car as I walked toward them. My long-suffering Boston terrier, Cicero, strained to get out of the car to greet me. The little guy had seen me at my very worst. It was Cicero that Thad had held hostage that drunken night in Hollywood. Cicero had been terrified when he saw the insane glare in my eye as I wielded a meat cleaver and went after Thad. But dogs were all forgiveness. Cicero just wanted to let me know he loved me.

  I wanted to throw my arms around Thad, but I knew my nosey compatriots in rehab would be watching out the windows.

  Vivian’s strokes, along with osteoarthritis, had transformed her into a pitiable creature. Thad, on the other hand, had never looked better in stylish white jeans, with his blond hair just touching the collar of a soft powder-blue pullover. I figured that Vivian had bought the clothes for him, even though she couldn’t afford it. When Thad put on the charm, he usually got what he wanted.

  Vivian leaned heavily on Thad’s arm as she took a few steps toward me. I wasn’t ready to face her—not yet, not so soon.

  Thad’s eyes locked with mine. He knew exactly what I was thinking, that I was about to go inside and avoid the meeting. I heard Thad’s voice in my head as loudly as if he had spoken: Be patient, Simon.

  “My boy,” Vivian slurred, wrapping her good arm around my neck and pulling me close.

  When I didn’t reciprocate, Vivian stepped back. The sad look in her eyes made me feel even more like running and hiding.

  Fortunately, Harris appeared on the scene and greeted Vivian and Thad.

  Vivian held out her hand. “Thanks for watching after my boy,” she said. “He looks like he’s doing better.”

  I hated the times Vivian referred to me in the third person when I was standing right in front of her.

  Harris glanced at me sympathetically. “Simon is the one making the effort,” he said. “Recovery is hard work.”

  “Can we go inside?” I asked impatiently. The sooner we sat down together, the quicker this would end.

  The foghorn call of Arkansas’s riverboat announced its victory over the Delta Queen as we crossed the threshold.

  “They’ve been on the river all afternoon,” I pointed out.

  “We saw them from the bridge.” Thad barely restrained a sneer. “Riverboat racing, it’s so Southern.”

  “It’s definitely not Hollywood,” Harris said.

  Thad leaned close to my ear. “No shit.”

  Vivian strained to hear what we were talking about, frowning like a little girl whose parents had spelled out a word instead of saying it.

  “Thad mentioned that he likes Sibley,” I offered. “Has he gotten on your riding lawn mower yet?”

  “The goat does a better job,” Thad said, successfully holding back a chuckle when Vivian nodded. “When the goat eats up one patch of grass, I stake it at another spot.”

  “Thad’s a big help right now,” Vivian said.

  Thad and I had not spoken about what would happen when I left rehab. Los Angeles had been my downfall, but at least I knew my way around the place. Still, the mansion had plenty of room for an art studio, and the idea of establishing myself as an artist increasingly captivated my thoughts.

  One reason for leaving Hollywood was that I had convinced myself—however much enhanced by the effects of drugs—that I would go to New York to pursue a career in art. The simple reality was that I had used the idea as an excuse to run for my life—away from the drugs, away from the emotionally destructive forces of sexual liberty provided by the hustlers. Harris said that I was looking for the “geographical cure.” A first principle we learned in rehab was “Wherever you go, there you are.”

  If I decided to stay in Arkansas, would Thad agree to it? Consideration for another day, not this afternoon.

  Harris led us to a room near his office, an area usually off-limits to clients. “You can visit in here,” he offered. “It’s more private.”

  “Thank you,” Vivian said as Thad helped her into a chair. He took a seat on the sofa and patted the cushion to invite me to sit beside him.

  “I’ll leave you, then,” Harris said.

  Before he went away, I asked him to take my notebook, saying under my breath, “There’s a new section you might want to read.”

  “What’s that?” Thad blurted out.

  “Sometimes, we suggest that clients record their thoughts,” Harris said, gently closing the door behind him before Thad could press his question.

  Thad looked in my direction.

  “Don’t worry. Nothing about you.”

  From Thad’s expression, it wasn’t clear how he felt about that. Did Thad wonder why he wouldn’t be in my thoughts?

  “Thad’s a big help,” Vivian said again, not realizing she had already made that known a couple of times. “I don’t know what I would have done without him being around the
last few weeks.” She grasped her paralyzed arm self-consciously. “Darn thing feels like someone else’s arm.”

  Vivian fiddled with the hem of her dress as we fell into an awkward silence.

  Finally, Thad rose to look out the window. “The riverboats are passing by again. The decks of both boats are full of people. Guess it doesn’t matter who won.”

  “The race is an excuse to party,” I said. “Some years, the Delta Queen wins; other years, it’s the Belle. People are just looking for an excuse to get drunk.”

  “Why do people do things like that?” Vivian asked, always alert to discussions of impropriety.

  I joined Thad at the window. We managed a clandestine kiss as he took my hand. Our relationship had begun that way, as boyfriends who became lovers. We had both strayed, thinking the love we shared wasn’t enough. The remarkable change Thad had undergone—the recognition that our love was real—kept driving me toward sobriety. I had to catch up with him.

  Vivian sensed that something was going on behind her back. “You’re not going to drink anymore, are you?” she asked ruefully. Vivian never quite understood the concept of doing drugs. All forms of inebriation constituted “drinking” in her mind.

  “That’s why I’m in rehab,” I said, releasing Thad’s hand as we returned to our seats.

  Vivian called attention to the wall opposite Thad and me. “That could be one of your paintings,” she said, pointing toward a print of a painting by Jean Dubuffet.

  “If only I were that good,” I said, wondering what Vivian saw when she looked at the primitivistic image.

  “Maybe you are,” Thad said.

  It was unusual for Thad to mention my art. He rarely expressed any interest.

  Thad placed a hand on Vivian’s arm to get her attention. “Do you want to tell Simon the news?”

  “What news?” I asked.

  “You tell him,” Vivian said, smiling at Thad.

  “I took one of your paintings to the arts center in Little Rock when I read about a juried show they were having. We got a letter yesterday saying it was accepted. What do you think about that?”

  “You should have asked me before submitting something,” I said. Thad meant for the announcement to be welcome news, and yet, it made me angry.

  Vivian slumped forward. “I thought you’d be happy,” she said. “That’s why we came to see you.”

  “I don’t like people interfering in my life!” I shouted. “Can’t you just leave me alone?” I stormed from the room, knowing my action would hurt Vivian. Yet I felt powerless, as if an unseen force propelled me from her presence.

  Harris was in his office reading my notebook. My sudden appearance startled him.

  “Tell them to leave,” I said. “Vivian’s in there crying. Thad’s trying to run my life. I can’t take it!”

  “Calm down,” Harris said. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t want to see them. I wish they hadn’t come.”

  “Have a seat. I’ll go talk to Vivian.” Harris pointed toward the upholstered chair.

  Not thirty seconds after he’d left, Joshua poked his head inside. “You all right?”

  “How long have you been snooping around?” I asked. “Why can’t people leave me the fuck alone?” I stood up and closed the door.

  Joshua pushed it open. “Motherfucker!” he shouted. “I was just trying to show you that I care.”

  I went into the hallway and shoved Joshua against the wall. “Get the fuck away from me, you little hustler!”

  Joshua escaped my grip and ran upstairs.

  It occurred to me to escape out the door and leave rehab altogether, but I knew that if I did, the next stop would be to find drugs. Continuing my life with Thad would be the farthest thing from my mind. I sat on the floor and tucked my head between my knees.

  Why was I acting so irrationally? What was so bad about Thad attempting to promote my art? Was I afraid someone might actually like my paintings? I had avoided life for so many years; the idea of gaining one now terrified me.

  Harris came down the hall with Vivian and Thad.

  “There’s just too much to think about,” I told Vivian by way of explanation for my rash behavior.

  Her expression wasn’t as forlorn as it had been before. No doubt, Harris had said something about the emotional complexities of recovery. Nonetheless, I knew that I had inflicted yet another wound on my ever-patient mother.

  “I’m sorry about the painting,” Vivian said. “We should have asked you.”

  “I’ll get the painting back from the arts center,” Thad offered. “The show hasn’t opened yet. I just thought it might cheer you up.”

  “It would be cool to have one of my works on display, wouldn’t it?” I confessed. “Which painting did you enter?”

  “The title written on the back said Single Disturbance.”

  “It used to hang in my office at the Laurel Canyon house, remember? I painted it on the easel I set up on the patio.”

  “That’s why I chose it,” Thad said. “It made me think of our high-flying days in Hollywood.”

  “Be careful using the word high around this place.”

  Vivian looked puzzled again.

  Harris led the way to the car and helped Vivian into the passenger seat, making sure that Cicero didn’t hop out and run toward the street.

  “You can stay at Riverdell as long as you need to,” Harris said to me as they drove away. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “I thought I was getting better.”

  Harris patted me on the back. “One day at a time, Simon.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  A few weeks after I’d shot at the deprogrammers, Kawasaki told me to come to New York for a meeting with Mitsui. He was circumspect about the purpose, and I imagined all sorts of reasons, none of which boded well.

  Mitsui’s motives were usually clear—to limit advancement of American members and promote his Japanese subordinates. He might use my act of aggression as an excuse to remove me as commander and send one of his Japanese minions to take my place. I wouldn’t put it past him telling Father that I had become unbalanced and was a danger to the members.

  On flights to New York, I usually slept. During this one, I stared out the window, trying to rid myself of worry as I watched the patchwork quilt of Midwest farms hypnotically flow past my line of sight.

  I took the bus to the port authority and walked to the New Yorker. When I arrived at Mitsui’s office, he offered a cursory greeting and told me to sit down. We would be going to Belvedere for a meeting with Father once Kawasaki was ready. We didn’t have long to wait; Kawasaki sent word that he was outside with a van.

  The lack of conversation during the drive made me feel sure Father would scold me. Kawasaki placed a hand on my shoulder—an empathetic gesture, I presumed. After all, he had put the events in motion by telling me to purchase a gun. If Father castigated me, Kawasaki was next in line.

  We had not even had time to remove our shoes when Father appeared in the foyer. He wore plaid cotton pants with a loose-fitting white shirt. The casual attire, along with his buoyant good cheer, made me laugh. I suddenly realized that none of us had bowed to the ground—always a requirement when coming into Father’s presence.

  Before me stood the new Christ—charming and playful, not the dour martyr of Sacred Heart postcards. I needed no translator to grasp the tone of Father’s conversation with Mitsui. English words such as brave and strong peppered the dialogue.

  It turned out that Father had invited us to honor my having protected Dorrit, whom Father described as a living saint. Many believed that Dorrit’s recovery had been nothing short of a miracle.

  Kawasaki’s sense of relief was even greater than mine.

  Mitsui was harder to read. Evidently, he had expected Father to chastise me. And as I suspected, and later confirmed with Kawasaki, he had planned to demote me in Father’s presence and to suggest a Japanese replacement. My demise would have left only two American comm
anders: Conrad Pearson in San Francisco and my former lieutenant, Joseph Hale, in Chicago. Kawasaki had appointed them both without Mitsui’s knowledge, but when Father found out, he approved. I never got the impression that Father wanted to hold back the advancement of American MFT leaders.

  In the complex strategies of church leadership—whose machinations I was slowly beginning to understand—Father wasn’t sure whom to trust. He welcomed my level of commitment and recognized that I had done in Texas what was necessary under the circumstances.

  “Your dear friend will return to the family one day,” Father consoled.

  Hearing Father mention Stanley in such a personal way, I felt as close to him as I had in Little Rock.

  Mitsui had intimidated me for years, but now, sitting together in front of Father, I felt renewed confidence.

  At the very least, Mitsui valued my ability to lead hundreds of members and provide instruction in the Divine Principle. Recognizing that my position as commander had Father’s unassailable support, Mitsui used my region as a training ground for new members coming to the MFT, many of them fresh from the San Francisco family. Over the next few years, hundreds of brothers and sisters passed through Texas on their way to other regions.

  Before assignment to any MFT region, members first attended workshops in New York. It was especially important to make sure the San Francisco members understood the Divine Principle. Often, I flew to New York to lead the workshops and, on occasion, taught the lectures.

  With so much responsibility placed on my shoulders, I had little time for personal struggles. I managed to keep my sexual desires at bay, following the pattern I had developed as a team captain—rising early to shower after sleeping in a separate room. When visiting teams, I would say I was going to the van to be alone and pray, and remained there to sleep on the backseat.

  Even with these measures, avoiding temptation was a constant struggle. The emotional connection between members ran deep, and I couldn’t avoid close proximity to the brothers all of the time. I secretly fell in love many times, but like a character in a classic Japanese movie, I never shared my feelings with the object of my desire.