The Quintessents

By Clem Fiorentino

THERE’S WEIRD! THERE’S WILD!
AND THEN THERE’S THE QUINTESSENTS!

Get ready for the ride of your life! And all of your other lives – Past, Parallel, and Future.

This story defies description. Fast-paced, tightly written, genre-jumping, gender-bending, lexicon-enhancing and rife with puns, pra

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atmosphere Press
• Release date: Dec 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781646693559

Book preview

The Quintessents

Clem Fiorentino

atmosphere press

Copyright © 2019 Clem Fiorentino

Published by Atmosphere Press

Cover design by Ronaldo Alves

No part of this book may be reproduced

except in brief quotations and in reviews

without permission from the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names characters, places and happenstances are products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to an actual person, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The Quintessents

2019, Clem Fiorentino

atmospherepress.com

Book One – 2016

CHAPTER ONE

THE QUESTS

Friday, April 8 – 2 p.m.

There is no God! Father would bellow. Still, there’s nothing better than a good ‘goddamn’ or a string of F-bombs to seal a deal or carry the day. 

Barbara had amplified that score many times over, delving deep into the lexicon and incorporating myriad expletives into her negotiations. On Monday, the Germans OK’d her industrial complex. Most of the old coots didn’t speak English, but they chuckled when the ‘B’ words were translated and roared at the ‘P’ word. They were dead meat, easy to overwhelm.

 Now, for this man. How many expletives would she need to get him on her flight back to California? Go easy on him, Margaret had pleaded. He is very sensitive and he never swears. How then would she deal with this alleged half-deity – a man who could heal the afflicted and help the elderly cheat death? She knew the porch might be closed for a day or two if he wasn’t feeling the glow, and so –– she had scoffed to herself – she would exult in her own inner glow after her most recent conquest and let Clare close the deals still on the table.

Now, however, it was Friday and her patience had worn thin. She had tried both Wednesday and Thursday and found herself not only cursing the man’s vicissitudes but also the sliver-ridden boards beneath her feet and the still brutally cold winds swathing in off the Atlantic. 

Each day, the shades had been drawn on the elevated porch. She had gambled and lost, but she would not quit. Father would insist on that positive outcome for which the Hewitts were famous.

On this third day, however, she started to doubt herself. Mother had lived a long and fruitful life.

Why turn now – in desperation – to this seeming charlatan, even though he had brought Margaret back from the brink? True, it had been miraculous. But what if it wasn’t him? If it had happened by chance? Or modern medicine’s longshot last gasp? Maybe Margaret had willed herself into wellness. Or perhaps we all had some of this man’s gift inside us.

She had grown weary of the wait and the gales that had mocked her cashmere sweaters, black woolen beret and leather jacket. And that inane mini-ride with the dragon-shaped sculpture that presided over her each time she turned to walk down the decaying, weather-worn boardwalk ramp. Already she had twisted her torso under the dragon’s glare and today some imbecile had hocked one up along the incline only to have it emblazoned in some sort of crystallized, rhombus-shaped glossy frame. Friggin’ beautiful, she muttered. Genuine New Jersey sputum. Perfect, she thought, for the new Contemporary Artifacts wing at Mother’s museum.

Idyllic Garden Grove on the Splendiferous Jersey Shore the brochure had read. Anything but, she scoffed. Just your basic sandbar. No gardens. No groves. Only splintered boards, heaving sidewalks, sand dunes to block the tides, shuttered storefronts and labyrinthine alleys. Whoever conjured the word Splendiferous should be spayed or castrated.

At the foot of the ramp, she turned the corner, catching a glimpse of the fabled carport spliced into the side entrance, the dust-encrusted Buick station wagon and the extent of the block-long white house and faded burgundy trim. She started up the steps to the all-hallowed porch that – with the dragon blocking the sight line to the ocean – offered only views of a side street, a parking lot, and Dearborn’s World-Famous Deli and Breakfast Bar, where Chase bought cold cuts and had breakfast every day.

This time the porch was open, the shades up, the door ajar. She climbed the steps, noticing the water marks six steps up. Remnants of Superstorm Sandy, she thought. Or one of those infamous street floods. Yet another reason to avoid this part of the world.

She nudged open the metallic storm door and stepped into the mystery room. It was as Margaret had described. About twenty feet long, fifteen feet deep, wobbly floor boards, a small settee with dark-brown pillows, green-wicker chair, rectangular oak coffee table, space heater, the forlorn-looking good luck ficus in its rusty brass spittoon, and a serving cart with hot plate, warm water, and tea bags.

The doorbell produced a muted double-chime. 

Soon, he would emerge. Never ring twice, Margaret had advised. He doesn’t like to be rushed.

She made a cup of the horsetail tea with the avocado extract. Looked like urine. Smelled like shit. She tossed the tea bag into the trash and the grisly fluid onto the ficus. Who knows? she exhaled. Might be the only sustenance the poor thing gets.

A glint of sunshine slanted into the room, coaxing her to remove her jacket and pointing her toward the wicker near the bookshelf in the far corner of the room. She looked for books on healing, spirituality, even the occult. Instead it was Hard Times by Dickens, The Return of the Native by Hardy, and The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway. Books she hadn’t seen since adolescence. Off to the side was A Portrait of a Lady by James. She flashed instantly to Dr. Alberto Cain, her obsequious English Lit tutor, and his fanatical obsession with Isabel Archer’s climactic internal monologue where she questions her choices and ponders her fate.

Everyone! he pontificated, as if it were a soliloquy at center stage. Each and every one of us will have ‘an Isabel Archer moment’ in our life. Barbara shook her head. This – most certainly – would not be hers.

She reached into her travel bag, opened her DataTab and checked Clare’s most recent flash.

– Satellite Monday. 

– Planned Parenthood funded.

– Refugee housing almost full. Will need more. 

– Wind farms ready to roll.

– Charles and Edgar up from Tucson. 

– Dr. Simmons awaiting your return. 

Barbara swiped to reply and punched in Roger that. Nice work. Holy hell here. In the ‘antechamber’ now. Home tomorrow. She signed off and went back to the Renckens portfolio.

After about twenty minutes, she heard a tug on the door. It scraped open and there he was, the object of her quest. Coast to coast, continent to continent … just to be in his presence.

She knew the bio. Five-feet-eight, staunchly built, rounded shoulders, brown eyes, tinted glasses, deeply set sockets, oversized eyelids, unkempt khakis, grizzled grey sneakers, wrinkled turquoise sweatshirt with a frayed red CLEVELAND imprint across the front, and unwashed, tangled brown hair matted on the sides thanks to his baseball caps.

Hello, I’m Michael Chase, he said.

Good afternoon, she responded, standing up to shake his hand. I am Barbara Hewitt.

Would you like to come in? he asked.

His voice was tranquil, without inflection. He spoke in a carefully measured meter, as if pondering and weighing carefully every word or phrase.

No, here is fine, Barbara said. Unless you are expecting someone.

I never know, he said. If someone comes, we can move.

Very well, Barbara nodded.

Chase motioned her back to the chair. He sat across from her on the edge of the settee.

Tell me, he began. Where are you from?

I’m from Hewitt’s Landing, Barbara asserted matter-of-factly, assuming he would recognize it."

Where’s that? he asked.

Really?! she exclaimed. You don’t know? Hewitt’s Landing. Hewitt Manor. The Hewitt Foundation. All that good work we do. Our ‘Latter-Day Utopia’ in the High Sierras. My father was Milton J. Hewitt. Certainly, you’ve heard of him.

Wasn’t he one of those Howard Hughes types?

Oh, shit no, she exasperated. Most people say that Howard Hughes was a Milton J. Hewitt type.

I’m sorry. I … just … he stammered. But whatever then could I possibly do for you?

My mother is ill. Leukemia. She’s been through all the treatments, all the experiments. Nothing has helped. We’re just ‘making her comfortable’ now. So our dear friend Margaret Miller insisted that I talk to you. Mother is too weak to travel. So, we need to devise an alternate plan.

What kind of plan?

We know who you are. What you did for Margaret. I want you to come visit my mother.

Yes, yes, Margaret was wonderful, but she must have told you I never know until I meet the person. I have a saying: ‘No glow. No flow.’

We know, Barbara said impatiently. I want you to fly back with me. And then decide.

Oh, no. I don’t travel, Chase said with a half-shudder. Margaret must have told you that.

Well, she said you do go away in the summer. To that Spiritual retreat in western New York. You rent out your home here to avoid the beachgoers.

Yes, that’s true. But it’s only a ten-hour car ride to Lily Dale. With a stopover in Elmira. Not much of a trip. In my ‘Old Betsy’ out there. Plus, I don’t work with anyone there. My home here seems to have everything to do with whatever success I have had.

But Margaret traveled with you last summer, bought you a home, created a healing space.

Yeah. Her Pillow Room. But she was so much better by that time. I might be able to work there at some point. It’s so calm and quiet. But the house needs work. I’ll be painting all summer.

Have you ever tried anywhere else?

Well, no.

Then, why not now?

I know for certain that I don’t feel the glow anywhere else. Even down the street. And part of me just doesn’t want to. It’s not that important.

The ability to heal! To save lives! What could be more important?

That’s not it. Most of the time, I’m trancing. I have no idea what’s happening. I wake up. I give them their music and their baseball cap. They leave. That’s all I know.

Just take a look at her, Barbara grew even more restless. My private jet is just up the road in Atlantic City. We can leave tonight. Have breakfast at the Manor. If it doesn’t ‘feel right,’ one of my pilots will have you back here overnight.

No, I’m sorry, Chase said, shaking his head. I have a fear of flying. I never fly. And if I could help her, I couldn’t stay. I would miss the paper route, the morning sun, my breakfast and the bells at noon. I’d be risking everything.

Barbara grimaced in frustration.

Just get her here, Michael pleaded. You can move in. There are lots of rooms. Whether I work with her or not. Like we did with Margaret.

Barbara shook her head. As you can guess, money is not a concern here.

Nor to me, either. I ask nothing. People do or don’t give me money, depending on how they feel. Margaret, as you know, was beyond generous.

Barbara exhaled and got up from her chair. All right, then, she said, her disdain now apparent. I’ll leave you be. But tell me, how can you be so ignorant? So apathetic?

What do you mean?

"I MEAN this is bullshit! You should have energy, vitality, some fanaticism. How can you contain yourself? Such an incredible gift. Own up to your power. Explore it. Develop it. Be accountable.

Margaret Miller was dying. Six physicians had written her off. A doctor in Milan said she wouldn’t make it back to Denver. Then, she comes here and spends a month or two with you. Now, she’s 89 and lives life like a teenager – wearing her baseball cap, dancing to that John Denver music you ‘prescribed’ for her. And she wasn’t the only one you’ve helped.

Yes, there have been others. And failures, too, but they all started here. Through Margaret, we have a bond. I can sense that. And I should be able to work with your mother. But it must be here.

Why is it MUST? Barbara yelled. Don’t you want to know? It should eat at your core. Try it! WE are the ones taking the risk. Not you!

Chase removed his glasses and put his head in his hands. No, please, he sobbed. I don’t want to know. It scares me. It is what it is. Please, I …

Barbara sighed. Friggin’ UN-BE-lievable! 

I’m truly sorry, Chase pleaded, without looking up. It’s a long story. I just don’t dare. But please give my best to your mother.

Barbara put on her jacket and slipped the DataTab back in her bag. Chase wiped his cheeks with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, put his glasses on and led her to the porch steps. Barbara inched past him and walked down a step, suddenly equalizing the difference in their heights. Face-to-face, she could see that his eyes were pale grey with a reddish hue and the hint of tears still welling. He held out his hand. His grip belied everything she had just seen and heard. It was warm, electric, and forceful. His long fingers engulfed her hand almost to the wrist.

He cleared his throat. His voice turned coarse and confident.

I’m sorry, he said again. I really WOULD like to help. Not now. Maybe later. We MUST find a way.

Saturday, April 9 – 11 a.m.

Barbara carved through the clouds. The irony, she thought. Of all the men she had known, men with real power in the real world, men she had brought to their knees … that he would be the one to have his way. Short, squat, unkempt, at least twenty pounds overweight, probably didn’t own a suit or tie. She knew what power was. She towered over him by a good five inches. She was the one soaring through the atmosphere, making her mark on the world, leaving a footprint and a legacy. He was some troll who could only hide his face, weep, shrug his shoulders, unknowing and unaccountable, drifting off into a kind of transitory solace. She was the patron. He was the artist. She would purchase. He would perform. At her behest. Who was he to make her wait? Creep her out with tears and timidity? And then, out of nowhere, make such a condescending final demand. That was unheard of. How dare he?

Barbara tapped into the cockpit’s DataTab. A woman’s voice answered.

Clare, my angel! Talk to me.

That bad, huh? the voice asked knowingly.

Where are you? I’ve been trying …

Yeah, I see. I’m just over Tahoe. Been sulking the whole way. Fighting a head wind. Tabbing with Kirkenheimer. Mulling over Renckens.

What about Chase?

He doesn’t fly! WHY didn’t we know that?

I’m not certain. Clare paused. Margaret didn’t mention it. And it wasn’t in Madison’s report. 

Ah, he’s fucking bullshit anyway. A total wimp. 

One of his most endearing qualities, some would say.

Yeah, well. Forget him. I’m glad he’s not on board. I don’t think I could stand another moment in the same room with him, much less up here as my ‘co-pilot.’ Anything I need to know?

No, not really. The application from ComaCare came in. Another wing. Thirty beds. All with those ‘guardian’ suites.

Yeah, sure. Right. I don’t need to see that one. What about this afternoon?

We all had a nice, late brunch. So, as soon as you get here. West Wing conference room. Charles and Edgar have been briefed. And I piggybacked Alan and Dr. Simmons."

Yeah, I saw that. Do we still need Simmons?

Alan thought you might want to reconsider moving Elena down to the Conroy.

Why?

Apparently, they just got wind of some cutting-edge research. The next wave of that personalized genetic stuff. One of their team members was involved, so he’s particularly excited.

Yeah, well. Screw that! We’re not turning Mother into a guinea pig.

That’s what I thought, but you can tell him yourself. So, tell me more about Chase.

"Wouldn’t budge. If we didn’t know better, I’d think he was jerking me around. Said he would like to help. If he ever stops bawling. But we’d have to go to him."

Are you considering it?

I can’t imagine. Such a hellhole. Cold, bleak. Ugly. Raw. Only one hotel. The Sandstone. I thought I was sleeping on sandstone. But, oh yeah, sure, we could stay at his place. How charming. Have breakfast at that ‘world famous’ deli.

Well, Margaret did. And her entourage. They said it was lovely. She still raves about the Eggs Benedict.

No thanks. Do we have anything there?

Where? Garden Grove?

No, New Jersey. Seems like such a pitiful wasteland. Can’t imagine that we do.

Sure, we do a lot there. Regional theater, museums, galleries, halfway houses, outpatient facilities …

What kind of halfway houses?

Drugs, alcohol, battered women.

Right now, I’m the battered woman. I had to sit on the tarmac in Atlantic City for two hours, waiting for the damn fog to lift.

And then Chase, too. Margaret thought you two would not be a good mix.

She got that right. Should have stayed that extra day in Berlin.

Yeah, right. What about Kirkenheimer?

He’s a riot. Wasn’t even there. Still wants 60 percent. Wants to match our billions with his sickly euros. Thinks he can get Volkswagen involved, but that’s not gonna happen. So, all we have to do is reel him in. Kinda glad I had him to mess with after that bout with Chase. I’ll pass him off to you, so he’ll know that it’s our way or no way.

And I’ll give him to Matthew and Nicole.

Hah! Perfect! He’ll know he’s screwed. I knew there was something I liked about you. See you in ten.

Roger that.

Barbara began her descent. In a flash, the glorious Pacific lay in front of her. Garden Grove had been a living purgatory, a graceless pit. They called it a resort. Last resort would be more like it. What if Mother were to die there? She would never forgive herself. She glanced into the cockpit mirror. Her eyes, she thought. Chase’s people would call them the windows to the soul or some crap like that. Father had taught her that they were her power bases. Look someone straight in the eyes and they will fold every time, he would say. The eyes have it, he would joke. They were the fulcrums from which deals were struck, leverage was gained and concessions were forged. Except if you’re dealing with teary-eyed grovelers, she thought. Why had they not willed Chase away from that infernal sand dune to her lavish, green mountaintop where true healing could take place? Instead, she had played his game. By his childish rules. And lost.

The custom-built Lear 716 swept in from sea and onto the overlong runway that began about two hundred yards from the face of the precipice. She eased the aircraft into the largest of the three hangars, exited the cockpit, sprung the hatch and strode down the steps to the hangar floor. A tall, African-American man dressed in a black T-shirt and slacks stepped up to greet her.

Welcome home, Miss Hewitt, he said. Want me to spin you over?

No thanks, Colin, she replied. I’ll take her. But bring me the Harley in about an hour. I want to ride over to the treatment plant today or tomorrow.

Barbara saluted Colin and the crew, emerged from the hangar and walked the 50 yards to the helipad. Quickly, she was airborne again, following the carefully carved path through the 2-mile stand of majestic redwoods, emerging over a valley of impeccably landscaped grounds, gardens, condos and ranch houses. She hovered momentarily, gazed at the 100-foot magenta-tinted bas relief unicorn emblazoned into the bottom of the swimming pool, waved to the bathers, then continued up the promontory to the estate’s main four-story building.

She tucked the chopper along the outer edge of a long, grey canopy that spanned from an elegant doorway of the mansion’s lower east side across a circular drive to the helipad. She saw a lone figure walking across to greet her. The woman was wearing a white-linen blouse, green skirt and brown walking shoes. She wore her light-brown hair in a classically woven chignon. Barbara hugged her and smiled into her dark-blue eyes.

Oh, Clare, finally, she sighed. Help me restore my sanity.

I knew someone should have gone with you, Clare said, softly extending the embrace.

No, it was fine. The extra time let me all but memorize the Renckens portfolios and dangle the carrot with Kirkenheimer. Great fun. Now, let’s get back to work.

The women entered the grand foyer and came to the foot of the escalator. Clare turned the key, setting it in motion. They stepped onto the staircase and ascended to the mansion’s third level, where a primly clad maid was there to greet them.

Clare spoke softly. Some tea, Martha, please.

Yes, Martha replied. We’ve already served the gentlemen in the conference room.

Tea, Barbara muttered. The jerkoff served horsetail tea with ginger and avocado extract. I poured it into his stupid-ass ficus.

Was it as we expected?

No, worse. Much worse. I mean can you believe it? Here’s this earthworm of a man with this overwhelming desire to ignore his own power or even come to terms with it. He could be – already is, I guess – a miracle worker, but he goes on each day with no desire to formalize himself or assign any meaning to his life.

We knew that, Clare said. There are some who would envy him. So many people these days needing to re-invent themselves.

What has he invented?

Apparently, quite a bit. All those divergent lifestyles that Margaret told us about.

Well, he can stick his divergence where the sun don’t shine. Along with his forsaken sand bar.

How was the hotel?

Well, at least the food was good. Only a handful of guests, but a brisk dinner trade. The chef there adapted nicely to my plant-based recommendations.

Ah, yes, the chef. Carmelito Perez. He was one of Chase’s classmates. Jupiter Point class of ’88. Along with Dearborn, the deli owner, Willie ‘The Wizard’ Reynolds at the arcade, Wilhelmina Marshall at ‘Minnie’s Mini-Golf,’ and Andre Stoshtokovich, who runs that dragon kiddie ride near the house there. All best friends who never left Garden Grove.

Wait a minute, Barbara said, stopping just outside the conference room door. We know all that about him and we didn’t know he wouldn’t fly. For Christ sakes! What size briefs does he wear?

Sorry, Clare raised her hands in exasperation. It probably never came up. And he wears 42-to-44.

Oh, go to hell. Boxers or jockeys?

Ummmm …

Don’t answer that. Send him a 12-pack for his birthday. And a membership to a health club, too.

Barbara waved aimlessly as Clare opened the door to the conference room. A wall-length view of the Pacific spread before them. The four men seated at the expansive Canadian Oak table stood up.

That’s fine, gentlemen, Barbara said as she crossed to her walnut-coated captain’s chair with the commanding view.

First, doctors, if you don’t mind, I must dispatch Charles and Edgar. She turned to the two men dressed in grey slacks and blue blazers with the diagonal HEWITT logo on their breast pockets.

Charles and Edgar are off to Zurich. Rocoliere will have the Desjardins. Standard amount. As for the auction, I trust your judgments. Costanzo will have a bevy of sculptures. You know my preferences. You’ll find several to our liking. And anything else that strikes your fancy. Feel free. Who’s flying? Colin?

No, Paulina, Clare said.

There you go gentlemen, Barbara said. I’m sure the three of you will have a raucous good time. But I would suggest you make it snappy or you might have some Swiss baron on the flight home with you.

No, that was last year, Clare deadpanned.

The men smiled, stood up, and nodded.

Best wishes, Miss Hewitt, Charles said. And to Elena, as well.

Thank you, Charles. Stay in touch.

The two men left the room.

Now, let’s hear from the doctors. Alan?

The thin-faced, slightly gaunt yet youthful looking dark-haired man in a casual blue polo shirt looked over at his elder colleague.

Perhaps John should fill you in.

All right, then, Barbara turned her attention to the man on Alan’s left. Dr. Simmons. What’s this I hear about some new therapies.

A balding white-haired man with a freckled forehead wearing a yellow dress shirt with an open collar put his hands on the table and exhaled.

Yes, well, he began. At this stage, there’s nothing more to do conventionally or otherwise. But if we take her to the clinic, surround her with our researchers, refine the genetic targeting we’ve already done. Our people are doing great work. Back in Medford, she’d have the finest care. Her nurses could come, too, if you like. 

No, screw that, Barbara blurted. No experiments. Let’s just let her go here … with some dignity and grace. No reason to put her through anything else.

Unless it’s New Jersey, Clare interjected.

Barbara sat dumbfounded, grimacing at the suggestion.

New Jersey? Simmons asked.

Remember, Alan interrupted. I told you about the faith healer. He helped Margaret Miller last year. Very much the same situation.

Simmons looked away.

No, Alan, he’s not a faith healer, Clare observed. He’s a hands-on touch healer based in his own brand of Spirituality.

I’m sorry, Simmons said. Even so, you know what my advice would be.

What if we flew her there? Clare continued. Just for one day. Would she make it?

Probably, given all your resources, Simmons said. But, quite frankly, I don’t understand the allure of this man.

Alan? Clare asked. Do you want to handle that one?

Well, if you recall, I said he worked wonders with Margaret. She’s a family friend. Doctors on three continents – myself included –– had written her off. She spent three months with him last spring and summer and achieved a complete remission.

What was the diagnosis? Simmons asked.

Some kind of degenerative nerve disorder, most of the symptoms of Lou Gehrig’s disease, Alan said. I saw her again last fall. It was unbelievable. There she was, eighty-eight years old, fit, healthy, almost robust, jet-setting between Turin and Denver. She’s written several times, urging us to take Elena to see him. But, we, of course, shared your skepticism.

Simmons turned to Barbara. You talked to this man?

Yes, for about ten minutes. If you want to call it ‘talking.’ He doesn’t seem to communicate in any language I can understand.

But you were gone a week.

I had business in Berlin. So I stopped on the way back, but I had to wait three days to see him.

He was that busy?

We don’t know, Barbara said. All we know is that his porch was closed.

Then he’s not practicing.

Yes, he does. But only when he feels like it. All he did with me was whine and complain. 

Simmons frowned. This is beyond me.

Want more? Clare asked. I have his file.

File? Simmons shook his head. How do you accumulate a file on such a man?

Margaret’s letters, mostly. And we had a couple of Jay Madison’s men surveil him since the first of the year, when we started to consider using him. Are you game? It’s not that long.

Simmons sighed. Sure, I guess so.

Clare pulled three pages from a manila folder and started to read:

Michael Henry Chase, 1715 Northland Pike, Garden Grove, New Jersey. Born February 27, 1972. Age: 46. Height: 5 feet, 8 inches. Weight: 220 pounds. Hair: Brown. Eyes: Brown.

No, that’s wrong, Barbara interrupted. His eyes are light grey, with a little red hue, through his glasses. Or maybe it was the tears. I don’t know.

You brought him to tears? Alan asked.

Of course she did, Clare said. That shouldn’t surprise you. But Margaret raved about his eyes, calling them ‘limpid brown pools, swarming with love and sensitivity.’

That’s disgusting, Barbara bellowed. They were more like cesspools, not limpid pools.

I’ll make a note, Clare conceded. Might have been the light.

Or the lack of … Barbara huffed. It was so dank and dismal there. Keep going. Let’s get this over. I’m sure we all have better things to do.

Clare resumed. "Occupation: Part-time healer. Education: Two years at Stockton State University. Previous jobs: Construction worker, hot dog vendor, disc jockey, handyman, saltwater taffy store manager, pari-mutuel betting clerk, cart-pusher on the Atlantic City boardwalk, taxi driver, waiter, busboy, and kitchen assistant in his father’s restaurant before it was torn down and turned into a casino parking ramp. He is certified to umpire baseball games on all levels of amateur competition and he helps his neighbor’s son, Anthony Dearborn, with a paper route. He delivers forty to forty-five papers every morning and then lets the boy take over during July and August when his part of the route swells to seventy-five or eighty because of the influx of summer residents.

"Chase’s healing sessions carry no formal fees. Patients – or clients – pay whatever they want. In the summer when he goes to Lily Dale, he rents out his fourteen-bedroom home (a former bed-and-breakfast that is, in fact, two homes spliced into one) to the Dunbars of Dallas, Texas, for a summer-long family reunion involving four generations.

He has been married twice and has one son by his first marriage, which lasted eight years. Up until two years ago, he had no idea where his first wife (Donna) had gone. Last year, however, his son (Douglas) wrote to him from Michigan where he had just graduated from high school and would be attending a junior college. His mother, Douglas said, had become a sociologist, had studied and taught at Michigan State and would be moving to Santa Clara to chair a department there.

Clare looked up. "And in the ‘small world’ department, Barbara might remember that she was that congenial redhead who was here last year with Eclectic Quarterly. She was quoted as an expert in cults, communes, and ‘protected communities.’"

So which one were we? Barbara asked."

We ‘defied categorization,’ Clare said matter-of-factly. A cross between Utopia and Nirvana.’

Simmons looked at his colleague. A bit understated, wouldn’t you say, Alan?

Well, if she’s only been here once, Alan replied, what can you expect?

Sweet, sweet lady, Clare said. Face full of freckles. Much more insightful than those petulant reporter types. And we’ve actually chatted a time or two after that, since she’s right down the pike now.

At least she was smart enough to dump that abysmal vermin and escape that pathetic sand dune, Barbara said. Go on. Get to the good parts.

"Chase’s second wife (Carol) runs a dude ranch in Hawaii with her sister. That marriage lasted less than a year. Now Chase is seeing a blackjack dealer who works in Atlantic City and lives in the complex where he delivers newspapers. Madison’s men say the relationship appears to be somewhat serious.

"Chase has lived alone in the family home since his mother and father moved to Florida in 2008. Both have since passed, leaving him enough money to live life as he pleases. He also now owns a home in Lily Dale, New York – a large community of Spiritualists, located in Chautauqua County about 60 miles south of Buffalo. The home was a gift from Margaret Miller as reward/payment for a successful healing procedure. Mrs. Miller, the widow of Denver oilman Ezekiel Miller, was referred to Chase by her granddaughter Andrea DeCasale, a nurse from Hackensack, who was present on the night when Chase’s powers were revealed and who eventually assisted Chase with Margaret’s regimen. Margaret, Elena’s close personal friend, spent three months with Chase in 2015, two in Garden Grove and one in Lily Dale, since which time she has returned to her normal lifestyle dividing her time between Turin and Denver. She also upgraded Chase’s ‘Healing Room’ and ‘Pillow Parlor’ in Garden Grove and created her own signature ‘Pillow Room’ in Lily Dale. 

"Chase’s healings consist of three stages. First, the patient chooses a baseball cap, emblematic of his or her favorite baseball team. Chase then wears the hat during the treatments. Second, Chase chooses an audio tape (or compact disc now after Margaret’s updating) offering music he considers suitable to the client’s needs. His collection features mainly popular rock music – some dating back to the ’50s and early ’60s. The music is played during the healing process. Thirdly, Chase places his hands on the afflicted area or (as in Margaret’s case) any place on her body that ‘cried out’ for attention. He then trances for varying amounts of time, but never longer than the music. When the treatment is over, the client carries the music (now imbued with Chase’s healing energy and spirit) and plays it whenever the need arises. 

Chase was discovered by the world-renowned psychic psychotherapist Dr. Agnes Cunningham in June of 2014 at the Center for the Renewal of Life in Tuckerton, New Jersey. According to Andrea, it was a most dramatic moment. Cunningham maintains that Chase has a subconscious connection to the Spirit World called a Conduit to Eternity." It is through this conduit that Chase draws his healing powers. Mrs. Miller reports that this is both a blessing and a curse, as Chase, it seems, has three souls. His primary soul is his own ‘natural born’ soul – that which makes him who he is. A second soul has been traced to a Confederate soldier named Phillip who was the childhood sweetheart of Sarah, one of Cunningham’s former lives. The ‘conduit,’ however is linked to his third soul, which has evolved from the evil Dr. Stone, who lived in the eighteenth century. Stone’s soul, unlike Phillip’s, has not progressed through its various incarnations. Chase’s Hypno-Regressions have shown that Stone was a gambler and a womanizer and has met with several violent deaths. Even though the first two souls ‘outrank’ the conduit to Stone, Chase lives in fear that Stone will eventually make the leap from the other side (a process Cunningham calls a ‘Clonedown’) and assert some sort of influence on his life. To guard against this, Chase fills his days with rituals designed to keep him out of harm’s way.

"Chase lives alone most of the year, but he now spends his summers with Dr. Cunningham and her longtime companion, Sue-Rae Ellen Cartwright. He stayed with them in the summer of 2014, but last year moved to a home in dire need of repair that Margaret purchased for him. His address there, starting in July, is 24 Canal Street.

"From her summer home at 115 Spiral Street (a short jog from Chase) Cunningham conducts Spiritual activities and offers lectures, seminars, and short-term therapy. She has a national and international clientele and is very much in demand, especially for her highly eclectic séances and therapy workshops called ‘Configurations.’ Here, she taps into her client’s Soular frequencies with help from her Spirit Guides, Tanaka and Dracor. These gatherings are punctuated by activities like past-life regressions, future-life projections, alternate-life migrations, dream-and-vision analysis, Spiritual therapy, and the most dramatic Soular Invocation, wherein she levitates a naked client, physically extracts the Soul, examines it, and massages it.

"Most of the year, Cunningham lives and works at 16 Early Street in Baltimore. A conventional and spiritual therapist, she shares her practice with two colleagues, one of whom – a Dr. Cheryl Sanders – is an authority on multiple personalities. In the summer, she works and vacations in Lily Dale. 

"Dr. Cunningham recently added to her legend with the discovery of ‘Comergence,’ a process that, for brief intervals, allows participants to visit the body of a loved one or the soul of a deceased loved one. Mrs. Miller recounts ‘residing’ in the body of her husband’s most recent incarnation, a farm boy in a foreign land. She says she saw a beast of burden pulling a plow or some such implement.

"Cunningham requires each Comergent to sign a permission slip, releasing her from responsibility for any form of mental anguish that might result from the process. Mrs. Miller, again with her granddaughter by her side, reported no ill effects when she was able to communicate with her late husband.

"But, she says, the process has failed twice.

"Competition for Cunningham’s Configurations is intense. She handpicks the participants based on auras and Soular frequencies that ‘accompany’ each application, seeking those whom she feels would best complement their stages of development.

Cartwright does not participate in any of the endeavors. She does, however, read auras and has indeed been dubbed ‘The Aura Whisperer,’ as she is ‘blessed’ with a most unique mauve-tinted aura, one that blends seamlessly with all others. Chase and Cartwright share a mystical bond. They are certain they will be together in a future life.

Clare looked up. Margaret also describes this Miss Cartwright as ‘one of the most beautiful women in all the world,’ but I will spare you all the details.

Thank you, Barbara groaned.

Clare resumed reading. "Beyond this, Chase has many quirks, some are his own but others stem from Soular legacies – character traits that he has inherited from past lives. He loves to look at the ocean, but fears traveling on water. He fears heights and won’t walk barefoot in the sand. He loves baseball, but hates the Kansas City Royals because they didn’t deserve to win the World Series in 1985 when he was fifteen years old. A bad call by an umpire that year ‘broke his heart’ and motivated him to seek certification and ‘strive with all his might to get the calls right.’ He loves rock music, but hates the Beatles and will not work with their music. He hates joggers who clog up his boardwalk and will not wear blue on Mondays (even when he umpires). He hates dogs, has a passion for breakfast food, and his favorite dinner is pork chops and sweet potatoes, made for him by his classmate, Carmelito Perez, the chef at the Sandstone Hotel. (‘Barbara’s new best friend,’ Clare inserted jokingly.)

He wears his outfits in strict rotation – five at a time between laundering – and will only deviate if a blue shirt happens to fall on a Monday. He has no phone. He fears making phone calls and considers incoming calls an invasion of privacy and Soular tranquility. To reach him, you have to dial the Dearborns, who run the ‘World Famous Deli and Breakfast Bar’ across the street. He has no computer or Internet connection, preferring to put pen to paper – ‘his greatest thrill.’ He does have a television, but he only uses it in connection with his – ta-da! – VCR, which he uses to watch old episodes of ‘Name That Tune’ and baseball games taped for him by Spenser Dearborn, the deli owner, via satellite. (‘Yes, Barbara, one of ours.’) Watching these games often creates a problem, especially (‘And here we have it, Lord have Mercy!’ Clare mock-screamed) during the first week of baseball season when he tries to watch as many games as possible.

Clare looked over and pointed mockingly at Barbara. See there, Missy. That’s why you had to wait that extra day.

Oh, go fuck yourself, Barbara scoffed back. 

Clare smiled and turned to the last page.

Chase is a ‘down-to-earth’ kind of guy...

Horse-bleeping bullshit! This guy is a total tool, Barbara yelled, bolting from her chair and crossing over to the window to gaze out at the ocean.

Clare raised her right index finger. He likes to welcome the sun every morning on his boardwalk. He walks to the Congregational Church every day at noon to listen to the bells chime out an assortment of hymns. He practices ‘Replenishment,’ wherein he ‘Detaches’ (strips his mind of thoughts and feelings), and then Focuses’ (only on his next step or an object in the distance).

Clare cleared her throat. He no longer drinks, smokes, or gambles and will never curse, swear, or utter anything resembling profanity.

Clare raised her hands and eyebrows. Is there any wonder he and Barbara could not connect?

Barbara turned around, looked at Clare,