Scent

by Kelly, Clint L.

  He waited. She fidgeted, not really knowing why she had come. “How are all the changes in the church affecting you?” she blurted.

  “Ah, you are concerned for my welfare, a busy executive like yourself? To be frank, I am appalled at the placaters and the accommodators. We have priests we must call Mother. We have recognized same-gender unions and consecrated gay clergy. The Scriptures have gone out the window. The conflict is crippling. Fortunately, we have conservative clergy worldwide offering to forge relationships with disaffected Episcopal congregations. The US church is afloat in a sea of compromise. And I have this lower back pain that just won’t quit.”

  “What of St. John’s? Are you a lone voice or do you have consensus?”

  Fr. Byron sprang to his feet and began to pace the room. “Very astute of you. We are not all in agreement, but I am pleased to say that we have strong support for our position despite a philosophical liberality that strides in step with this city and its leadership.” He gave her an appraising, ecclesiastical once-over. “Now that we have heard the report of the state of the church in America, let us discuss Cassandra Dixon’s moment of crisis. I saw you on Midday. Don’t look so surprised. We priests are allowed a TV along with our bread and water. It would appear that you, my dear, are under attack.”

  She was so grateful that he had acknowledged her situation, she almost wept. “The opposing forces have gathered,” she said. “Have you a couple thousand candles I could light?”

  “That’s the Catholics,” he said, not unkindly. “We go in more for Christi crux est mea lux, the cross of Christ is my light.”

  “I thought Latin was the Catholics too, Father,” she said innocently.

  “My little affectation,” he said, giving her a droll look. “Wouldn’t want two years of Latin studies to go to waste. Walk with me.”

  They went out into the pretty courtyard in the center of the residences and walked among the shrubbery. The air was balmy for autumn.

  “Why have you come, Cass?” said the priest, hands clasped behind his back. “Why now?”

  She was taken aback by his bluntness. Who needed to justify going to church, albeit sporadically? “For comfort, I guess. It’s been a rough morning. Truth be known, it’s been a rough twelve years. I’m tired of fighting and only moving by inches. I need to know I’m okay and that God still likes me. I need you to give me some of that sweet daily comfort you get from above.”

  Cassie felt foolish at the weak little catch in her voice. At the vulnerability. What she needed was for the phone to ring and for Nick to say, “Sweet cheeks, meet me at the airport and bring an escort. Cassandra’s coming home!” Of course, she wasn’t about to say that to Fr. Byron.

  “I see.” He stopped at a holly tree loaded with berries, picked a vivid green branch heavy with red jewels, and handed it to his guest. “Our daily comfort is not the kind that dries my tears, wipes my nose, and pats me on the bottom. It is cum forte, with strength — that is the sense in which the Holy Spirit comforts me. The strength to get out of bed. The strength to get on my knees. The strength to minister to Lydia and shave cream man before the captains of industry have finished their poppy seed bagels and kissed their two-point-five children good-bye for the day.”

  She picked a bright berry and flicked it into the grass with a red-lacquered thumbnail. “Is that what you think I’m after, God’s sympathy?”

  He looked up into the tree, as if searching for a bird’s nest. “I don’t know. Where are your priorities these days? Do you rise saying, ‘Gloria in excelsis Deo,’ or wondering how many units you can move with your latest ad buy?”

  “Is that what you see when you look at me, Father? Greed?” She had to ask, yet dreaded the answer.

  “You tell me. It is one of the Seven Deadlies. But God is the only parent you have left, so tell me how your heavenly Father has been treating you.”

  All she heard was, “Tell me.” A sudden anger welled up in Cassie and spilled over. Easy for this cleric to point fingers. If he wanted to know how it was, she’d oblige. Out tumbled the hurt at being marginalized by the fashion critics, the name perfume companies, and the media; the suspicions over Brenda Gelasse and her designs on Azure, and worse, on Nick; the financial struggle to keep it all afloat when everything seemed to conspire against the company she had built on a dream and maxed-out credit cards; the walls that were closing in and the way “the game” had lately escalated, taking a weird and dangerous turn; the fears she had for Beth, and the strain the business placed on their relationship at a most fragile time in a teenager’s development; the hurt caused by the comments of her best friend, Mags; and the marriage to Nicholas that, Brenda or no Brenda, she didn’t want to see mortgaged to a shaky bottom line.

  “And now, Father, it’s make or break with Cassandra, the scent that will either save us or turn out the lights for good.” She felt drained and sat on a carved stone bench supported by four innocent-faced cherubs.

  Fr. Byron plucked another sprig of holly, then methodically pinched and tossed one berry after another into the shrubs.

  It was a full minute before he spoke, the words measured and tinged with sadness. “You are an educated and capable woman. I could never do what you do. I favor frankincense, but would a two-hundred-pound steelworker want to spread it under his arms? I have a nose that can detect bad tuna or a cat box that needs changing. But to parse an emulsion for its zesty this and its sumptuous that, or to perfect the ability to tell what in combination with what results in ooh-la-la, is quite beyond me. You have a gift.

  “However, a gift implies a Giver of that gift. And the gifts are many.” He threw his arms wide. “What of the oxygen we breathe? The flowers he makes to come up in our gardens and surrender their essence? The child that bears your likeness and kisses you good night? The heart that beats within you, and the beauty that you radiate when you’re not chasing the next great scent? That incessant chase drains you, lessens you. The perfume should be in service to the God who gave it. God first makes sense of the rest. When those priorities are flipped, you will live a life of anxiety and confusion. Kyrieeleison. Lord have mercy.”

  She could not help but laugh despite the rebuke. “Homily by Byron Wills,” she said, taking his hand. She kissed it and made no effort to hide the tears. “You are a good man with a simple message, and I am privileged to hear it. It is not, I’m afraid, a message that plays well in my field, where cunning is prized and the most successful are self-made. But I pledge to you that once Nick is back and things have settled down a bit, I’ll come back to church and try to bring the rest of the heathens with me. Deal?”

  Fr. Byron sucked air through his teeth and said, “I wouldn’t make light of this, Cass. You were seen at the Black Swan having a discussion with Brenda Gelasse that did not end well. I’m guessing she made an offer for Azure and you turned it down flat. I’m also guessing that you met with her in the hope of striking a deal with your new scent and that she likewise turned you down.”

  Cassie was surprised and annoyed by his “intuitive” abilities. “What, Father, do priests now have listening devices to aid them in doing God’s work?”

  He held up a hand and rushed on. “I wouldn’t normally say this, but there are those who believe Brenda is not a woman you want to cross, Cass, believe me. She’s deliberate. Calculating. She might even be dangerous. You have a marriage and a daughter to consider. No perfume, however sublime, is worth that much risk.”

  Cassie felt weary and drained. It bothered her to see the priest upset, but also to have him so well informed of her personal business. This talk was not helping either of them.

  “Your spies got it mostly right,” she said, “though it’s unlikely I’ll be having anything more to do with Brenda.” She stood. “Thank you for your concern, Father.” She forced a lighter tone. “I think at this point what I need most is another of your choir jokes.”

  The priest said nothing but took her arm and walked her back to the cab.

  Cassie
considered bringing up the woman in the hospital. No, she would not drag this good man into the fray. Instead she opened her purse and withdrew a small bottle of Hunter lotion, “for the adventurer in all of us.”

  “Here’s some ooh-la-la for you that might just turn Lydia’s head on Thursdays,” she said, handing him the bottle. “Who knows? The woman may convert in half the time.” She settled into the cab, whose driver looked relieved that she had consulted a priest.

  Fr. Byron shook his head in mock disapproval and gave a little wave. Cassie rolled her window down. “You’ve been trying to marry me off for years,” he scolded, looking only a little flustered. “Not to change the subject, my dear Mrs. Dixon, but do you know the difference between a choir director and a terrorist?”

  Cassie was pretty sure she did, but shook her head. “No, Father, what is the difference?”

  “You can negotiate with a terrorist.”

  She smiled obligingly. “I thought it was a lawyer and a terrorist, Father.”

  “Same difference. Pax vobiscum. Pray for Lydia.”

  Cassie observed the perceptive little priest in church brocade and tidy goatee and wished he wasn’t so well informed or so troubled. “I will, Father, and peace be with you too,” she called. The taxi accelerated out of the parking lot.

  She gave a final wave and said under her breath, “Peace be with us all.”

  Chapter 8

  Nick swung the backpack like an Olympic hammer thrower. The sturdy headspace machine inside gave it heft and momentum. The wild pigs scrambled aside in squealing disarray.

  Because he met with no resistance, Nick barely avoided sprawling face-first into a thicket of wicked-looking spines growing like a hairy wart from the decaying bark of a fallen tree.

  The boars regrouped behind him in a hail of screeching and returned to the path, streaming away from him, hooves pounding.

  Nick, dazed, listened to the piercing notes of the war flute and excited cries of men as their prey abruptly changed.

  No Waronai tribal provider worth his manhood could pass on fresh meat dropped in his lap. Crashing and grunting turned into terrified squeals, then finally the strangled bleats of dying game.

  He was but fifty yards from death’s door. He yanked the backpack on again and bolted from the killing ground. The Waronai would be on him again like ants on carrion. Move he must.

  With each loping stride he gained precious distance, and soon the sounds of pigs and men faded away. He stopped for a quick gulp from a narrow rivulet. Elation returned. He had escaped without injury. The prize was literally in the bag.

  The jungle, the heat, the fear, the years of struggle fell away. Within forty-eight hours he would meet Ruggers at the appointed rendezvous. He ran faster, oblivious to everything but the box thumping against his back — the precious, glorious box full of the aroma of the gods.

  I’m coming, Cassie my love. Buy the diamonds and the pearls both. You are about to become Queen of the Universe!

  Nicholas Dixon’s unbridled laughter rent the forest.

  High above in the forest canopy, an unruly collection of parrots and monkeys joined in the racket.

  The Waronai chieftain raised the yearling boar by the hind legs and allowed the warm life stream to splash onto his chest and belly. He relished the hot gush of fresh blood that made the hunt so rewarding.

  The distant screams of the tree creatures made him pause. All about him, blood-streaked warriors straddled dead boar. They too heard the far animals and, murmuring among themselves, waited for a signal from their leader to resume the hunt for the white one.

  “He must not live,” the chieftain told them in their ancient language. “He is one of the Kukukuku (mountain thieves). They pick a village clean faster than a man can dance a single singsing. And this one is an albino, from the farthest of the far, not a good omen.”

  Because he knew his men shared his thoughts, the chieftain consulted the pig’s entrails. The steamy contents offered up no twisted intestines or tumorous growths, the usual confirmation of required action.

  He relaxed, flashed a gory smile of teeth stained red-black from the betel nut. “You could easily overtake the albino, despite this mess of pigs the ancestors have provided. But the inside of the yearling boar says no need. All is normal, all is well. The ancestors themselves will take their revenge on the thief who has stolen the sacred stink.”

  The warriors murmured; a few shook their heads.

  “Even now the albino flees back to the hole he has crawled from, taking with him the very thing that will be his — and his village’s — undoing.”

  The warriors gave shrill cries of pleasure.

  “Many are sure to die, including the filthy white one. Such is just punishment for stealing the power of the sacred flower!”

  A roar erupted from his men.

  The chieftain signaled for their silence. Instantly they obeyed. “Worthy hunters” — he addressed them in their language mixed with pidgin, a mockery when an English speaker was not present — “mi no klia gut (I don’t understand why), but the ancestors have spoken. We tell albino, ‘Lusim (Don’t touch)!’ But he takes what I say is tambu (forbidden). You know, I know, he cannot escape the curse no matter how far he goes. Soon he will hate the flower. Hia (Here) it is beautiful. Hap (There) it makes everything ugly. Yu save or nogat (You understand or not)?”

  The men grinned and slapped each other’s backs. The albino would soon regret his thievery. From pastaim (the very beginning of time), the sacred flower was to be honored and left alone. Even the animals knew that. Long ago, out of respect and the need to survive, they had abandoned the glades and clearings inhabited by the flower. But in the taim bip (the time before their leaving), something awful had happened. Though the details were never spoken, it was forever known as “the mad time.”

  The chieftain smiled, rare contentment easing the ache deep in his bones. Though the albino had meant them evil, the trouble with albinos was their grievous lack of judgment.

  He spit betel juice and repeated the curse aloud. “Run, white one. Soon the flower will be your undoing, and you will run never again.”

  As the sun beat down and the humidity intensified, Nick’s elation quickly turned to anguish. It hurts to breathe. My legs are heavy as logs. My head is going to explode. I feel sick. He hated the jungle for all its misery and mystery.

  He had felt the same kind of despair and hopelessness after the Brenda affair. Why he had strayed was the real mystery. Cassie and he had gotten married in a beautiful little chapel in Sonoma. Thanks to the generosity of family and friends, they honeymooned in Tuscany to recapture many of the golden memories of the year they met in Italy. He loved their first years of marriage. They were magic and filled with the excitement of building something together, a legacy in fragrance fashion. By scrimping and saving and receiving a small inheritance from Nick’s uncle, who ran a successful deli franchise in Chicago and San Francisco, they purchased production equipment and set up shop in a leaky warehouse near Fisherman’s Wharf.

  “We can do this!” was their battle cry. By sleeping little and spending less, they experienced modest success, enough to grow the business and stay in the game.

  Nick met Brenda at a regional trade show. “Hello, Nicholas. Let’s be friends.” I was flattered. What an idiot! She was everything the transparent Cassie was not — secretive, dangerous, beguiling, tough, and without child. She reminded him of Catwoman, a human jungle of emotions and motivations that invited exploration. He should have run hard in the opposite direction but had accepted her invitation to the Gateway Tower before entertaining anything remotely related to flight.

  What he thought could be kept low-key and hidden swept through the fashion world with gale force. The phone rang at home. He watched Cassie, stomach round with life, pick up. He watched her face crumple. She dropped the receiver. “Is it true?” was all she said.

  His silence was her answer.

  It was as if he had been physically blind
and was suddenly given back his sight by a searing bolt of lightning. He begged forgiveness and received it. He pledged himself to her anew. Rebuilding trust took time but it came. Eventually she listened to his desire to raise the company’s visibility, to never grow content with midlevel fragrances but always to have their ears to the ground for a knockout scent.

  The one thing he never could repair was Cassie’s fear that if she wasn’t innovative enough, driven enough, adventurous enough, Nick would walk.

  “I wouldn’t, Cass. You’ve been true to me, to us, when what I deserved was your wrath. You could have walked, and who would have blamed you? You’re an angel of faithfulness, and I won’t make that mistake again.”

  The monkeys grew louder. His heart had a double knock in it now — fear he would keel over any minute to heat prostration, and fear he might not see his wife and child again.

  An unexplained strength gripped him. With a cry of longing he ran faster.

  Brenda Gelasse sipped the wine without tasting it and dredged the evening edition of the Chronicle. She was surprised the story of the Azure perfume scandal merited only page three. She would have thought the loss, from a single source, of twenty percent of the human sensory perception in six people quite worthy of page one. Especially as it was a scandal certain to spread.

  Despite the stone wall that had been erected at the Black Swan meeting, Brenda surmised that in another day or two she could have Azure — and Royce “the Nose” Blankenship — for a mere $15 million. To get out from under growing scandal and mounting debt, Cass Dixon would fold. And Brenda would have the prize that had so long eluded her.

  One thing more. Leech or no leech, she would sue the National Weekly into the ground if it so much as hinted that shopping at deBrieze was anything less than the ultimate retail experience.

  Molinard, her silver-black Abyssinian, stretched along a sunny swath of carpet and squinted brilliant-green, almond-shaped eyes. Named for the French perfume house where Brenda purchased scented furniture polish and the toilet water highly prized by Queen Victoria, the feline listened to her mistress vent when her usual confidant was unavailable. Brenda checked her watch and wondered where her two o’clock was. Not like him to be late. Not like him at all.