Cottage Lake Soliloquy

By John E. Shephard Jr.

Cottage Lake Soliloquy is a guide to spiritual enlightenment in the form of a novel. It is primarily a tale of transformation about a year in the lives of two people, husband and wife, as they confront personal and professional challenges with their children on a lake in the woods in the small town of Forestville. The narrative unfolds through alternating chapters on each protagonist while weaving their stories together. Jay, a psychotherapist, and Bea, the head of a Student-Exchange company, encounter Leroy, part psychic part teacher, who guides them on a journey of self-realization through a series of dialogues by using their problems as opportunities for growth. Elements of the story include intense and insightful therapy sessions, lush and lyrical descriptions of nature, travel to foreign lands, alcohol and drug use, romance, intrigue, deception and betrayal. A handbook to awakening, the saga intertwines poetry, songs, quotations, essays and stream of consciousness thought in a unique and engrossing style of epic proportions while leading the reader towards his or her own spiritual awareness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Aug 10, 2010
• ISBN: 9781426977954

John E. Shephard Jr.

John Shephard is a psychotherapist in private practice since 1980. He has worked in schools, a hospital, a prison and other social service settings. He is also an accomplished musician and a minister. He and his wife have raised two sons and live on a woodland lake in the Northwest.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I am a solitary man. Unless a writer is capable of solitude he should leave books alone and go into the theatre. (John Steinbeck)

The twilight shadows of the tall evergreens shimmered boldly across Cottage Lake like huge feathered spears pointing eastward. On the western horizon the scarlet-edged flickering of golden sunlight licked the fading pink sky good-bye and sank flaming behind the silhouetted forest. Random crow calls and blue jay cries rang from the cathedral of towering pine trees and were briefly submerged in the whining roar of a small silver aircraft droning northward overhead. Sunday evening, mid-September, the soft glow of northwest Indian summer lingering lazily, awaiting autumn’s inevitable arrival.

Nestled amidst the lakeside cabins and houses was a cedar-shake cottage perched on a knoll above the western shoreline that curved in and around it. Being the closest house to the water, it offered its occupants a panoramic view from the north to the south end of the lake. Houses away a dog barked intermittently and the delightful screams of children on a diving board carried over the water from the far eastern shore. Inside the master bedroom at a small roll top desk in the corner, Jay could hear their laughing squeals and hollers on a light breeze through an open window laced with creamy-colored curtains barely swaying like windblown wheat near the wine glass at his elbow. He’d just finished reading a book on the Romantics, his favorite literary figures; Coleridge, Byron, Shelley and Keats.

Gazing out over the tops of the sweeping twin willow trees down by the lake, he took the last sip of his wine and watched the water flow unhurriedly left to right, back into its source, Bear Creek, finally forging through a crowded mesh of lily pads before meandering away again somewhere downstream. For fourteen years he had spent countless quiet moments enjoying the lakeside spectacle of each season passing from his intimate bedroom perspective, and summer was always his favorite time. In the early evening warmth it felt like the perfect occasion to write reflectively in his journal. He withdrew a tan leather-covered notebook from the middle panel of the desk, unsnapped the strap and opened it to a blank page, unsheathed the attached black sharp felt pen and began to write.

9/15 The summer sun still holds at bay the impending shadow of fall this year but my personal circumstances are clearly darkening. After fourteen years of a successful practice the new revisions in the health care industry are making it increasingly harder to for me to continue earning a living as a psychotherapist.

He paused for a moment to ponder the best way to state his predicament. Two recent events had shaped his thinking with respect to the current downturn in his practice. Until a half year ago he had been the only mental health professional in Forestville. Since moving there in 1980, upon completion of his Master’s degree in California, he had sown and grown his business well. Forestville Counseling Service had given him a career that he loved, plus a good income. Coincident with the radically new developments in health care to lower the burgeoning costs of treatment had been the arrival of a second practitioner in the spring, a female clinical psychologist from New York, Marianne, who had leased office space next to him in the same building. He had welcomed her presence agreeably enough, knowing that increasing competition was inevitable in their continuously fast-growing community.

In the course of ensuing conversations between them she had cautioned him that the proliferation of managed care networks would soon be problematic for any therapist without a doctorate. Before deciding to be in private practice she had worked in a large medical clinic in Manhattan where she had made extensive contacts in the health care field. She assured him that well-placed confidants in the industry had advised her that managed care companies were intending to weed out counselors without doctoral degrees in order to restrict the field to professionals with the most advanced training. This was to minimize the length of time for patients in treatment so as to lower its overall costs. She had encouraged him to enter a Ph.D. program to ensure his continued success in the field.

While appreciating her collegial interest in his welfare, her advice for the most part was not particularly well-received. He really did not want to pursue another degree. He had tired long ago of listening to the teachings of psychology professors. His practice had been great for long past a decade and he thought his level of competency was sufficiently good enough to continue serving his clients well. On the heels of her well-intentioned advice however had come the calls and letters from multiple managed care firms. He could continue to be a mental health care provider in the various insurance company networks as long as he agreed to the new procedures governing treatment. Those new restrictions piqued the spirit of pride and independence that had originally motivated him to be self-employed. As he hated being told what to do by anyone, he had ultimately refused their solicitations to join. He didn’t even respond to their calls or letters, trusting Marianne for the facts of the matter. But being on his own for the last six months, no longer subsidized by clients’ health insurance, had resulted in a steady decline in income and he had recently applied to a Ph.D. program in a reluctant attempt to restore his fortunes.

In the meantime the newly emerging third parties, managed care agencies, created to lower and monitor health care costs for the insurance companies, were stringently enforcing their new stipulations on health care practitioners. The number of counseling sessions per year covered by insurance was being reduced as well as the amount of money paid per session. On top of that, practitioners were being required to furnish treatment plans, progress reports, and session notations to justify the work they were doing with patients. These were to be scrutinized by the agencies to see if the work was justifiable in terms of the newly established criteria. As the lessening of costs was solely intended to serve corporate profits instead of health care patients, their welfare was not a prime consideration. They would have to make do. Overall, in effect, any health care professional who wished to continue to be reimbursed by insurance must be willing to do more work for less pay. Though counselors without a Ph.D. were not excluded, as Marianne indicated would happen in time, those with one were being compensated at a higher rate of pay. He sighed for a moment as a wave of aversion washed over him with the thought of it all, and then began writing again.

Since refusing to join the new mangled care networks, as I like to call them, I’m getting fewer new clients. Most people want a therapist their insurance will cover. I keep getting new clients who can’t afford insurance but they also can’t afford to pay me much in cash. It may have been a mistake to refuse to join the networks but I just don’t want the hassle of the new regimentation – more rules, more paperwork, lower fees, less income. Worst of all I simply do not want bureaucrats peering over my shoulder to judge the work I am doing by their monetary scale. I’ve been counseling for too many years to start explaining and justifying my ways to some managing corporate interest. The healing art of psychotherapy is coming under greater control of the insurance lobby with the blessing of the state, and those of us unwilling to comply are becoming the exception. At forty-two, I’m too young to retire and couldn’t afford it if I wanted to, which of course I don’t. I’ve half-heartedly applied to some Ph.D. programs but have not yet been notified of acceptance. I’m not sure that I would accept them if I am. At this point, the only things I do know for certain are that I want to succeed in life on my own terms somehow and I need to start making some more money soon."

He stopped for a second, as the breeze caressed his cheeks, while his mind spun lightly, like an unchecked roulette wheel, flitting through various financial possibilities.

"I’d like to write a book, or make a CD, perhaps combining music and psychology together in a therapeutic modality. But at best these are probably long-term solutions and right now I need a short-term one. In the past, if a serious problem arose, I could always call Saul, my reliable psychic, for a session and some guidance, but he’s almost impossible to reach anymore since moving away. I try to stay positive but am growing more anxious and tense underneath. In my attempts at meditation I feel no connection and sometimes end up feeling worse for having tried. If God is attempting to communicate with me I wish to hell he’d speak up. As far as paying the bills goes, it’s really the income from Bea’s work that’s been increasingly carrying us; much like mine did until this last year. I appreciate her success but feel guilty about not carrying my equal share of the load. Also as she’s so busy in her office now or traveling the globe there’s less time for us as a couple or a family and I miss the time we used to have together. There’s always the possibility that I could join her company.

He paused at the thought of his wife and lowered his pen absently, hand on his thigh, as he envisioned her countenance in his mind’s eye. Bea, his sweet and lovely woman; such a soft and earthy creature whose dimpled ready smile and heart-felt presence was a boon to all others as a spring flower to honey bees. Graced by a wholesome Taurean charm and sensuality, her gray-green eyes sparkled with gaiety while her cheerful speech sang soft and pleasant to the ear. He imagined her standing au naturale in their bedroom; her white sturdy breasts, such firm ripened pears, her pretty face, short blonde hair and pert nose; her petite well-shaped feet and perfectly tapered legs curving deliciously upward into herself, past the farther reaches of his fertile imagination. He found her beautiful...mmmmmm…my yummy one...

A quiver of warmth arose in his gut, pulsating through his heart and groin simultaneously. He loved loving her and being loved by her, though it was difficult to be a good sweetheart recently with her being so busy and as rotten as he’d felt about his declining practice. With all their ups and downs she was still his balance wheel, his anchor, his companion and his confidant; the true love of his life. She had made it clear recently, through subtle suggestions, that she would welcome his help in running her company. That would likely give them more time together, or at least more space, in sharing her downstairs office. He had resisted her muted entreaties so far, partially due to his disinterest in business. His leanings were more towards the arts and professions. But really he simply wanted to make it on his own terms in the work that he felt himself destined to do. That thought pulled him back to the open pages of his journal. He reread his entry and began writing again.

"If I were to do that, it would be quite a transition. Having spent over twenty years primarily in psychology, I’m ill-trained for and uninterested in much of anything else. Music, my other passion, offers solace when I play, but I’m too preoccupied with worries to do much with it these days. I alternate most nights between keyboards and guitar, but primarily I’m just playing old tunes. Sometimes I fiddle with the four-track recorder, playing or singing, laying down some tracks, but haven’t been inspired to write any new songs lately. I rarely pick up the flute now at all. I had hoped this year to complete a CD and send it out to prospective record companies before Christmas. Without some new material there’s no way do that. Something’s got to happen soon. Something’s got to give.

He stopped writing and reread it, wondering where he was going. Had he said too much or perhaps not enough? Deciding it covered his basic points of self-reference adequately at the moment, however dismal, he leaned back in his chair to survey the lake. It was gradually darkening with the lengthening shadows fading into the water, which seemed suited to his mood as he mulled over what he’d written…too late for a swim and nothing more to say…are these words really useful…Over the years he’d often recommended journals, at least to certain clients, but now found himself wondering, as he felt an abiding pressure to take some kind of action soon, if such writings were valuable in any way at all.

By recording his entries he had hoped to chart the furthering of his progress in life; making a mark, making a difference, making the world a better place, and most of all somehow making sense of God’s will. Yet in all those desires he was feeling frustrated, blocked, deprived, and stuck, while still being sustained by an intermittent mishmash of hard work, good luck, blind faith, and his wife, in varying degrees. With a mild but final sense of subdued satisfaction in having noted the current status of his life, unsatisfying as it was, he sheathed the pen and shut the book with a thump. As he snapped tight the button of its thick leather strap, the shrill eruption of his telephone on the desk pierced the air. He grabbed it just as the first ring subsided and spoke gently into the receiver.

Hello.

Jay, this is Barry.

Yes, Barry. How are you?

I’m busted!

Chapter 2

Good Heavens, man! Haven’t you any righteous indignation?

Oh doctor, years ago my mother used to say to me, ‘Oh Elwood’ – she always called me Elwood – ‘in this life you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant.’ For years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You can quote me. (Elwood P Dowd, Harvey)

The Cedar-shake cottage sat roughly twenty feet above the lake and fifty feet back from the water’s edge. A second story sunroom made of cedar-trimmed glass panels, wall to wall and floor to ceiling, held a corner of the dwelling, facing eastward across the water. Three yards outside the corner where the glass walls met, slightly down the hillside towards the shoreline, rose an ancient sturdy cedar tree whose lofty limbs provided mid-day shade. Inside the glass sunroom a black open-air woodstove squatted on an adjacent corner square of pink-chafed bricks surrounded by a plush sea of forest green carpet. Next to a glass-topped rattan coffee table, in a cushy rattan chair, under a skylight, curled Bea, like a blonde kitty, reading a book about primitive peoples.

With rapt attentiveness she absorbed both her reading and the pleasant twilight atmosphere. The wind chimes clanged lightly in random merriment outdoors, as the current slipped by the lily pads and slapped at the clay embankment below. Weekend reading was a pleasant respite to the hectic goings-on during the busy workweek in her embattled basement business office. Once Monday dawned it was off to the races all week long, and sometimes the weekend too, especially in the summer.

It had been a frantic summer for her business, but hard work had paid off and things had gone well. Now she had a relatively few slow weeks of down time before flying off to Europe for her big marketing conference in Vienna. It was a chance to meet more student-exchange agents of different nationalities and expand the frontiers of her company like never before. She finished a chapter and paused a moment to listen to the wind-bells make their spontaneous music. Their sounds reminded her of the name of Jay’s recently disbanded band, Terra Mystique. His flute would go well with them. The thought of him gave her a subtle stab of discomfort...ahhh…such a sweetie, but Jesus such a pain in the ass...if only my husband’s affairs would blossom as beautifully as my own…just like they used to… life would be so simple and secure, with some room for a little extravagance…wish he’d work with me…i could surely use him…or else just get a second job somewhere…so talented and underemployed and so unhappy lately…with all his energy and imagination he could do almost anything…funny how a man who has helped so many others now seems stopped short of fulfilling his own life...

The phone rang loudly from the kitchen one time, disturbing her momentary musings. She assumed he’d picked it up in the bedroom and began reading her novel again, half-listening for his call. Something in the pages was beckoning her; something in the story was alluring. She had read widely for years about women in early natural settings, like American Indians, frontier women and those of prehistoric times. She felt an easy kinship with the spirit of primitive peoples, especially their holy men and women, or shamans, and often quietly displayed her own healing powers in the simplicity of her solutions to complex problems at work. While her honesty and humility had always lent her strength of character, with the rise of her company, she had also grown more assured as of late. She bore the presence of a self-made woman, with a friendly confidence and quiet dignity felt by nearly everyone she dealt with. Sometimes her husband teasingly called her Shamamama in admiration for her invisible magic as a healing influence with others. Her intelligent and friendly common sense approach to matters had a way of bringing out the best in people, often causing even the worst of situations to improve.

Hearing no call from the bedroom she became entranced in reading while the tranquil tinkling of the wind chimes scattered about the adjacent sun deck and through the sliding door screen a few feet from her chair. As she nestled more cozily into the thick beige pillow of the rattan seat her eyes widened with increased interest to the erotic twists and turns of events in her tale of our ancestors...hmmmm…when he wants her he just takes her...She felt a mixed appreciation for the rigors of prehistoric courtship. Though liking her men bearded and sexy, she wasn’t so sure about the subjugation. After the scene came to a fitting climax she set the book on the lush green rug and lit a small presto log in the black Swedish fireplace. Sitting back in the cushion, she felt the warm air counter the impending chill of night and watched contentedly the little fire burn brighter as the day’s luster slowly disappeared.

Chapter 3

"You can see me tonight with an illegal smile,

It don’t cost very much but it lasts a long while,

Won’t you please tell the judge I didn’t kill anyone,

I was just trying to have me some fun." (John Prine, Illegal Smile)

What?

I just got busted last night! Four cops came into my house, searched my garage, and found ten plants growing.

You’re kidding!

I wish. For real, Jay.

I never realized you were growing plants.

Barry, who lived further east in the woodsy hills, had alluded to the pleasures of homegrown marijuana five years back at his wedding reception when he slipped Jay a free bud. But Jay, who had performed the ceremony, didn’t know where he had gotten it and thought it best at the time not to ask. About a year later, and only that one time, he had called Barry to see if he knew where he could get some. Barry had said that he would take care of it and later sold Jay a very small quantity without referring to where and how he’d obtained it.

It’s crazy, Jay, he moaned. I don’t know what to do. They cut up the sail on my boat. Those guys were assholes. They thought they were so cool. Ten little pot plants. Big deal!

Ah man, that’s tough. Sorry to hear it. Barry, or Bear to his buddies, a popular and respected young supervisor at a local industrial plant, had two small children, a pretty wife, and a great many friends. Before marriage or children he and his lady had seen Jay for couples counseling, which eventually led to the altar, or halter as Barry liked to joke.

I’m scared. Someone turned me in and said I was a dealer. I don’t know what to do.

Are you? He knew there were rumors about the remote parts of the county – phantom pot farmers, vast hidden fields.

Well, not exactly. I’ve sold it to various friends over the years but never large quantities and never to anyone I didn’t know. It’s mostly just been for my own use. He paused. Listen, his voice lowered, I think this is part of a bigger crackdown in this area to find dealers. They’re goin’ after anybody and using them to get others. I’ve told them I’m not involved with anyone but they don’t believe me. He snorted in derision. These jerks actually said they’ll go easy on me if I give them some names.

What did you say?

I said I didn’t know anybody that had anything to do with anything, and that I was just minding my own business.

We’ll that’s that, offered Jay. What else can you say?

Yeah, his voice rose indignant with frustration, but they don’t believe me. He paused, then added apologetically, I’m afraid that you’re in it too.

How do you mean?

Well, I kept a little black book of everyone I sold to. It has their telephone numbers.

Yeah, so?

They took that book and your name’s in it. They think it’s my contacts.

Oh, great.…whoops…don’t upset him more…

I’m sorry, Jay. I shouldn’t have had you in there. We only did it once.

It’s okay. It’s not your fault. I’m sorry for you. Besides, what’s the harm in that? I haven’t done anything but that one time, and that was years ago.

I know that Jay, but these guys don’t, and they probably won’t believe it. You don’t know what they’re like. I haven’t done much more than help out some friends but the cops acted like I was the Mafia. So if you’ve got anything around… He let the insinuation hang in the air.

Thanks for the tip, but I gave that up awhile back. Sounds like someone you turned on turned on you. Any idea who?

No, he said seriously, sounding, hurt, and resigned. I really don’t.

Probably someone in trouble, guessed Jay.

Yep. No doubt. His voice rose in anger at the thought of betrayal. Some jerk.

So, asked Jay, what are you going to do?

I don’t know. Probably get a lawyer. They all want two thousand bucks up front and I don’t have it, he muttered bleakly. He groaned in exasperation. What would you do?

Jay paused, took a long deep breath, then stated calmly, Call a psychic I know.

Really! exclaimed Barry, in bewilderment and disbelief. What’s he charge?

$50 an hour.

That’s not bad, he paused to clear his throat. But I need to save my money for a lawyer.

That’s okay Bear. I’ll try to reach him and ask about you. I’ll pay for it. I’d like to talk with him anyway.

Thanks, Jay! Thanks a lot.

Sure. I’ll call you back after I connect with him. It may take a few days to get an appointment. He’s pretty busy, but he might give some preference to an emergency situation.

That’s okay, Jay. Barry sounded lighter, his spirits lifting slightly from the shell shocking humiliation and helplessness he’d been feeling.

Do you need help paying for a lawyer?

God, would you do that? he blurted out in surprise. Before Jay responded Barry spoke again. Thanks alot, but I think my father’s going to loan me money for that, or part of it. He sighed. You’re a good man, and a good friend to me, and I appreciate it.

Glad to be able to help, Barry. Why don’t you check out some lawyers and I’ll get back with you as soon as I can.

Alright. Thanks a million, Jay, he said with genuine gratitude. Good-bye now.

Good-bye Barry. Don’t worry too much, this too shall pass, said Jay, hoping it sounded reassuring. He placed the telephone in its cradle on the desk and spun his chair around ninety degrees to his left to gather through the window a broad perspective of the soothing lakeside landscape, while contemplating the significance of Barry’s bad news. He sat perfectly still, staring instead at the screen, for almost a full second until the dread began to spread.…damn...His mind began racing like a carousel jammed in fast forward and anxiety flooded his upper body like a sinking sub taking on water...last thing i need in my life right now is being hassled by some cops who think i’m part of a big drug operation...He’d seen from enough clients involved with the legal system, how anyone under investigation by the government was normally treated as a number or puppet, with some duly constituted authority, like a judge or a faceless bureaucrat, self-righteously pulling the strings.…but i haven’t done anything…much…still, they may not believe me…you knew him…you were his therapist…you performed his wedding…you were in his little black book…did you buy something from him…

Three swirling thoughts surfaced from the blender of his brain. The first was to immediately call Saul, his spiritual mentor, to see if he could talk now or set a short appointment for later, soon. Though no longer taking individual appointments since moving to Hawaii to found a spiritual retreat, he might not likely turn away anyone in need, except when immersed in meditation all day Sunday, which unfortunately was today. He could call and leave a message but he didn’t know the time there and wished not to place a call to him that might disrupt his sleep…better call tomorrow…

Another notion, tugging at his mind like a weighted fishline, led him outside to the vegetable garden in his large front yard. Leaning over the tomatoes he stooped to grasp and uproot several healthy hemp plants from the shelter of their hidden cornstalk sanctuary…sorry guys…its you or me…

The last thought took him back inside and downstairs to the wine cellar for a taste to shave the sharp edge off Barry’s distasteful tale. With a bottle in one hand and a wine glass in the other he walked out into the smaller backyard area between the house and lake. Pouring half a glass of ruby-colored Rhone he sauntered down the grassy path to the water’s edge, absorbing the evening chill as he savored each sip. Searching the sky for planets and constellations, he stood motionless in the stillness, while the purple sky grew darker. He turned his attention to the moon as it rose, round as a pearl, spreading like lamplight over the lake. Atop the silhouetted trees it shone through the drifting chimney smoke from a half-lit house on the far bank, suspended in space like a luminous eyeball, curiously observing him with silent detachment.

Chapter 4

"Let me live in my house by the side of the road

and be a friend to man." (Sam Walter Foss)

In the early morning silence of a cool misty Monday, Cottage Lake glistened in the hazy dawn as sunbeams broke into an ecstatic dance upon the water. At a gentler tempo, Bea padded down the stairs in her furry beige slippers while sipping strong creamy coffee and coming gradually to her business senses. She entered her office, approached her paper-cluttered desk, and set her steaming mug down on it.…no faxes…no phone calls… great…Through the picture window behind her desk, she surveyed the lakeside splendor with a deep appreciation for both its never-ending beauty and her office view of it. She was positioned directly underneath the sunroom, where the hillside sloped and curved around the huge cedar outside anchoring the land a few yards from her desk. Thumbing through work papers until finding the right one, she brought it closer to her eyes and scrutinized it carefully. It was her checklist of things to do in preparation for her upcoming conference in Vienna and subsequent trip to Toronto.

Forgetting her coffee, she turned and walked into the adjoining office room, sat down at the computer and brought up the work she’d left unfinished late Friday. She was crafting a letter to a New York business colleague who, like herself, ran a company offering Homestays with Host Families for foreign students. She was confirming his sponsorship of her company to attend the Viennese gathering, as she was not yet a member of the sponsoring group. Teeming with excitement and curiosity, she relished the prospect of extending her networks with different countries, nationalities, agents, programs, and unknown possibilities. Through three and a half years of finding homes for students her company had steadily grown at a modest pace, this year being the best, and this was her best marketing opportunity ever. It was her first chance to parley with the big guns of the industry, and someone other than the Japanese. As associates they were just fine, in many ways excellent, but she didn’t like having all her eggs in one country’s basket.

Having cut herself loose from an important Japanese partner last year, she felt it crucial to her survival that she broaden and expand. It had seemed a dangerous risk to break off their arrangement but he was growing intolerably more abusive, arrogant, and paranoid about their partnership. She sighed while remembering the tortuous turmoil his vitriolic morning faxes would bring to each day’s beginning. Jay became angry when hearing about them but she forbid him to interfere for fear of jeopardizing her maniacal meal ticket. Recalling his mistaken notions and violent accusations of betrayal in business dealings, she wondered how she had tolerated him as long as she had. She hadn’t seen nor heard from him in six months.…i almost forgot just how bad he was…Her curiosity piqued, she paused before starting on the letter again and turned her attention instead to the closet beside her with past records filed in boxes on the floor...where are those faxes anyway...Pulling out a cardboard box, she sorted through old faxes...ah, there they are...let’s see...here’s a great one...She read to herself from the middle of a tattered fading fax a section so typical of his ranting; a numbered list of her many failings.

3. Receipt of money. Don’t be silly. I wired it 2 weeks ago. Why you still call it a deposit. Not a deposit!! Foolishly you seem still unaware why I am furious. First you must admit you lied. Your fax is full of stupidness. Look into the OXFORD DICTIONARY. I don’t trust WEBSTER, as this has many spellig errors.

Bea had to smile as she recalled the inane madness of his tirades.…spellig errors…The saving grace of this difficult period was the humor they found in his constant misspellings and misuses of grammar. Towards the end he reminded her of a cartoon caricature she had seen once of Hitler jumping up and down on a miniature world, throwing a loud tantrum until someone tossed him a baby bottle. She felt grateful she had found the wherewithal to cut him off. No one had ever treated her that way or sent such hateful and cruel messages. She had joked darkly about making a book of his faxes and marketing them as a work entitled Fax You. She and Jay had especially reveled in the last words she ever wrote him, ‘Check your OXFORD’, as she corrected one of his misspelled words. She knew that would arouse his ire to no end. Breaking off with him had been the most riskiest and rewarding step taken in her young business career. More than ever before she felt free now to pursue endlessly diverse options, especially in Vienna. She hoped he wouldn’t be there.

She stuffed the paper back in its file and, smelling the pungent French Roast as a reminder, sauntered into the main office to retrieve her coffee. As she swallowed a warm sip the fax machine by her desk whirred and hummed a transmission in from Toronto. It was Perry, the Area Coordinator, who was to meet with her soon after her jaunt to Europe. He expressed enthusiasm toward meeting her and assured her that all back receipts would be accounted for. She was tentatively pleased to see that the troublesome chapter in Toronto might finally be ending well after all. She hoped, with some concern, that next year would not be a repeat performance...where was all the money going...why had his program drawn so many complaints...You could screw up once with Japan, a truism of the industry, but not twice, and her upcoming visit with him was to ensure exactly that very understanding.

As with all of her employees, Bea wanted to trust that he was honest. It would be so much easier that way. To fire him and then hire and train new people took a great deal of time and money, and experience was the best teacher if you made it past the first season. Both Jay and Candy, her office secretary, distrusted Perry. Especially Candy, with her attitude toward men, felt compelled to proclaim her doubts and suspicions. Fighting down a wave of worry, she took a deep breath and stared out at the sun-speckled lake where the haze had lifted. The gleaming blue waters evoked serenity, and peace crept over her as slow and certain as quicksand as she shifted her gaze to the hanging bird feeder in the cedar colossus just outside her window.

A young gray and brown-flecked sparrow darted back and forth from the feeder to the tree’s rough-barked trunk, unable to stay balanced on the feeder’s edge while eating. She laughed at its dainty rapid jump-steps from the birdseed to the tree and back again …she never gives up…

Returning her focus indoors, her eyes fell upon a note the size of a business card, in her elegant cursive writing, encased in plastic and dangling on a gold chain from her green and gold desk lamp. Remember, it said, as long as you are making the effort, God will never let you down. Heaving a sweet sigh of relief, she turned and strode gracefully back to her computer, sat down and resumed typing, lost again in the rhythm and flow of her work; making friends of strangers, and homes of houses. She felt it best to trust him one more time. If she was wrong, well, she didn’t want to think about that now, but in a vague way, she knew, if need be, somehow God would help her through it.

Chapter 5

"Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home." (John Howard Payne)

The bus lurched left then swayed slightly right as it slowly rounded another tortuous turn through the hilly Mexican countryside. At two hours past midnight its passengers slept fitfully to the weary bumps and grinds of the roughshod road that wound like a narrow ribbon on the moonlit forest floor. The thick tousled curls of the fair-haired youth near the back of the bus fell on a sun-tanned face lost in a slumber deeper than his fellow uneasy riders. He alone slept the sleep of an innocent abroad; a young man on holiday, free of cares and at ease in the hospitable arms of a laid-back land whose language he spoke, culture he embraced, and people he loved. Feeling a growing sensation of appetite, he was dreaming of food, luxurious Mexican food, which seemed to slide about incessantly, inaccessibly, atop a shifting dining table.

Creaking and chugging out of the curve, the tired old bus screeched and jolted to a halt as a half-dozen bright lights appeared in its path from seemingly out of nowhere in the dark. While the paralyzed driver stared ahead in shock, an unshaven hombre with a menacing scowl emerged from the roadside shadows and pressed his sawed-off shotgun to the glass door, demanding entrance. Six surly banditos, bedraggled and fearsome, burst inside brandishing firearms. When they saw the blond gringo their eyes brightened at the prospect of untold riches. Brushing by the other passengers, the swarthy lead gunman approached him, making muzzle-threatening motions.

Dinero cabrón! he fiercely insisted, lifting the shotgun barrel to the red-bearded face of the handsome golden boy. The young Americano, roughly shaken from sleep, flushed inwardly with panic as he strove to maintain composure. He noticed with a blend of detached curiosity and repugnance the dirty brown tobacco-stained nails on and about his inquisitor’s trigger finger. Although fond of Mexicans in general he’d always disdained poor habits of personal hygiene in particular, without respect to nationality.

No tengo dinero. Solamente cheques! he exclaimed diplomatically, as though hating to disappoint the chap. To demonstrate his sincerity, he unzipped his Eddie Bauer backpack to reveal the meager contents of a lad of simple tastes, a camper traveling lightly, of possible yuppie parentage through no fault of his own, who quite clearly now embraced a non-materialistic lifestyle, especially at this moment, not unlike, and actually in sympathy with his third world neighbors and Latino brothers. Pointing to the travelers checks, he hoped his gesture conveyed this sentiment. The lead bandito frowned.

Faced with this predicament, they took his sleeping bag and hiking boots, both brand new, and then swiftly, mercilessly, robbed the other passengers of any noticeable valuables, making resourceful use of his bag in the process. As he watched quietly, the very training that had made him a young karate master helped him stay calm at a time unwise to fight. Yet the muscles in his brawny frame stayed tense a long time well after the last desperado, like a snake slithering warily back into his hole, had shuffled backward off the bus into the oblivion of night.

The bus rambled on, its load the lighter, but its cargo slightly worse for wear, having been awakened from their dreams to a nightmare. The barefoot Americano smelled the odor of fear from his sweat-soaked T-shirt, as he lay on the narrow seat feeling alone and saddened, yet relieved, and so exhausted. Though his heart’s disappointment was stronger than his stomach’s hunger, in sleep the pangs eventually won out, and rocked by the rough but regular shifts of his cramped bed quarters, he soon dreamt again of food on platters; a fantasy fiesta, Mexican manna, sliding around a table, just beyond reach, then suddenly steadied, yet not served…by a hand…with tobacco-stained fingernails.

Chapter 6

All for love and the world’s well lost. (William Shakespeare)

Deep in slumber as the morning sun rose above his bed Jay moved through the mist of his unconscious, drawn like a kite string through his depths, a twisted trail of yearning, on the scent of love. It was a recurring dream since early adolescence though always occurring in varied scenarios and always ending with a nameless, faceless female presence; Girlness, the promise of youthful womanhood, the pure heart of the sweet goddess of true love. As a youngster once he had dreamed of an Indian princess. She seemed to emerge through some vague association from the wooded fields behind his house in rural Cheyenne, where as a child he had explored with curious wonder the fields and flowers, the trees and birds, the rocks and insects. Her countenance was clear as she stared into his eyes the last moments of slumber. He awoke in the morning light from that first dream with a reverberating echo of the sacred seed of sweetness deeply implanted, infused in his heart; a state he could never quite return back to in sleep and a feeling he could never quite capture when awake.

Yet it stayed with him always as a haunting possibility of what life could offer at its limitless best; romance. Romance with an infinite depth so very sweet that nothing else in life could ever even come close to it. He might go for years without repeating the dream and then it would happen, out of the blue, unbidden, unexpected, unheralded, and unmatched in its bliss. No longer a princess of Indian ancestry nor anyone of any particular identity; just a beautiful young woman whose essence matched his own, whose love was as full, who knew nothing more exquisitely felt or sensed or so purely desired as to embrace him in the light of her ineffable sweetness; gladly oblivious to whatever worlds may endlessly surround them.

Though rare, whenever he did have this dream, perhaps at most once every few years, he would awaken shortly thereafter thronging with the sweetest of feelings in his heart that absorbed his whole body. It set fire to his consciousness like nothing else could, but the fleeting embers of love were easily extinguished and slipped through his mind’s grasp like ashes through his fingers. As he grew older, learned about the mind, learned about himself, learned about love and life, he came to regard himself as overly sensitive and dangerously romantic. He thought his early love life relations as being filled with unrealistic emotional expectations. His saw his forays into drugs during the sixties an outgrowth of such unchecked romanticism. And he regarded his ventures into music as he matured a healthy sublimation of those deep-seated intimations.

Still, every once in a great while, it would happen. Just when he wasn’t looking, just when he was preoccupied with some facet of his existence, just when he thought his identity was secure and he knew what was really real in reality, it crept in again; an unbearably sweet and effervescent surprise.

This one was no different in content than the others. The form was as faceless, the atmosphere as amorphous. In his mind’s eye he saw the figure drifting purposely towards him, moving through the mist, coming closer and closer, her heart melting into his, his into hers, meeting at last in an everlasting kiss that beautifully exploded into utterly everything just before evaporating ever so gently into a universe of absolute nothingness – poof! And then he awoke, saturated in sweetness, that most rare of memorable desirable moments, contentedly numb to any other sensation. He slid his hand slowly across the silk sheet, extending his fingertips to touch the sweet sleepy softness of Bea and felt her blind absence like a hole in his heart.

Chapter 7

A woman’s work is never done. (Anonymous)

Sunlight pierced the slowly twisting crystal prism hanging in the downstairs window, scattering broken rainbow bits randomly about the office like a windstorm of stained glass shadows on the walls. At her desk by the picture window sat Bea, deeply engrossed in proofing her letter, oblivious to the surrounding light show. She reread it twice, and then printed it out with an air of satisfaction. It was crucial to her that she attend the Viennese gathering and her energies at work the last month had been almost exclusively focused on that happening. This letter was the last detail. As it printed she stood up to get more coffee and the swirling patches of bright colors caught her eye for the first time. She paused momentarily to watch the dancing fragments decorate the room in phantom twinkle lights before turning to go upstairs to the kitchen.

Stepping softly on the beige carpet in her furry tan slippers, she felt the peaceful charm of the first morning hours. She glided across the oak hardwood floor to the coffee pot and eyed the microwave clock glowing 6:36 in red neon digits. After pouring the steaming brew into her World’s Greatest Mom mug, she added a dash of half-and-half to reach the right creamy brown luster. While cupping it with both hands to ward off the lingering chill, she turned to take in the lakeside grandeur of late summer’s early morning glory.

The stillness in her house was in sharp contrast to the happy clamor of the outside bird calls, sounding like little forest flutes, chirping and twittering in the wind. The two weeping willows on the embankment blew gently in the breeze, waving yellow-tinged leaves gaily to the stoic evergreens. Sipping the hot coffee, she reveled in the moment, savoring the feel and fragrance of her drink and especially the iridescent splash of sunlight on the lake like a spilled bottle of golden watercolors. Year after year the beauty of her backyard vista never failed to move her.

On such a beautiful day she would have liked to go horseback riding on her trusty steed, Cheyenne, an Appaloosa pony. But this summer it had been too busy to enjoy him and she sometimes wondered if having him was worth the expense of boarding and vet bills. Still, he had been a surprise Valentine Day present from her extravagant but loving husband, who knew it was the fulfillment of a childhood dream. To own him had been a blessing and an incomparable joy; her getaway to nature, her gateway to peace and quiet.

She sighed contentedly after a moment’s indulgence in her reverie and then headed through the living room to the hallway connecting both bedrooms so she could take a quick peek on her boys. In the bedroom at the far end of the hall her youngest son, Phil, lay sprawled out face down, slumbering heavily in young teen innocence under a faded blue quilt. His well-used blankie, an old-time favorite, had seen better days but still had the right stuffing. He was her youngest darling, her baby, and the very sight of him in the purity of early morning’s sleep brought a smile to her face. No mother loved a son more.

She felt the warmth pulsate in her heart as she gazed lovingly upon him. With a soft sigh of contentment she turned to look in the master bedroom at the near end of the hall. There slept her husband under a thick dark green comforter, tucked in a semi-fetal position on his side, large pillow wrapped around his head facing away from her...my two boys...She smiled slightly, momentarily feeling the love for her family in her entire being, as though the air itself was giving her a warm hug. As she turned to head back to her downstairs office, she mused to herself….wonder how the third one’s doing…

Stepping lightly down the stairs she entered the supply room for an envelop for her letter when one of the two phones on her desk clanged through the quiet like a fire bell. She noticed with curiosity it was the home phone as she snatched it up quickly to avoid another ring that might interrupt her sleeping ones above.

Hello.

Hi Mom, said a faraway but familiar and slightly forlorn voice. I’m okay, he assured her, sounding somewhat tentative.

Jess! Where are you?

Mexico.

What’s wrong?

I’m coming home.

What?

I got robbed.

What? Oh no! Are you okay?

Yeah, I’m okay. I mean I’m tired and I’m broke but I’m okay overall.

What happened?

Well, basically some bandits hijacked the bus and robbed everyone at gunpoint last night.

Oh my God!

Yeah, it was scary then but now I’m pissed and there’s nothing I can do about it. He sounded more dispirited than angry. They took everything; boots, pack, money – the little that I had. Luckily I’ve got travelers checks.

Oh God.

One guy even held a gun to my head.

Oh no. I can’t believe it. Are you sure you’re alright?

Yeah, I’m okay, really, he reassured her in a voice gaining strength.

What are you going to do now?

I’m flying up to Lou’s house in San Diego later today. Lou was his former college buddy who had been drafted into pro football by the San Diego Chargers last year after graduation; an instant millionaire. I just don’t want to be here anymore.

Do you have enough money?

No, but Lou is paying for it.

Wow! What a friend.

Really.

She paused for a moment, absorbing the shock of it all, then asked, How long will you stay there?

Just a few days, I guess. I may go see Grandma and Grandpa, he trailed off. I don’t know.

How are you getting home from there?

Lou is paying for that too.

You’re kidding! What a good friend!

Well, you’re right, he is a good friend, and the Chargers have made him a rich one too. He paused to clear his throat. Maybe I can make it up to him someday, but right now he is happy to do it.

Are you sure you really want to leave there? Maybe you could salvage the rest of your time there somehow.

Nah, I’ll come back someday but right now I just wanna’ get outa’ here and back to the states.

She paused, struggling with whether to encourage him to stay or support his return. It was easiest to concur. You know best, she offered. Do what feels right.

This feels the best, he said resolutely. I just wanted you to know what’s happening. I’ll call you when I get to San Diego. I can’t talk much longer now ‘cause I’m on a pay phone and runnin’ out of change. I need to get to the airport ‘cause we’re leavin’ soon. He reminded her of a tired trail horse heading straight for the barn after a long day’s ride. Time to regroup. She sensed his tension and reaffirmed her support.

Okay. Call us when you get there. Alright?

I will. I gotta’ go now. I love you, Mom. Don’t worry.

I love you too, honey. Please be careful. Go catch your plane.

Okay Mom. G’bye.

Goodbye sweetheart.

Bea felt dazed as she hung up the phone and sat down in her plush executive chair to contemplate the call...shit…how could he say don’t worry…Jesus…grandpa was right…mexico was dangerous…She winced as she recalled his angry words to her upon hearing that Jess was going deep into Mexico...What kind of a mother are you? The words had stung. The best kind! she had wanted to retort. Maybe your son wouldn’t have grown up so damn rebellious if you’d given him more freedom when he was younger was what she’d wanted to say. She was much too wise to do so however and had instead merely stated I can’t stop him. Grandpa may have been right that Mexico was too dangerous but she was right that Jess would have to decide that for himself.

Even now though shaken she felt mixed about his plans. On one hand she wanted him free of any danger but on the other she hated to see him cut short his dream vacation. He had fantasized and later planned his excursion in great detail for many years. It was the perfect culmination of desire and effort after getting his degree in Spanish and before entering the work force as a teacher. She felt pulled in both directions. Wasn’t it better to get right back on the horse when you were thrown off? Of course that was easier said than done and this was a near brush with death. It was probably best to take some time to recover. He’d be back. Mexico was in his blood too much to give it up just now, if ever. She started to feel better as she sifted through it all. She took a deep breath and settled on the thought that emerged as she exhaled. The only thing that really mattered was that he was alive and well for now. The rest could be sorted out later.

Almost as if to confirm her conclusion the gray fax machine began to whir, signaling a noisy change of subjects. It chugged slowly like the little train that could and churned out a fuzzy document from a foreign country marked Urgent. The sponsoring body of her European Conference needed information about her hotel accommodations as soon as possible. She felt a pang of immediacy to respond to their questions. This was an event she couldn’t afford to miss. She was looking for the data she needed when the business phone rang out. While letting the first few rings go unanswered she found the necessary information and stuck it into the fax machine. On the fifth ring she grabbed the phone deftly and said in a cheerful voice, Homestay Connections. This is Bea. May I help you?, as she punched in the fax number to Vienna.

While descending into the routine of activity she heard the muffled bustling above of her husband and son upstairs as they prepared to depart for work and school respectively. They were finally up and about. She wanted to see them before they left, share a little of the morning, and most of all tell them about Jess. She knew they were on fast-forward to get out of the house since they always slept until the last minute. They might even scamper away without saying goodbye, which she hated. Her phone conversation was winding down when the second line cried aloud for an answer. She toyed with the thought of letting it ring into the machine but felt guilty as though it were irresponsible. No secretary for another two hours. She finished the first call and answered the second, hoping to deal with the caller as quickly as possible and break upstairs to see the boys.

Homestay Connections. This is Bea. May I help you?

While listening to the caller she heard again the stirrings overhead in the kitchen. They had both complained about having so little of her time in the summer, and she felt torn between her work and familial needs. Though she loved her family much more than her work, she also knew they depended upon it now. Running her own company had been hard on all of them, especially her, and she hoped that her husband would assume part of it soon. Till then it fell on her.

That sounds good, she was saying. I’ll get back to you by the end of the day. As she was winding down her conversation, the first line rang again. "rrriiinnnggg" The thought of letting it go loomed large.…i’ll never get upstairs…Yes, thanks. I’m sorry but I need to get the other line. Okay. Bye. She hung up the phone and eyed the blinking light signaling the next call. "rrriiinnnggg" She wrestled with answering it or running upstairs instead. The prism colors danced wildly on the walls, adding further to her sense of distraction. Footsteps thumped about hurriedly above. "rrriiinnnggg"

Chapter 8

A therapist does not heal. He lets healing be. The Holy Spirit is the only Therapist. He will tell you exactly what to do to help anyone he sends to you for help, and will speak to him through you if you do not interfere. (A Course in Miracles)

Jay wheeled his antique chocolate colored four-door Mercedes onto the asphalt parking lot, easing into a space behind the office near the back door to the stairway inside. He unlocked the door with a brisk twist of his key and bounded up the stairs taking two at a time in an even faster rate than his customary energetic pace. With a half-hour yet till his first appointment, there was time to call Saul, his trusted soothsayer, for a spiritual perspective on Barry’s situation as well as his own. He hoped to talk with him now.

While mounting the stairs, he felt distracted by the memory of the brief exchange he’d had with Phil on the way to school that morning during a break on the radio between the songs.

Mom’s working so much we hardly ever see her anymore, Phil had complained.

I know, he replied, with a slight wince, stalling for the right words to come so he could make it somehow better.…when in doubt, active listening…You really feeling sad, like you miss her? he asked casually but with interest.

Phil arched his eyebrows and almost frowned in serious reflection. No, not really, he said with a trace of irritation. I just noticed she’s gone alot. He punched the radio to a different station, seemingly engrossed in the task.…yep, i thought so… and feel neglected too…Well she’s really busy, Jay offered lamely, knowing it didn’t help much.

That’s what I mean. We hardly ever see her, in the morning or night. She’s always working, he declared, his tone intensifying with resentment.

Well, at least, thanks to her work, we’ll join her in Vienna later and get to see Italy too. Phil shrugged and said nothing, then hit another radio button.

As the car wound around the curving country road, it approached the last turn at the base of the grassy hill, which led to the private school campus at the top. Dew glistened lightly like a film of green satin mist spray-painted on the earth everywhere evenly. In moments the freshly whitewashed school buildings would emerge through a thicket of hilltop trees...better cut to the bottom line...

You know it doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you, said Jay earnestly. She’s working so hard in part because she does love you, so we can afford things, like this pricey school, for example. If my business were better she wouldn’t have to work so much. And that’s gonna’ change.

When?

Soon. I’m working on it. We’re doing our best. He felt an edge of guilt arise and fell silent.

I know. It just seems funny. It’s weird. It wasn’t like this before. I don’t like it. Phil looked out the window at the school.

It’ll change soon. Really. He tried to sound convincing. They pulled into the bumpy dirt lot, nuzzling through a scattered horde of well-kept cars and clean-scrubbed students, fashionably attired in grubbies and grunge wear and strapped into burgeoning canvas book bags. Phil leaned forward to grab the door handle, shooting Jay a sideways glance. That’s good, he nodded, with a raise of his left eyebrow and a tightening of his lips, indicating the discussion was over as he gathered his bulging backpack in his left arm. He opened the door, bounced out as though spring-loaded, calling See ya, Dad! while sending it closed with a sure-felt slam, and turning to join a rising tide of teenagers, was lost in the vast sea of bobbing adolescent heads, all in one long smooth coordinated movement.

Jay slipped on the top step of the stairway, then regained his balance by grabbing the rail and snapped out of his thoughts as he hoisted himself to the landing with a hop. He threw open the upstairs hall door with a whip of his hand as he whisked through it and strode the six steps down the hall to his suite. It occupied the corner space in the back of the building, overlooking the stylish parked cars of the real estate agents in the well-furnished offices beneath him. He preferred the isolation from bordering neighbors, especially since the walls were not insular enough to muffle the sounds of a loud client. The nearby stairway also gave clients a discrete exit should they prefer to avoid the front entrance lobby at the far end of the hall.

Unlocking his office door, he shut it with a sweep behind him while walking on and tossed his briefcase on the rattan couch as he moved to his large oak desk. As he lifted the telephone receiver in his right hand he rolled his brown leather executive chair around to his left, so