All of this was delivered as she sat cross-legged on her mat, making a circle with her slim, perfect body as if she were hypnotizing a cobra. Roger, too, was mesmerized.
“I see we have a new class member. You’re a friend of Joshua’s?”
Roger nodded, but she barely paused before continuing.
“Just take it easy, if this is your first time, and I’ll come around and help you through. I’m Shay.”
She seemed to be expecting a response.
“Roger,” said Roger.
“Okay, Roger, great. Nice to have you here. Okay, everybody. Everybody nice and warmed up?”
A chorus of responses came from the group, and the class began.
Self-consciousness had never been a problem for Roger, since, in order to feel self-conscious, one needed to be aware of other people’s feelings. Thus unencumbered, Roger endeavored to follow the class as best he could. A series of movements Shay called “Sun Salutations” provided one challenge after another to Roger. Shay may have appeared scattered, but she was a gifted teacher, and she quickly realized that Roger was out of his depth. Only a few moments after the class began, she began to move to the back of the room, and talking non-stop to the class, directing and cajoling, she was simultaneously standing near Roger, pulling on his leg here, nudging his shoulders back and his arms higher, gently pushing his head further toward the floor.
Roger did what he was told, to the extent that he was capable, but he wasn’t very flexible, he discovered. The rest of the class seemed to easily bend themselves into the requisite shapes, and the strange sound of their rhythmic breathing filled the room. Roger couldn’t touch his toes, his downward dog was spread too far apart, and his sun salutation was clumsy. His arms and legs seemed to have minds of their own. Shay came around to him again, offering instructions to the class as she moved to the back of the room. She told them to lift their legs to the sky, and Roger thought he was doing so until she tugged it into a place that did not feel natural. His leg did not go that way, he was quite certain. He tried rotating his shoulder back during downward dog, as instructed, but he didn’t know what it meant to rotate his shoulders, and he succeeded only in appearing to writhe in some kind of yogic agony. He tried to concentrate on breathing as Shay instructed, but this added a level of complication he had not imagined possible. After what seemed an hour of the deepest concentration and pain, he caught a glimpse of the clock and saw that seven minutes had passed.
Sun salutations, Roger discovered, were nearly endless, and endlessly difficult. He had no difficulty in raising himself from the floor in a plank pose, which Shay called “Phalankasana,” on the way to Cobra, but for all practical purposes, this was the extent of his abilities. With relief, he heard Shay announce that they were moving on to Warrior pose. Warriors, Roger felt sure, were something he could understand. But when the warrior pose morphed into inverted triangles and other geometric eccentricities, Roger, his head pointing to the floor, began to realize that there would be no refuge.
At last it was over. The class sat cross-legged facing the front of the room, and Roger, whose legs didn’t exactly cross, copied the others as they put their palms together in front of their hearts and bowed to their teacher. “Namaste,” they said in unison. Roger had heard this word, but did not know its meaning. Perhaps it was Sanskrit for “gratitude after pain.”
There began a bustle as the students began rolling up their mats, gathering belongings, and putting on jackets and sweaters. Shay came up to Roger and put her hand on his arm.
“What did you think, Roger? Will we be seeing you again?”
“Yes,” said Roger in his economical fashion. “When?”
“On Thursday, same time. Be sure to practice. And Roger,” she put her both her hands on each of his arms as if she were about to shake him, “I sense a deep well of spirituality in you. Nice work.”
Roger watched her go, and then turned to hand Joshua’s mat to him.
“Hang onto it ‘til you get your own, man. I don’t need it.” And with a wave, The Angel Joshua departed, leaving Roger to find his own way out, his borrowed mat rolled carefully under his arm.
Emily and Jason Martin were quite pleased at the way their Scouting project was going. The visits from the boys inevitably led to visits from their parents, coming to pick them up, or to chaperone the small, boisterous, but essentially well-mannered group. This growing familiarity with their new neighbors would help to ensure the Martins’ entrée into the community, and this was all according to plan.
Today they were working on the presentations each boy would have to make about what he had learned. This, on the Island—where finding entertainment in small things was something of an art form—would be an opportunity for a well-publicized community event. The presence of an audience would place additional pressure on the boys, but would nevertheless provide support and enthusiasm as well. Making the posters for the presentations would come later. There was a visit to the barn to make first.
The Martins felt strongly that it was important for the boys to spend as much time as possible with the animals, and therefore every session for the animal husbandry badge began with the boys heading out to the barn to participate in the many aspects of goat care and feeding. The Scouts grew increasingly confident around the animals, calling them by name, leading them in and out of their enclosures, and knowing the farm’s routines and the locations of various necessary equipment. In encouraging these encounters, the Martins proved to be thoughtful and effective teachers.
Among the vital lessons taught was the necessity of keeping the bucks and does separated. On a farm, there could be no unplanned co-minglings, and Emily and Jason were clear and firm in explaining these common sense facts of life. The boys listened with only a few secret, gleaming glances at one another. They were duly impressed by the responsibilities being shared with them, and by the unexpected revelation of this adult knowledge. Their usual chatter somewhat diminished by self-consciousness, they returned to the house and their posters afterward, and set to work with a seriousness of purpose. It wasn’t long before their animation returned, however, and fueled in part by the appearance of cookies, the house was soon filled with boyish exuberance.
Chapter Four
Once Lars had officially given notice of his retirement, the gaudy red and purple signs began popping up around the Island with the same kind of welcome as tent caterpillars might receive, and for more or less the same kind of reason: nobody particularly wanted them, but it was impossible to stop them without poison. It was the rare Islander who felt safe enough to say no to Stella. Her tantrums and vindictiveness had continued without hindrance since her childhood, and anyone who had ever crossed her regretted it. She had a cadre of friends who, for reasons of their own, were able to overlook or share in her flaws, but this was a small group. For the rest, it was simply easier to let her post a sign. After all, the thinking went, it didn’t mean you had to vote for her.
Stella’s campaign was beginning the way her time in office would inevitably continue: by intimidation and fear. The general opinion expressed in whispered voices or behind closed doors was that it was a damned good thing there was a secret ballot. But, of course, this would only be helpful if someone actually ran against her, and as the deadline for candidates’ submission of papers came near, a new sense of urgency began to dawn on the Island’s electorate. Somebody had to run against Stella.
“You should do it, Pali,” said Fiona as they sat one evening at Nelsen’s. The Scoutmaster had recovered, and Ben had his regular troop meeting. His parents were taking advantage of the opportunity.
“Oh no, he shouldn’t,” said Nika quickly. “We see him little enough as it is without adding more to his obligations.” Her husband smiled and patted her knee affectionately.
“Have no fear,” he said. “Political life holds no appeal for me.”
“You, then,” said Fiona brightly, turning to Nika with a wicked smile.
“Ha ha!” said
Nika nervously. “No thank you.”
Eddie, the bartender, had been listening to this conversation. It was one which had been repeated countless times at Nelsen’s in recent weeks. He leaned over the bar to speak.
“You know, it’s funny. Everybody’s trying to get everyone else to run, and no one is willing to do it.” He paused to pour a couple of beers for the guys at the end of the bar and returned. “It’s actually pretty unusual. Normally it becomes clear that there’s some likely candidate, someone everybody thinks should do it. This time....” Eddie shook his head. “People are starting to get worried.”
Fiona took a deep breath and sighed. “I have to admit that I am. If Stella becomes chairman, I don’t know if I could stay on the Island.”
“Maybe you should do it, Fiona,” said Nika, happy to be able to turn the question back.
“Good God, no. It will be a cold day in Hell. Public office? Against Stella? Never!” Fiona punctuated this speech by putting her glass on the bar with an emphatic thump. “I need to go. I have a Skype date with Pete.” She gathered her things and headed for the door. “Keep thinking. You’ll come up with someone. Bye. Thanks, Eddie.”
“Bye,” said Nika.
“See you around,” said Pali.
Pali and Eddie watched Fiona leave.
“Hmmm,” said Pali.
Eddie kept his thoughts to himself, but he and Pali shared a long speculative look.
Sitting at her desk staring at her computer, Fiona wanted to dive into the screen at Pete’s image on Skype. He seemed so illusory, so distant.
“Do you think it’s possible that Stella burned down the barn?” he asked.
Fiona was silent as she thought about this.
“I’ve wondered about it,” she said at last. But I can’t accept that anyone I know could do such a thing.”
“People do ugly things.” His voice echoed strangely across ocean and continents.
“Yes. Yes, I know. I used to be a reporter in Chicago, remember.” She fell silent again, remembering with grim specificity the details of some of the things she had witnessed one human being do to another. “It’s possible, I suppose.”
“Be careful, Fiona.”
“I feel safe here.”
“I know. But maybe you shouldn’t.”
After they hung up, Fiona felt bereft. She had always worried about Stella, but did not fear that she threatened physical harm. Stella was anxiety-provoking and infuriating, but not actually dangerous. At least, that was how Fiona had always perceived the situation. Pete was very far away. And now, entertaining these new thoughts, Fiona felt more alone than she had felt in a very long time.
And she found, much to her annoyance, that on top of everything else, she was starting to miss Robert.
She closed her laptop and meandered downstairs for a drink. It was late, and she had done enough for today. She poured herself a scotch in one of the hand-blown glasses that had been Elisabeth’s gift from Italy, and slowly wandered around the house, turning off lights before heading upstairs. She had a new book that she was looking forward to.
In one of those interesting and occasionally odd paths that one takes from one book to another, Fiona had found herself interested in the writings of Martin Luther. There were some glaring inconsistencies—and rather appalling hypocrisy—in the thinking of the Reformation’s first voice, and instances of his brutal anti-Semitism had driven her to abandon Luther several times. But Fiona was not one to run from ideas that offended her, and she ultimately picked up the book again. Her interest was fueled, in part, by the contradictions. She was fascinated by the mixture of an almost romantic theology with a sort of native German crudeness. She had found this particular book at a rummage sale, drawn at first by its green leather binding and gilt letters, and then delightedly discovering what it was. She had come to think of it as Martin’s Little Green Book—her private joke. Fiona’s German being somewhere between rusty and non-existent, she was spending an inordinate amount of time with a German-English dictionary, but she found this oddly restful and satisfying, like solving a puzzle, and since it also had the fringe benefit of engaging her busy mind, it had become her bedtime ritual.
She settled into her pillows, warm beneath her comforter, with the cool autumn air coming in through the open window. She took a sip of scotch and sighed. She missed Pete. She missed Rocco. She steadfastly refused to miss Robert. The house felt very silent. Very empty.
Just as this feeling moved over her like a wave, she heard a scrabbling sound in the wall behind her head, and then, as if by invitation, the intensive crunching of her unknown tenant and frequent nighttime companion began with particular vigor.
Fiona pondered the change in her approach to life that was indicated by her present reaction to the chewing animal, whatever it was. What before had seemed an alarming intrusion, she now welcomed as an act of companionship. Was this, she wondered, a sign of resignation to lower standards—the harbinger of personal deterioration that would increase and intensify the longer she lived alone on the Island? Was she now on the path to becoming one of those old ladies who live in filth with twenty-seven cats and stacks of ancient newspapers—or, perhaps, books of Reformation theology—everywhere? Was this her signal that it was time to get out while the getting was good? To move back to civilization and get on with her life?
Or was it simple, almost agonizing loneliness?
It occurred to her that knowing that Pete was in the world somewhere made the loneliness actually worse than when she hadn’t loved him. She longed for him, and her longing sometimes made everything an exercise in discipline: forcing herself to go through the motions of her days rather than moving through them with joy. “No, this will not do,” she told herself. Shaking off the mood, she returned her attention to her book.
“Du kannst nicht verhindern, dass ein Vogelschwarm über deinen Kopf Hinwegfliegt. Aber du kannst verhindern, dass er in deinen Haaren nistet.” Fiona flipped rapidly through her dictionary. “Ah,” she said aloud, with satisfaction, finding the missing word in her vocabulary.
She read aloud as she translated, “You cannot keep a flock of birds from flying over your head, but you can keep them from nesting in your hair.”
“At least,” she thought, “I don’t have that problem.” She took a sip of scotch and then corrected herself.
“Yet.”
She settled more deeply into her pillows, basking in the stalwart and companionable crunching of her fellow creature. She turned the page of the Little Green Book, and took another sip of scotch.
It did not occur to Ben that his plans to help an injured deer might, in fact, be dangerous to the animal. His Scout leader, or Jim, or his father, for that matter—had they been able to advise—would have pointed out the difficulties of getting close enough to help in the first place; and then the dangers of having a makeshift splint in the wild, of the need to supervise the animal in a protected location, of the prospect of infection, and of the foolishness of trying to practice medicine—even veterinary medicine—without training or a license; and even how an animal rehabilitator might help.
But Ben had not confided in his Scoutmaster, in Jim, nor in anyone else, and he’d never heard of an animal rehabilitator. This project to save the little animal, he was certain, would be frowned upon by the adults who would see it as foolishness. To them, he was convinced, it was just a deer, a disposable animal, and the adults would have found ways to prevent his attempting to save it. But to Ben, the deer was more than that: it was an irreplaceable living thing deserving of his compassion, and the disapproval of adults meant simple bossiness, not the possibility of some very good reasons. Ben wanted to save the deer. Saving it would not be looked upon with favor. Ben, therefore, would not tell anyone about it. It was that simple.
In order to accomplish his goal, Ben needed to assemble some equipment. Leaping over any other difficulties, he had given this part of his plan a great deal of thought. His Boy Scout troop had given him extensive tra
ining in First Aid—considered an essential skill on the Island—and armed with this knowledge he had a reasonable sense—for a ten year old—of what he didn’t know. In a remarkably short period of time, he had found the information he needed on the Internet, along with how-to videos and lists of the necessary items.
Most of these things he needed would be simple for him to acquire on his own: garbage bags, rags, rope, and antibiotic ointment. Among the methods recommended for splinting an injured leg, however, the one he thought made the most sense involved the use of PVC pipe. He would need to split it lengthwise, and this meant he would need some help. But how to engage the adults around him without alerting their suspicions? Carefully, Ben devised a little plan, and made himself a list.
One afternoon after school, Ben presented himself at the Mercantile. The store was empty, just as Ben had hoped. He was greeted by Tom as he entered and walked past the candy section without pausing.
“Hey, Ben,” said Tom. “What can I help you find?”
Ben had thought this out very carefully. He would have to be deceptive, yes, but he would not tell a lie.
Without being fully conscious of it, Ben had two powerful value systems that had been instilled in him: the steady integrity of his family and the morality of fairy tales. And while they were mostly complementary, there were certain ways in which they were, perhaps, a bit contradictory. His Boy Scout training—not to mention his parents and his church—had embedded the need for truth. The fairy tales, in which honest men and women usually triumphed, had ingrained the virtues of wit and trickery to overcome evil. He had argued with himself about this quite extensively, and he had come to the conclusion that if he did not actually lie, then he could defend his actions as in protection of a life. He had practiced his response in the privacy of his room, and delivered it now in an off hand manner.
The Audacity of Goats Page 8