Adjusted to Death

by Jaqueline Girdner

  Garza’s was located in an attractive Spanish-style stucco-and-tile building which opened onto a quarter acre’s worth of cement patio filled with flats of plants. A small, attractive brown woman was cheerfully ringing up sales at the register. Eileen’s mother? On the patio, a slightly taller and browner man was assisting customers, who were nervously eyeing the sky and frantically gathering annuals, perennials, shrubs and vegetables to plant in their gardens while the weather held.

  I wandered in the primrose section as the woman rang up flowering plants, seeds, fertilizer, bulbs and even squares of lawn sod, and the man calmly fielded anxious questions about frost, fuchsia blight and fast-sprouting grass seed. His serenity under the barrage of questions convinced me he was Eileen’s father.

  Finally there was a lull between customers. The register stopped ringing and the patio was empty except for me and a few hundred thousand green life-forms. The man moved to join the woman behind the counter. I grabbed two six-packs of fairy primroses and followed him.

  “Are you the Garzas, Eileen’s parents?” I asked conversationally, setting my primroses on top of the counter.

  “Why, yes.” replied the woman. Her tone was pleased, her words slightly accented. “Where do you know our Eileen from?”

  “I’m a patient of Maggie’s.”

  “Oh, that Maggie,” she said, nudging her husband. “Such a character. But we love her.” Mr. Garza smiled and nodded. He put an arm around his wife’s waist. The boss? Impossible. But I had to try.

  “Didn’t I know one of your children at Crocker?” I fished.

  A pleasant look of inquiry settled onto Mr. Garza’s weathered face. “Crocker?” asked Mrs. Garza. She too looked mildly confused.

  “The school,” I explained. “North of here.”

  “Oh, I know where you mean,” said Mr. Garza, comprehension now evident in his expression. He turned to his wife.”That expensive college. Where Mrs. Peter’s son, Jerry, goes.”

  “Oh, that one,” she said. “No, our kids didn’t go to expensive schools. Couldn’t afford to. But all three of our kids have graduated from college.” She told me about her children. A boy who was a CPA, a girl who was a pediatrician, and Eileen, who was soon to be a chiropractor herself. She asked me what I did. I told her about Jest Gifts. They nodded appreciatively.

  Finally, after we had run out of small talk, Mrs. Garza rang up my primroses. Her husband picked up an African violet plant from a shelf and handed it to me.

  “A gift, for a friend of Eileen’s,” he said. I accepted the gift from those rough and calloused hands and decided once and for all that he couldn’t be the boss.

  I could feel myself blushing as I turned to leave. I promised myself that as expiation for my terrible suspicions I would buy all my gardening supplies at Garza’s Nursery for the rest of my life.

  Arriving home, I dropped the primroses I was carrying in one hand onto the deck and rushed into the house to see if Wayne had called in my absence. My answering machine had a new message. African violet still in the other hand, I hit the playback button. Craig’s voice emerged.

  “Are you really there?” he demanded. A new, whining tone in his voice had marred its smooth surface. “You are going to be sensible now, aren’t you?”

  - Twenty -

  I erased my soon-to-be ex-husband’s message. Sensible? A woman who had given an expensive six-foot ball of fluff-dog to a skinhead? Guess again. Hurriedly, I chose an outfit for my visit to Valerie’s ashram, refusing to allow myself time either to return Craig’s call or to review the day’s futile investigations.

  What does one wear to visit a spiritual center? I threw on black corduroys, a black turtleneck and a purple sweater. Purple was a mystical color. And black? The color of death, mourning and depression. I told myself I just happen to look good in black.

  I had left my house, pumped gas into my Toyota, and was on the highway headed toward the Marin Ashram, spiritual home of Guru Illumananda, before my fear about visiting a religious institution resurfaced. The fear came back in a sweaty remembrance of a childhood visit to a Catholic church with my grandmother. Suddenly, I was drenched in the long forgotten darkness of that church and the eerie sounds of those disembodied voices raised to God. I felt again the unaccustomed scarf tied tightly under my chin, which served to remind me that I didn’t belong and might be unmasked and turned upon at any moment.

  I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and brought myself back to the present. Not that the present was any great improvement. But at least Valerie had invited me to visit her ashram. That was a relief after a day of barging in on people uninvited, to ask unwelcome questions.

  What was it that Valerie wanted to explain to me? I couldn’t believe that she would choose me to hear her confession of murder. That wouldn’t make sense. And if she was planning to do away with me, she wouldn’t have so graciously agreed to my bringing Wayne along. With a lurch I remembered why Wayne was not coming with me. Damn. I had actually managed to forget for a few minutes.

  I concentrated on preparing my questions for Valerie. I had quite a few. Why had she been so angry with Scott Younger the day he was killed? How did she know he had been a drug dealer? And how about her brother? Had Scott sold drugs to him? Is that why she killed Scott? Little old questions like that. I spent the rest of the drive trying to think of a slightly more subtle way to ask those questions.

  The directions in the ashram brochure led me past the soft sensual hills of open range land into the northernmost reaches of Marin. I was glad I had gassed up my car, and relieved when I finally saw the well-lit sign that announced simply marin ashram. I pulled into the parking lot with a strong sense of having been there before. Briefly, I wondered if I was experiencing some kind of spiritual homecoming. But then I realized that I had been there before.

  This was the site of the old El Paso Inn. I looked at the wooden buildings in the fading light and remembered the motel, resort cottages, restaurant and bar as they had been. The bar had hosted live country music, uninhibited dancing, and innumerable seductions. The adjacent motel was perfect for a little country cheatin’. A recently divorced girlfriend had taken me there one night when Craig was out of town, assuming I would be up for a bit of adulterous intrigue in his absence. I had taken a taxi home as soon as I recognized the misguided game plan, leaving her happily swaying in the drunken embrace of a weekend cowboy. Sitting there in my car, ten years later, I wondered if I too should have indulged.

  Once I got out of my car and went to the “you are here” map I saw that things had changed. The bar was now a meditation sanctuary, the old prime rib restaurant a vegetarian dining hall, and the hotel lobby an information and registration center. Behind the main building were a newly built auditorium, bookstore and art gallery.

  Valerie hadn’t told me exactly where to meet her, so I walked over to the registration center. The smell of incense wafted on the air as I opened the door, and the sound of many voices buzzed against a background of celestial electronic sitars.

  Once inside the old El Paso lobby, I saw something that looked like an airport ticket counter. Four separate lines of seekers were bellying up to the peach-colored counter where men and women in matching white jumpsuits answered their questions and took their reservations. On the sky-blue wall high above their heads, television monitors listed the offerings of the Marin Ashram. There were beginning courses and workshops in meditation, yoga, chanting and vegetarian cooking, just for starters. Then there were the more esoteric offerings in Kundalini, goddess energy, sadhana and fire-walking. Some of these were evening courses, but most were week-long seminars complete with accommodations. A metaphysical Disneyland. Boldly radiating letters proclaimed an upcoming personal appearance by Guru Illumananda.

  The buzz of voices was as soft and polite as the pastel decor, but an undercurrent of excitement tingled through the room. What were they so excited about? I was completely lost in the question when I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I whirled arou
nd to see Valerie, her six feet imposing and erect as ever, in a flowing cream-colored caftan.

  “God, you scared me,” I hissed.

  “I’m sorry,” she replied in a gentle voice. She smiled down at me. Now I was embarrassed.

  “Are there always so many people here?” I asked, pointing to the lines.

  “Not usually, but Guru Illumananda is going to visit.”

  “When is she coming?”

  “In February.” Valerie’s eyes began to sparkle.

  “But that’s three months away,” I objected. This was no Grateful Dead concert we were talking about. Why were these people lined up three months ahead of time?

  “Ah, but Guru Illumananda is the living embodiment of supreme bliss.”

  What’s the comeback to a statement like that? I said, “Oh.”

  “So where is Wayne?” she asked.

  “He’s… He’s being questioned by the police.” I was surprised at how hard it was to say the words. I felt the prickle of impending tears.

  Valerie patted my shoulder and changed the subject. A truly sensitive woman. Maybe there was something to all of this guru stuff. “Want to go to the dining hall?” she asked.

  A peek through the dining hall door told me that all traces of the old prime rib restaurant had been erased. Antlers, dark wood grain and black leather booths had given way to mauve plaster, long white tables and portraits of Eastern saints. Valerie told the sari-clad doorwoman that I was with her. We swept past a line of people surrendering their dining tickets, into the crowded hall. Valerie sat me down between herself and a plump, blond young woman who began gushing about Guru Illumananda the minute my bottom hit my chair.

  “I am so blessed,” she kept repeating. Her eyes were as round as silver dollars and just as shiny. “Have you experienced Guru Illumananda’s love?” she asked.

  The sound of a gong saved me from having to answer. With that sound all the people at the tables and even those still in line at the door began to chant. The “om” began as a low hum and slowly swelled in volume and intensity. I could see the peace on the faces of those surrounding me, but that didn’t make the group energy any less disturbing for me. Old fears arose. I kept my own lips stubbornly pressed together, as if to dare the inevitable unmasking and expulsion of the infidel.

  The chanting came to an abrupt close. That was the signal for women in saris to begin serving our food. I turned my face to Valerie before the blond on my other side could gush at me any more. Over a first course of dal (a soupy dish of spicy lentils) and chapatis (a thicker, Indian equivalent of tortillas) Valerie told me how she came to be at the Marin Ashram.

  “I first met Guru Illumananda when I was two years out of prison.” As she spoke, a muscle began twitching spasmodically in her face, just above her jaw bone. Her dark eyes searched mine for a reaction.

  “I heard about your prison record,” I told her. She let out a breath, but the muscle twitched on. The waitress began retrieving the first-course dishes.

  “Thank you. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell people the first time.” She forced a smile onto her tense face, and went on. “When I first met my Guru, I knew I had found my path. Now, I’ve committed my life to—”

  The waitress spilled some leftover dal on the shoulder of Valerie’s cream-colored caftan. Valerie turned on her.

  “Shit! What you think you doing, girl. You stupid or something!”

  My mouth must have dropped open as I stared at her. Catching my look, as well as the looks of the others at the table. Valerie issued a snort of laughter and apologized politely to the waitress. The waitress nodded in confusion, smoothed the folds of her sari and collected the rest of the plates. Once the waitress was gone, Valerie turned back to me, a sheepish expression on her usually proud face.

  “Some habits are hard to break. I learned to talk like that in prison. I had to, to survive. I sure didn’t learn that kind of talk at home, let me tell you. But, then, I learned yoga in prison, too. Even if I did lose the first years of my daughter’s life.” Her eyes were soft and out of focus. “Perhaps prison was one of those obstacles meant to liberate.” She laughed again and the focus returned to her eyes.

  “What was your family like?” I asked. I was eager to follow the lead-in from “home” to her brother. But before she could answer, the waitress returned with our main course. She put a dish in front of Valerie carefully, then jerked her hand back.

  “I really am sorry for snapping at you,” Valerie said to the woman. She reached out and touched her hand softly. “I won’t do it again, I promise you. If I do, just pour some water over my head to cool me down, okay?” A smile blossomed on the waitress’s face. “Okay?” asked Valerie again.

  “Okay, it’s a deal,” said the waitress, with a little bow. “We all have these karma attacks once in a while.”

  The main course included basmati rice, curried garbanzo beans and vegetables with fresh apple/raisin chutney, and some hot vegetable fritters called pakoras. I took a bite of a hot pakora and let the rich spicy flavor melt in my mouth. Then I tasted the chutney. Yum. Indian food is often three parts grease, sugar and spice to one part vegetable. Not exactly health food. But delicious to those with strong stomachs. I gobbled my way through the food on my plate in silence, almost forgetting Valerie. I decided against licking my plate clean before reintroducing the subject of Valerie’s family.

  “How does your family feel about your life here?” I asked. She was finishing up the last of the curry. I watched her enviously.

  “My folks think I’m nuts,” she said with her mouth full. “And after doing their part in raising my daughter, they weren’t very happy to see her become part of the community here. But Hope went off to college anyway this year, pre-med, so they’re satisfied. And they are gracious enough to be happy for my bliss. I even think they understand it a little, every once in a while.”

  She wiped her lips with her napkin and continued. “I’m not a success in their eyes. I exchange services here for room and board. And I work part time selling dresses at Larkspur Landing. Not exactly what you call a career. They would have preferred me to be a doctor, or at least to have married one. I’m sorry to have disappointed them.”

  “You could always go back to school,” I suggested.

  “I’ve considered just that. But I’m not really committed to completing my education. And I am committed to a path of grace. I’m not sure I could do both. So, I choose the inner awareness of truth, the greater wisdom.” Her serious expression softened once more. “Except that the greater wisdom doesn’t exactly account for my parents.” She shook her head ruefully.

  “Do you have sisters? Brothers?” I asked innocently.

  “One brother,” she answered.

  Our dessert arrived at that moment, an unidentifiable fruit in sugary syrup accompanied by a chocolate chip cookie. I was ready to snap at the waitress myself. I had done so well leading up to Valerie’s brother before food intruded. I watched Valerie spoon fruit into her mouth. Would it be too rude to pursue the subject of her brother when her mouth was so occupied? She had talked with her mouth full before. I was formulating a question when the blond gusher on my other side asked if I wanted my dessert.

  I said “No” and let her take it. I didn’t need any more sugar. The main course had been a hypoglycemic mine field. She thanked me profusely and started up about her many blessings again as she slurped. I turned away as soon as I could, only to encounter Valerie’s wink.

  “The new ones are always like that,” she whispered.

  “Eating extra desserts?”

  “No.” She laughed. “Going on about the blessings of the Guru.” She caught the look in my eye. “Okay, Okay. I guess us old ones go on too. But the love I have for Guru Illumananda helps me to transcend. And I have had a lot to transcend, believe me.”

  “Don’t we all,” I agreed offhandedly.

  “Yes,” she answered pointedly. Her steady look into my eyes went straight to my heart and released a
painful series of longings in me. Longings for the guidance of a human representative of God, for the love of a community of spirit, and for the Truth with a capital “T” as the Marin Ashram knew it.

  But I stubbornly stuffed the longing back where it came from. My solitary meditations had brought me rare glimpses of the infinite, my own truth, with a small “t.” I would continue on my unsociable inner path. It was the path I knew, the low road to God, and you’ll be in Scotland before me.

  Valerie smiled and touched my hand as if she had heard my thoughts. She seemed like pretty good Guru material herself, right then.

  The hall was filling with the rumble of people pulling back their chairs and leaving. They had finished their desserts and were eager to go to the auditorium to see Guru Illumananda, even if she was only a flickering image on videotape. I also slid back my chair to get up, but Valerie motioned me to remain seated.

  “We have some time before the video,” she said. “I’d like to talk to you some more.”

  All thoughts of God and transcendence left me. The devotees were flocking out of the room like homing pigeons. Soon Valerie and I would be alone in the dining hall. I looked at her serene face and no longer saw Guru material. I saw murderer material.

  “I want to tell you why I blew up at Scott,” she began. “Is that all right?” She cocked her head in inquiry. She was allowing me a choice. Had she sensed my panic?

  I nodded my head. My panic began to recede.

  “I have a brother, Gregory,” she said. “Two years younger than me. When he was a kid he was a math whiz, always in a book, always doing problems. He loved brainteasers.” She was looking up over my head now, remembering. “My parents were so proud of him. They thought he’d be a mathematician or a physicist at least. First black President even.” Valerie shook her head and laughed. “He graduated top of his class in high school. Got a scholarship to Crocker.” She paused. The muscle in her face was twitching again.