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Paul
With
all the hubbub, I’m beginning to think of days at the store as days off. After
a heart-rending farewell at the airport, Sass’s visit is over, and I’m back to
my duties. I spend the early morning checking my neglected plants, and find
that things are just fine. In truth, cannabis is a glorified weed, and any
idiot could grow it. But Ava is looking to build up her stock, so it’s almost
time for another harvest.
Just
after noon, I’m enjoying a cup of coffee at my counter when I find Javid
walking across the street, clad in the black T-shirt and pants of his work
uniform.
“Hey!
How are you?”
He
leans on the counter, gives me a rafish grin and says, “I did it.”
“You
didn’t.”
“I
certainly did.”
“What
was it like?”
“Such
drama! I think they might have taken it better if I had told them I was
homosexual. But I did just what you told me. I treated it as an entertainment.
I remained tremendously calm, and I did not
argue. As a result, they have asked me to leave the house.”
“Oh geez.
I’m sorry.”
He
places a palm to the counter, as if he’s holding at a blackjack table. “What
price do you put on a free mind? I’ve been saving up, and I have a friend who
has offered me a tiny room in San Francisco.”
I
put a hand to his shoulder. “You are absolutely my hero.”
“Thank
you, sensei. I have to get back to work, but I wanted you to know.”
“Tell
my girlfriend I miss her.”
He
turns at the door. “Didn’t make it in today. No call or anything. I assumed it
was your fault.”
“It
usually is.”
He
gives me a salute and ambles across the street. His report on Yaz makes me a
little nervous, so I give her a call. She doesn’t answer, which makes me worry
some more. So I call Anna.
“Paul!
How are you?”
“Hey,
have you seen Jasmina today?”
“I
thought I heard her rambling around this morning. Wait, let me check.”
I
hear the clomp of Anna’s wooden shoes (she wears them in the studio) followed
by a door-knock. “Jasmina? It’s Paul.” A pause. “Hello?” The sound of the
doorlatch, and a long silence.
“Paul?
I think you need to come here right away.”
The
wall next to Jasmina’s bed is unbroken by closet, window or furniture. Covered
in the kind of blue-gray paint used on houses near the ocean, its sole occupant
was a Spice Girls poster that now lies trampled on the bed. The blue-gray has
given over to a chaos of gold and green, a sea of cross-hatches and
hieroglyphics. The only breaks are circles of sky blue containing words spelled
out in a graceful cursive. The circles are connected to each other by sinuous
white lines, creating a diagram resembling the molecular models used by science
teachers.
“I
know this,” I say. “Clustering. It’s a technique used in writing classes to
develop story ideas. Write a word, circle it, draw a line to a connected word,
circle that, and so on. A left-brain/right-brain thing.”
Anna
stands behind me and gives the wall a studied look. “These words don’t look
very… related.”
Cloudburst.
Amethyst. Montana. Matterhorn. Jacob. Copper.
“Copper,”
I say. “That’s the keystone.”
“That’s
funny. A few days ago, she asked me if one of my pieces was copper. That eagle
over there. I said, No, more of a bronze. She said, Are you sure it isn’t copper. Like she was
looking for an excuse to say the word ‘copper.’”
“It’s
her birth name. Kelly Copper. This wall is the story of her childhood.”
Anna’s
looking a little irritated. “And when was I going to get this information?”
“Sorry.
We were doing whatever we could to keep it from her. This is traumatic stuff –
stuff she’s blocked out.”
“Goodness.”
“It
appears that she had received these few bits of the puzzle, and was trying to
recall the whole picture.”
I
spot something on Jasmina’s dresser. It’s a black-and-white photo card, a
magnificent thunderhead rising over a set of spiked rock formations. The
inscription reads Cloudburst, Butte
Montana. Photo by Ruth Archibald.
Ruth is the
part I’m not getting. At the right-hand edge of the wall, Jasmina has painted a
stack of white words that resembles a dragon.
Ruth
Ruth
Ruth
Ruth
Elizabeth
Ruth
Elizabeth
Ruth
Elizabeth
Ruth
Elizabeth Copper.
The
watercolor in Molly’s lobby is bugging me. There’s nothing about it that should bug me – a hummingbird sipping
from a computer motherboard – so I suppose I’m projecting. I hear Molly’s voice,
coming down the hall.
“Listen,
Sarah. You’ll be fine. Just get through the wedding, and remember…”
“Molly.”
“Oh,
Paul. Just a…”
“It’s
very urgent.”
“Just
a moment.”
“Jasmina’s
disappeared.”
“Sorry,
Sarah.”
“No,
that’s…”
“In
my office,” says Molly.
I
sit on the couch and do my best to describe Jasmina’s wall.
“So
you think this all came together at Opus Giovanni?”
I
hand her the picture card. “Three of the words, right there. Amethyst and
copper might have come from the jewelry section.
“Wait
a sec.” Molly flips through her pocketbook and pulls out a business card. “The
jeweler: Sue Jacobs. So all these words were stirring around in her brain, and
last night she used her painting therapy to work them out.”
“Do
you think she’s all right?”
Molly
looks up, then down, then up again. “I think we’d better call the police.”
Mama
told me to stay away from places with too many people. The sin piles up on
itself until it swallows everything up. Now, nothing but houses. I run to the
top of the ridge to get away, but when I turn around I see millions of them,
all the way to the water. I can’t breathe. Finally, I reach the woods, at the
base of a mountain, and I walk into a grove of gigantic trees. I find a trail
called “Miwok.” and I like the sound of that. Hours later, I stop in a grove of
sharp-smelling trees with gray leaves shaped like crescent moons. I sit on a
log next to a creek and I try to piece things together. I woke this morning
from a long sleep. An angel left instructions on my wall in wild colors. The
room next to mine was full of animals that seemed like humans and a gray devil
with alien letters on his forehead. I must get back to Mama. She will be very
angry with me. I notice that the log I’m sitting on is one of the gigantic trees.
New trees are growing from its carcass, which is either grotesque or beautiful.
I see a bank of fog coming in over the ridge. It’s bound to get awfully cold. I
set about gathering limbs for a lean-to. Oh God. Please let me be okay.
Paul
I am
trying very hard to stay in my logical mind, because the emotional side is a
powder keg. I spend my days wandering the shopping districts of Marin County,
posting fliers, but I don’t even know if I am entitled to do so. Jasmina’s
mental state may be pretty sketchy, but she is
an adult, free to go wherever she likes. I only hope she retains enough of her
practical skills to stay out of danger.
The
weather is a game of hopscotch, five-minute deluges followed by bursts of
sunshine. I sit in a corner of the Depot and take infrequent sips of butternut
soup. The most alarming of my deprivations is tactile. I long for people to
touch me. Last night, a waitress put a hand on my shoulder as she made her way
to the next table. It remained there for hours, like a Day-Glo handprint.
I
have made a tactical misjudgement. Far across the room, a bulletin board holds
two of my fliers. Jasmina stands in a wash of orange light on Gualala Beach, a
lock of hair straying to her left cheek. She looks unusually angelic, the smile
a surprise, as if I have snuck up on her.
My
phone rings. I would love to ignore it. The ID reads Angel.
“Hi
Jacob.”
“Hey!
Sorry I took so long. Out on the slopes. You ready for those lift tickets?”
“’Fraid
not. Wow – I’ll bet you’re getting a shitload of snow.”
“It’s
fucking glorious.”
“You
like the F-word, don’t you?”
“And
you like taking the Lord’s name in vain.”
“Jesus!
You’re right.”
“You’re
a goof, man.”
“She’s
gone, Jacob. She… disappeared.”
“Oh,
wow. Sorry.”
“She
might be having an identity crisis. We’re pretty sure she figured out her past.
I don’t think there’s any way she could find you, but I figured I should let
you know, just in case.”
“Man.
I hope she’s all right.”
“Well,
considering all that she’s survived already…” My gaze returns to the flier.
Gualala. “Hey, umm. I just remembered something she told me, a few days ago. I
think she may have abandoned the baby at a hospital in downtown Minneapolis.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.
This all sorta comes from a recurring dream – which is not the most reliable of
sources, but it seems to fit the logistics. Ruth Elizabeth, right?”
“That’s
my daughter. Not that she would know it.”
“God.
Missing women everywhere.”
Jacob
laughs. “Well, thanks for the info. And seriously, come up here sometime.
Skiing is great therapy.”
“You
got it, Dad.”
I
look outside, where the next deluge is power-washing the patio. I hope to God
she’s not out in this.
Photo by MJV
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