“There’s a good deal of evidence to support that idea,” he said.
“I’m calling from New York,” I said.
“I’m aware of that.”
“How?”
“Caller ID. Part of my alternative training is to memorize area codes throughout the country.” He was quiet a moment, then said, “You’re smiling right now, aren’t you? See? Just thirty seconds into our relationship, and you’re already benefiting. Now, I have a question for you, but you have to close your eyes first.”
“This is like a reverse prank call, right?” I asked.
“So here’s the question. Quick—does my first name have one or two ts?”
“Two.”
“You’re right. There’s no doubt in my mind that you’re an individual with uncommon ability. Even more important, we can work together. What’s on your mind?”
“I’m from the phone company. Your last check bounced, and we’re garnishing your wages,” I said.
Matthias guffawed noisily and then emitted a series of high-pitched grunts that under different circumstances would have caused me concern. “Oh sweet Jesus, that’s funny.” I waited until the laughter and coughing concluded, taking the opportunity to check on Erica. She was still sleeping.
“Well, bring it on,” he said. “This is your go-to, one-stop location for all of your kundalini needs.”
“My girlfriend is . . . a healer . . . spiritually evolved, and I came back from a trip and found her in a dazed state, tired, disconnected, helpless really, not at all like herself. She didn’t say much of anything to me, other than her kundalini was rising.”
“Whoa. We in the healing community have a term for this phenomenon, but it’s not a word we bandy about lightly.”
“And what would that term be?”
“Bummer.”
“Mr. Kristen . . .”
“Matthias,” he said.
“Matthias,” I said. “Can you tell me, in plain English, what kundalini is?”
“Can do. Just look upon kundalini as one of the components of an esoteric description of the hidden soul and body, consisting of energy channels and psychic centers, and soaked through with drops of essence.”
“Did you just make that up?”
“I resent that, sir. I read it from Wikipedia. That’ll teach you not to slander me.”
I thought about hanging up. “Mr. Kristen, can I give you a few more details?”
“Brother, I have nothing but time, especially when you consider I’ve mastered the time-space continuum.”
“Mr. Kristen . . . Matthias . . . I’m a lawyer from the suburbs of New York who became involved with a peculiar woman who believes she can heal others remotely through the channeling of energy, and, long story short, I’m now kind of involved with healing people myself and have already received some money for this . . . service, even though I pretty much think it may all be nonsense, and to top it all off, my girlfriend seems to be suffering from what she calls kundalini rising, and I have no idea how to help her.”
“Boy, if I had a nickel for every time I get one of those . . .”
“Can you do anything for her?”
“Well, I wouldn’t talk to you about that, would I? Client confidentiality and all that. Have Erica call me. I’ll see what I can do.”
I paused momentarily. Something brought me up short. “That’s it? Anything you can do to . . . I don’t know, sell me?”
“Do you sell your services, my friend? I suspect not. You probably just put yourself out there, and you can either help or not help, but you don’t go around promoting yourself. How am I doing?”
Had I told him Erica’s name? “You’re doing . . .”
“Have her call me, Will.”
“How did you know my name was Will?”
“My crack staff did a reverse phone search on your cell phone number while we were talking.”
“How did you know Erica’s name . . .”
“Have her call me, Will. There’s little doubt that I can help her. A lot, actually. Dog’s scratching the door again. Gotta go. And remember—a velvet key will never fit into an iron lock.”
Maybe this is what Erica needed, a high-octane goofball to pierce the veil of this humorless field. I went back into the bedroom, and Erica was still lying down, but her eyes were open. I lay down next to her.
“You have to tell me what’s going on,” I asked. “I’m getting a little freaked out.”
She made no response. “I can’t understand why I didn’t call you,” I said. “I was so caught up . . .” Erica turned toward me.
“Maybe I’m feeling a little better,” she said.
“I took the liberty of contacting someone who may know something about what you’re going through,” I said.
Erica focused on me but otherwise lay motionless. “Who?” she asked.
“I just randomly surfed the web and came across him. Matthias Kristen.”
“I’ll call him.”
“He’s peculiar, and frankly, I may have been punked.”
“I’ll call him. Thank you.”
“I picked this guy out of a pile of seven and a half million names.”
But she had fallen asleep again. I lay down next to her for a few minutes, then got up slowly, making sure she was undisturbed. I walked softly into the living room, closed the door behind me, and called Lindquist. He answered on the first ring.
“Did you know Alexander disease is frequently accompanied by symptoms found in those suffering from Parkinson’s or MS?”
“I did not know this.”
“A lot of the fear I was experiencing was related to those symptoms. Trembling hands, muscle stiffness, slurring speech. That was the worst of it, by the way. The speech. I could hide everything else.”
“And now?”
“Well, these things come and go, and I have gone through stretches where I wasn’t experiencing anything, but the reality is this: Since our session, I’ve been symptom free. I’m assured by my physician that this doesn’t mean anything, that not enough time has gone by for anyone to draw any conclusions. But what does he know? I’m excited, Will, and I can barely contain myself. I’ve got this idea, and I’ve already made some arrangements. Are you free tomorrow evening?”
I hesitated. “Am I allowed to hold back on my answer until I know what you have in mind?”
“You’re a free agent. You can do whatever you want. But I think you might be interested. I want you to come out to my country house tomorrow evening in Chappaqua, say around eight p.m. I want you to meet some people.”
I had the momentary sensation of navigating a sharp curve in the Shenandoah mountains, but this time without Jim Ford’s expert prompts. I was on my own.
“I still need a little more information.”
“I compiled two lists,” Lindquist said. “The first list is of friends and family members who are suffering from long-standing medical or psychological ailments that haven’t responded well to traditional methods. When you get to be my age, it doesn’t take too much time to compile this kind of list.”
“And the second list?”
“This was trickier. The second list is everyone on the first list who I believe might be open to the kind of . . . service . . . you provide. That took the list down to four people. They’re coming to my place tomorrow, and I’d like you to come.”
Four people. Four wealthy people. And screened, no less. Gathered in Chappaqua. “I’ll be there,” I said. “But I’m not sure Erica will be able to make it.”
Lindquist seemed unconcerned, and I was irked that he expressed no curiosity as to why Erica might remain behind. “Will, I want to be clear. I’m doing this for two reasons. First, I’m grateful to you. My health could take a dive tomorrow, but I would still be grateful, because I have hope now, for however long it lasts. I also have no small measure of belief.”
He spoke a little more, but I was caught up with computations. My session with Lindquist lasted fifteen minutes, maybe t
wenty, and I received $5,000 for my time. And that was just one person at a time.
“And the second reason is this—maybe you can really help others; who knows? Who are you, exactly, Will Alexander? Maybe God has chosen you to deploy your gifts for a select, deserving few. Or maybe you and I are very silly people with too much time and, in my case, money on our hands. The truth, my friend? I’m riding this one out, and I don’t really care about the questions or answers.”
Neither did I.
29
Twisting
The following day, I woke up early. Erica had already gotten up and was making coffee in the kitchen. I was happy to see that she was functional on some mundane level. I joined her in the kitchen, where she seemed occupied but untroubled.
“Lindquist wants me to see four of his friends, to see if I can help them,” I said. “He wants me to go out there tonight.”
“You should go,” Erica replied.
“You should join me,” I said.
“You don’t need me.”
“I think I do,” I said. “I need some boundaries, because right now, I’m in danger of playing my hands badly.”
“It’s good that you view this as a game, at least for now,” she said.
“I didn’t see that comment coming,” I replied.
Erica opened the refrigerator door and seemed preoccupied with finding something to eat. “Right now, the most important thing is that you move forward, that you help people. Your attitude is less important than your abilities.” She turned toward me. “I want to call that healer you found in Oregon,” she said. “And you should go for a ride before you see Lindquist. I think riding helps you.”
She was fatigued, and I calculated that it would have been pointless to challenge her in any further discussion. I handed her the printout from Matthias Kristen’s website and embraced her.
“I’m worried about you,” I said. “This ‘kundalini’ business is baffling to me. Maybe I shouldn’t leave you alone.”
“No,” she said, somewhat emphatically, and it was good to watch her lethargy dissipate, even for just an instant. “Go, go now.”
I rode up the Palisades Parkway and had lunch at the top of Perkins Memorial Drive in Bear Mountain State Park, about an hour north of Lindquist’s house in Chappaqua. The view from the Perkins observatory took in four states, and I could see the faint skyline of Manhattan through a wispy veil of scattered clouds. The Drive was an established hangout for grizzled bikers, who spent hours lounging in each other’s company, finding as much enjoyment in talking about motorcycles as riding them. After lunch, I sent a brief text to Erica. “I hope you’re well, and I think I can understand why you need some isolation now.”
I felt great. I was . . . maneuverable. And I was even more surprised that I felt no anxiety about meeting Lindquist’s friends. I took comfort in a comment my father had made years ago when he considered purchasing a small piece of property in Florida: “You’re never so strong as when you’re willing to walk away from a deal.” I had nothing invested in this evening, no dreams of a change in career. I would promise nothing, and if I delivered nothing, I would have broken no promises.
I rode across the Bear Mountain Bridge, and the road curved sharply south, hugging an imposing wall formed by hills rising steeply over the Hudson River. The majestic view was marred by the twin concrete domes of the Indian Point nuclear power plant, from which a steady stream of pure white smoke floated west toward Harriman State Park. Soon, though, I veered inland, away from the Hudson, and headed south toward Chappaqua. I was early, so I rode back and forth on Whippoorwill Road, a narrow road connecting Chappaqua to Armonk. I explored a number of cul-de-sacs and noticed a pattern of conventional houses anchored by imposing mansions, a stark manifestation of the rich separated from the filthy rich. The sun began to set around 7:45 p.m., and I set the GPS to Lindquist’s address on Jeffrey Lane, an unremarkable street until one reached Lindquist’s driveway toward the end of the road, which climbed quickly and then flattened into a circle in front of a Georgian-style mansion. Lindquist’s house was a square block of red brick with thick pillars and stately verandas.
I parked the bike in front of the entrance, and as I commenced the tedious process of shedding my gear, Lindquist approached. “Why does this not surprise me?” he said. “My primary means of transportation in college was a Honda CT90, all of 90 cc’s in engine size. That came to an end when I got married. Can I show you the property?”
We walked around the east side of the house and down a gentle hill, where a wooden fence encircled an Olympic-size swimming pool. The back of the house sat on top of a grassy hill with a pond at the bottom, choked with overgrown shrubbery and trees. At the end of a path strewn with wood chips, leading away from the west side of the house, was a clay tennis court, neatly groomed, with the bright white lines cleanly swept. “Every brick in this house was imported from Belgium,” Lindquist said. “And for years, it was the only house on Jeffrey Lane. When I first moved here, you could see the house easily from the main road, Route 117. Now it’s hidden by the trees. Probably better that way.”
We walked onto the tennis court. “This is such a pain in the ass to maintain,” Lindquist said. “Once a week, you have to drag one-hundredpound bags of clay down here, sprinkle the product evenly over the court, flatten it, water it, sweep it . . . it exhausts me just to think about it. Worth it, though. Do you play? This stuff is really easy on the joints, and you can extend your playing by years.”
We sat down on a bench outside the court. “They’re all here,” he said. “I should give you a quick preview, and then, frankly, you’ll take it where you will. So in no particular order, you’ll meet Evelyn Jackson, I’d say in her late sixties. Really smart, spends most of her time working at Katonah Art Museum. It’s a spectacular place, actually, flies under the radar in the arts world, but it’s something of a subtle force in local cultural affairs, and that means something when the locality you’re talking about is northern Westchester.”
“What is her . . . issue?” I asked.
“It won’t sound like much, nothing more than chronic sinus infections, but the emphasis is on the word ‘chronic.’ She’s always mildly sick, always grappling with congestion and fatigue. And these ailments aren’t so severe that they stop her in her tracks, but her life is one lousy prolonged physical battle with a foe she can stay in the ring with but not quite defeat.”
Lindquist bent down, picked up a twig, and began to bend it just shy of the breaking point. “Then, we have Maureen Silver, in her fifties,” he continued. “I count it as something of a victory that I convinced her to come at all. She has no diagnosable ailment, although that may be simply because she refuses to seek psychological treatment. She’s always sullen and unhappy and can’t really figure out why. She’s married to a very dull lawyer, and of course, that may be the problem, but I think the issues run deeper. Ever since my diagnosis, we’ve become good friends. It seems to me like she’s refined her listening skills so she can become caught up in other people’s problems and forget about her own.”
The sun was setting quickly now, and the shadows of the trees fell across the tennis court in parallel lines. “Two more. Robert Kravitz, pancreatic cancer. He is, honestly, way more desperate than the others, because the survival rate is so low. His most recent diagnosis was stage four, and he’s had a combination of surgery and radiation therapy and probably other treatments. His prognosis overall is not good.”
A sudden burst of wind spiraled up dust from the center of the court, like a controlled tornado, scattering flecks of clay across the white boundary lines. Pancreatic cancer. “What does Kravitz do for a living?” I asked.
“Not much. He worked a little in real estate in his family business and then came into some money when his father passed away, and now— when he’s not occupied with the procedure of managing cancer—does some stuff with charities and fundraisers.”
“And the last one?”
“Sara
h Perkins, close to your age, probably a little younger, the daughter of good friends. She grew up down the street. She practically lived at our house as a child, coming here whenever she wanted to, sometimes just hopping into the swimming pool without even letting us know she was here. She really felt at home, and that was fine with us. Anyway, Sarah has post-herpetic neuralgia as a result of undiagnosed shingles. She’s in constant pain and is suffering from the kind of depression you would expect from this condition. She used to be a terrific athlete, but she’s put on a lot of weight. No exercise in years. She lives with her parents and is on permanent disability.”
I looked toward the house. “What have you told them about me?” I asked.
“Not much. I quoted Shakespeare. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ They know and respect me, and they wouldn’t be here without my . . . what would I call it . . . endorsement? No, that’s not it. My . . . willingness to entertain possibilities and the fact that I believe you may have helped me. I certainly communicated that to them. They’re not in any hurry, but they are waiting for us. I told them I’d show you around for a few minutes, then bring you in.”
“I’m ready,” I said, standing up.
We walked through the main entrance of the house, and, at the end of a tastefully decorated foyer, Lindquist turned left, grabbed the handles of two doors, and pushed them open wide. He then looked over his shoulder and beckoned me to follow. “I’d like to introduce you to Will Alexander,” he said, and stepped aside. I entered and gently nodded as I established eye contact with the group, then found myself pushed back by the surroundings. The room was large and rectangular, with views facing three directions. It was full of bold artistic statements. Pre-Columbian statues stood on pedestals placed in random locations, where one would expect cocktail guests to congregate. Large abstract paintings hovered prominently, refusing to be ignored. Chairs and sofas were crammed in the center, apparently to force the guests into an attitude of submission. The four guests were seated on two plush leather settees facing outward and positioned under a gigantic painting of daring blue streaks, wider than the mantel to which it was assigned.
The Reluctant Healer Page 17