“Here’s a framed original poster by our friend James, who is a famous artist. You may have heard of him. He has his own gallery in Chelsea. He took the Four Noble Truths and painted images of four Hollywood celebrities who epitomize each truth. The first one, ‘Life means suffering’—that’s Marilyn Monroe, over here on the lotus. She was so beautiful and she suffered so much for it. Men used her like a towel, and once she was dirtied up they threw her away.” Edgar shook his head and sighed. I sighed to match him.
“ ‘The origin of suffering is attachment’—that’s Jim Morrison, on the mountaintop. He was attached to drugs and alcohol, and he suffered terribly for it. He visited us once here before he died. He wrote a poem for me. All the other folks here were very jealous. I found him insufferable.”
My mouth hung open in shock. “Jim Morrison was here? And he wrote a poem for you?”
He nodded solemnly. “I was quite gorgeous when I was younger.” He smiled gently. “Stevie Nicks visited us, and we connected on such a deep level. She really considered me a dear friend for a time. And here she is as the third noble truth, riding the unicorn. I’ve always liked how the white fringe on her scarf matches the unicorn’s mane.”
This was just too much. There was Stevie Nicks, looking just like the Stevie Nicks witch and the actual Stevie Nicks.
“The third noble truth teaches us that the cessation of suffering is attainable.” Edgar gazed at the painting and smiled softly. “Sometimes, of course, you have to break free of controlling men in order to do it. And Stevie did. She finally, finally did.”
“Steve Nicks was the sound track to my youth,” I said reverently. I’d listened to Fleetwood Mac’s live reunion album all through the summer between eleventh and twelfth grades.
Edgar smiled benevolently. “She was the sound track to mine, too,” he said.
“Does she still visit?”
“Oh, no,” Edgar said, laughing. “I can’t stand her.”
“Um. Oh.”
“Now, the fourth noble truth is the cessation of suffering,” he said. “And of course the only true cessation of suffering is death. So here we have Audrey Hepburn, who became a living saint at the end of her life. But before that, she endured the deprivations of the Holocaust and, even worse, the emotional abuse of several husbands. At least one of them cheated on her. Can you imagine anyone cheating on Audrey Hepburn?”
I was aghast. “But she was so pretty!”
Edgar suddenly looked very angry. “Yes, she was pretty, Sara!” he snapped. “But more than that, she was a human being with feelings. And there is nothing people hate so much as a kind spirit who knows who she is and will not apologize for it. She was too nice. They walked all over her. Are you going to let them walk all over you, Sara? Are you?” I shrank back. He looked irritated almost to the point of genuine anger.
Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, he softened and smiled. “So that’s the painting by James. He’s lovely. Gay, of course. A really nice guy. He’d love you. He adores me.”
The storm appeared to be over. I relaxed.
“He’s very talented,” I said tentatively, and he nodded with great enthusiasm.
“I knew you and I would get along. I see so much of myself in you.” He stared deep into my eyes, and I met his gaze and beamed. I was too flattered to point out that we’d met less than ten minutes prior and that I wasn’t even sure he knew my surname yet.
It took nearly an hour just to get through what might have been called the living room in a normal house. I had no idea that so many things could be carved from soapstone. Gold was also well-represented, as were silver, brass, copper, paper, yarn, and cloth. That room alone contained a gift appropriate for every imaginable wedding anniversary.
We went through the rest of the house, including Edgar and Arthur’s meditation room, their bedroom, the spare bedroom, the upstairs bathroom, the downstairs bathroom, the playroom (“Sometimes guests bring children, though I discourage it”), Arthur’s office (“His inner sanctum—I’m barely allowed in here”), and the mudroom, where a mouse rattled about inside a cage trap (“It’s a compassionate trap. We don’t kill animals here. We’ll let him out in a field later.”). By the time we reached the kitchen, my mind swam with beads, statues, and tie-dye. It was as if the CEO of Pier 1 Imports or Bombay Company had entered the house and exploded.
“And now to meet the manly men of the house,” he said as we entered the kitchen. “Boys, meet Sara.”
Two men—one my age, one about sixty—looked up from steaming mugs of tea at the kitchen table. The younger man was cute enough, with thick black hair and mournful blue eyes. The older one had clearly once been quite handsome. He remained good-looking, albeit in a creased, faded way. He looked a bit like a fancy, sturdy boat that has been battered by wind and waves over the years. His expression was slightly dazed, but gentle and welcoming.
The young man offered his hand. “Hi, I’m Jason,” he said. “I’m the intern.”
“We have one every semester,” Edgar said. “Jason is a student at NYU. He helps Arthur with his work for part of the day, and he’s been doing some projects for me around the house, haven’t you, Jason?”
A look of terror briefly flickered across Jason’s face. He looked down into his tea and murmured, “Yup.”
An awkward moment of silence passed.
“Well, say something, Arthur!” Edgar said cheerfully. “Aren’t you excited to meet my new assistant?”
I looked at Edgar with surprise. I hadn’t even shown him my résumé yet, much less interviewed for the position. He grinned at me. Clearly, I had the job.
Arthur peered at me in kind confusion. “Assistant?” he repeated. “Well . . . that sounds very nice. Welcome, Sara. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“I’ll offer the tea around here, thank you,” Edgar said quickly. “Sara, sit down and I’ll give you some tea.”
I thanked him and sat.
Edgar rattled around the kitchen, chattering nonstop about the upcoming annual conference, his plans for the garden, future celebrity guest speakers, and some facts I’d already picked up from the Blessed Sanctuary website. Throughout Edgar’s monologue, Arthur nodded on occasion, blinking very slowly and offering a word or two. My impression was of a brilliant man who had at one time done a lot of acid. Like, a lot. Jason said nothing, and stared into space or into his cup of tea. When Arthur rose slowly and creakily from his chair, Jason looked enormously relieved. He stood up so fast he nearly knocked over his teacup, which was still mostly full. He didn’t exactly run out of the room, but he speed-walked toward Arthur’s office.
When the other men were safely out of earshot, Edgar heaved a great sigh of relief and plunked down in the chair beside me.
“Isn’t it better with them gone?” he asked. I had no idea how to answer that question, so I sipped my tea.
“Some male energy is so disruptive,” he continued. “You’ll see soon enough who really runs this place, and it isn’t my partner. And it certainly isn’t the intern.” He shook his head and looked at me with a level gaze. “Take my advice: don’t fall in love with him. He’s trouble.”
I nearly spat out my tea.
“I don’t think he’s really my type,” I said, even though he was.
“Good,” Edgar said, and smiled. “Now let’s tour the grounds and I’ll tell you about all the things I want you to work on with me.”
By the end of the day, I’d gotten a closer look at the contemplation house, though we didn’t enter it. It was designed specifically for whatever celebrity spiritual teacher happened to be in residence at the time. This building, like all the others, was funded by wealthy donors. We walked around the house, but didn’t go inside. Edgar explained that the construction of the contemplation house had kicked up so much dust that he couldn’t sleep for a year (I didn’t ask what dust had to do with his slumber), and that while it was quite pretty, he avoided entering it unless he absolutely had to. Apparently the sight of the inter
ior triggered a kind of PTSD. He hated psychiatrists (“Crooks, all of them!”) so he was praying on it. We visited the organic garden, for which he had grand plans, as well as the forest that took up most of the property. We finished our journey in the mudroom, where Edgar picked up the cage that housed the mouse.
“We’re going down the road a mile to let it out on a farm,” he informed me as the terrified creature shook in the corner.
“Poor little guy,” he said, cooing at him. “I chant to soothe them. Do you know ‘Om mani padme hum’?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Let’s chant it together then. Om mani padme hum om mani padme hum . . .”
“Om mani padme hum,” I joined in whisper. I have a terrible singing voice, and chanting is too close to singing for my comfort.
“Om mani padme hum,” he intoned, poking his finger in the cage and waggling it at the creature. “Om mani padme hum om mani padme hum om mani padme—FUCK YOU!” He shrieked and dropped the cage. The mouse squealed.
“Oh my God!” I gasped. “Are you okay?”
“The fucker bit me! I’m bleeding. I’m fucking bleeding!” He held up his finger, which showed no trace of blood.
“Go let it out in the forest!” he screamed. “Let it out in the forest behind the house!” He took off down the hall, yelling for Arthur.
I looked at the mouse and the mouse looked at me. I picked up the cage, left the house, and walked about fifty yards up the forested hillside. Everything grew very quiet except for the occasional rustling of a small animal in the brush. It was cold there, but the air was crisp. From my vantage point, I could see into the valley below. The sun shone through the bare winter trees, and the sky was very blue. I had driven here, all by myself. I hadn’t panicked. My belly didn’t hurt. My head didn’t throb. I felt a cool peace wash over me. I could do this—all of it.
I knelt down on the near-frozen ground and released the mouse. He skittered away, free of compassionate traps and sacred chants. As I walked back down the hill to the house, I looked up. A hawk was circling overhead, eyeing something. It dove, slicing soundlessly through the frigid air. I turned my eyes back to the house and walked through the mudroom and into the kitchen.
Jason the intern was sitting alone in a chair at the table. When I entered, he rose quickly.
“He’s gone to bed for the day,” he said in a low tone. “But he says to come back tomorrow the same time if you want the job.” His eyes seemed to flash something at me, but I couldn’t understand what, exactly.
I hesitated.
“He’ll pay you twenty dollars an hour,” he said. “Cash.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I said.
Driving home, I turned over the events of the afternoon in my mind. Edgar had certainly behaved in an unusual fashion, but maybe that was just how professional spiritual gurus were. Arthur was odd in his own way, and the intern seemed scared. Maybe Jason was just intimidated by the people who had the power to write the evaluation for his college course. Maybe Jason was shy. Or maybe Jason was the weird one, and Edgar and Arthur were quite normal.
I figured I wasn’t really the authority on what was normal and what wasn’t, seeing as I was about two months out from a daily routine that included peeing in bowls. It was hard enough to get a decent job, much less one that involved the spiritual stuff that so fascinated me. And what an awesome wage! I’d be lucky to make half that much anywhere else. I knew I would go back the next day.
And go back I did. The next day was less dramatic, with no real or imagined bloodshed. Mostly I followed Edgar around and helped him with chores around the main house. As he showed me the proper way to iron Arthur’s shirts, he told me about his upbringing in a “spiritually bereft” family in Orange County, California. He had tennis lessons and Boy Scouts, but his parents always favored his older sister “because she was pretty.” Edgar turned his attention to more important matters, marching with various student and community groups during the 1960s.
“Arthur,” he called into the hallway. “Arthur, who’s the black guy I marched with? The famous one?”
“Martin Luther King Jr.!” Arthur called back in his low, pleasant voice.
“No, the other one!” Edgar yelled. “The one who got killed.”
“Martin Luther King was killed!”
“I know that, do you think I’m stupid?! The other one who got killed!”
“Malcolm X?” I ventured timidly.
“Was he the one in the driveway?” Edgar asked, impatiently tapping his foot.
“That was Medgar Evers,” I said. “I think.”
“Okay, then it was Malcolm X. I know it was him because the black guy I marched with didn’t die in a driveway.”
“I can’t believe you marched with Malcolm X,” I said, some of the first day’s excitement returning to my voice. “I mean, you’ve met everybody!”
He nodded solemnly.
“And they were all egotistical bastards,” he said. “Every last one of them.”
I stared intently at a batik-print cotton shirt and resumed ironing.
Days at the Blessed Sanctuary were pretty similar. I helped Edgar complete some menial task, like organizing receipts, cleaning windows, or returning phone calls from people interested in registering for the big upcoming conference. He told me stories from his life, pausing frequently to tell me exactly how I was screwing up the task at hand. I took direction well, and when I corrected my techniques, he’d resume his tale. His stories usually featured a male villain of some sort—the mailman, the building inspector, a professor back in his school days, his father, Arthur.
For his part, Arthur stayed mostly out of the way. He was apparently quite a gifted teacher and was much in demand at yoga conferences and sweat lodges around the country. Edgar grumbled frequently about how he could have used more construction work around the house, but Jason stuck close to Arthur’s side. We exchanged few words, but I noticed him peering at me carefully when we passed in the hallway.
Then one day, about three weeks after I began working at the Blessed Sanctuary, Jason disappeared. He wasn’t at lunch in the kitchen, or the afternoon tea break. Edgar wasn’t usually interested in answering my questions about anything, but I got up the courage to inquire as to Jason’s whereabouts.
“He hated work,” Edgar spat, pounding his fist on the kitchen table. “We had to get rid of him.” Arthur blanched slightly before regaining his usual dazed composure.
“Oh,” I said, and busied myself collecting everyone’s empty teacups.
And that was it. No explanation of why, exactly, Jason hated work—or how—or when. His internship, meant to last for the entire second semester of his junior year in college, had been suddenly curtailed. I wondered what that meant for his credits and his progress toward graduation from NYU. I’d been thinking of that kind of thing a lot since I dropped out of Emerson.
When Jason was axed, I had to wonder when Edgar’s rage would refocus itself on me. I didn’t have to wait long to find out.
One day, Edgar declared that we must load up the back of the pickup truck with junk from the basement—old furniture, out-of-date electronics, broken toys—and drive it all to the dump. He had me add boxes full of old glassware to the load—glass candlesticks, glass vases, ugly glass figurines he didn’t want.
On the way to the dump, we stopped at a gas station. He commented to the attendant that the price of gas seemed unreasonably high. (Actually, he said, “Jesus, you’re charging me an arm and a leg here! Are you trying to bankrupt me?!”)
“Well,” the man said, “I hear you, sir. But the price of oil these days is pretty crazy. I get a little discount here, and I can barely afford to fill up my own truck. And I’ve got four kids at home, so we’re pinching every penny.”
“I do church work,” Edgar announced, apropos of nothing. “I don’t make a lot of money either.” Soon, we roared off.
Edgar was fuming. “I don’t need to hear him tell me about his stupid family,”
he muttered. “It’s not my fucking fault he decided to have four kids. Four kids! I don’t need to hear his sob story. If he can’t manage his money, that’s his problem. What am I, a goddamned therapist?”
“No,” I said. “You’re certainly not that.” I had told Dr. Morrison about the job, but had spared him some of the wackier details of Edgar’s character. Similarly, I hadn’t filled my family in on exactly what went on at the Blessed Sanctuary. My parents would’ve told me I ought to get a more normal job, and my brother would’ve laughed and laughed.
When we arrived at the dump, Edgar backed the truck up to a giant Dumpster into which he instructed me to throw everything.
“You’re not doing it fast enough,” he complained as I slowly and gingerly removed a rattan chair from the Tetris-like configuration of junk. “We don’t have all day. You need to work harder if you’re going to get anywhere. Faster and harder! I didn’t hire you to be slow!” Nervously, I sped up, pulling things out at a slightly quicker pace.
“Be careful!” he warned me. “Don’t break anything near us. But hurry up while you do it!” Again, I quickened my pace, heaving old record players and VCRs into the abyss of that giant metal trashcan. Exasperated, he began pulling items out, too.
“Watch what you’re doing!” he shouted as we each grabbed a leg of the same stool. Startled, I whipped my hand back and accidentally jostled the box of glassware. It tipped over, and an old glass vase smashed on the ground beneath us.
I knew instantly that I had committed an unforgivable sin. Frightened, I apologized over and over as I bent down to pick up the larger shards with my bare hands. It was going in the trash anyway, but Edgar’s face was red with the kind of rage one might reserve for an insubordinate servant who purposely smashes the entire contents of the cherished family china cabinet.
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