ashram, Fern. You aren’t doing us any good—as usual.”
“It isn’t an ashram.” She wrapped her arms in her shawl. “The center is based on the teachings of Bodhisatva Selena MacDowell, also called—”
“Please, Fern, shut up and leave if you want to.”
Smiling slightly for the first time, Fern gathered up her fringed cloth bag and several shawls. “I’m used to operating on a higher plane.”
“Mother!” Natasha yelled. “Larry may go to jail. Wake up.” She planted herself in front of her mother, frowning.
“It’s not the place that defines us, but we define our place. Selena wrote that ….” Fern floated out, abandoning them all.
Gordon grinned. “My wife has grown a little weary of the world, defined as me and the family.”
“Including me,” Natasha said, tugging at her hair.
“No, darling,” Gordon said, “nobody ever tires of you. It’s the rest of us who bring her down.”
Judith tapped on the desk. “Now if we could discuss our strategy in Larry’s impending trial, there might be some chance you won’t have to traipse off to prison to visit him.”
Judith did in fact get Larry a sentence of community service and two years’ probation. He barely thanked her, but Gordon paid her bill in full and promptly. He was the family member she had the most contact with, besides her client. He was the one who argued with Larry to obey her. He was the one who listened carefully to her plans. He picked out Larry’s clothes for court, with her approval. When she had to consult the family, it was Gordon she called, and she now called him Gordon. She admitted she liked having an excuse to talk with him. Their conversations rarely stayed on the case. She was almost sorry when the trial process ended with her successful plea bargain. She would miss their discussions of the events of the day, politics, the judicial process.
Therefore she was surprised but delighted to be invited out to what Gordon called the Compound for July Fourth. She had no other good invitations and she was curious about him. She threw some clothes in an overnight bag and drove out, following the photocopied directions. They were so precise she assumed Gordon had written them. After aseries of turns, she found herself crossing a humpbacked rickety wooden bridge to the island where Gordon had a summer home.
She had imagined a glassy modern house on various levels, nicely landscaped. There was such a house, but there were five other buildings, four of wood and one of stucco, so different one from the other and bizarrely constructed, she assumed Gordon, perhaps with the help of some of his sons and daughters (she knew he had five children ranging in ages from nine years older than her to sixteen years younger), had thrown them up by whim. All this random architecture was built in the lee of a bayside sand dune obviously blowing away. No one had landscaped. Piles of discarded objects lay about, not trash, not bottles and cans, but abandoned projects—a fence that separated nothing from nothing, a shed without a roof, a half-built tower, a flagstone path that led halfway across the courtyard, various pieces of abstract sculpture of rusting metal. She learned that the second wife, Mrs. Caldwell, had dabbled in sculpture.
Gordon greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and a little more body language in the hug than she had expected. “Where’s Fern?” she asked, looking around. She saw many people picnicking, sunbathing, sitting in the shade—including a baby in a playpen—but no Fern.
“Fern has filed papers. I told you, she’s tired of the noise. I think she imagined that things would quiet down over the years, but they never have.” He waved his hands vaguely at the scene. Children in a loose posse were chasing a black Labrador. Another kid was throwing a ball hard against one of the houses. Voices were raised in song somewhere, several radios were playing not only competing stations but wildly incompatible music,
“It isn’t an ashram.” She wrapped her arms in her shawl. “The center is based on the teachings of Bodhisatva Selena MacDowell, also called—”
“Please, Fern, shut up and leave if you want to.”
Smiling slightly for the first time, Fern gathered up her fringed cloth bag and several shawls. “I’m used to operating on a higher plane.”
“Mother!” Natasha yelled. “Larry may go to jail. Wake up.” She planted herself in front of her mother, frowning.
“It’s not the place that defines us, but we define our place. Selena wrote that ….” Fern floated out, abandoning them all.
Gordon grinned. “My wife has grown a little weary of the world, defined as me and the family.”
“Including me,” Natasha said, tugging at her hair.
“No, darling,” Gordon said, “nobody ever tires of you. It’s the rest of us who bring her down.”
Judith tapped on the desk. “Now if we could discuss our strategy in Larry’s impending trial, there might be some chance you won’t have to traipse off to prison to visit him.”
Judith did in fact get Larry a sentence of community service and two years’ probation. He barely thanked her, but Gordon paid her bill in full and promptly. He was the family member she had the most contact with, besides her client. He was the one who argued with Larry to obey her. He was the one who listened carefully to her plans. He picked out Larry’s clothes for court, with her approval. When she had to consult the family, it was Gordon she called, and she now called him Gordon. She admitted she liked having an excuse to talk with him. Their conversations rarely stayed on the case. She was almost sorry when the trial process ended with her successful plea bargain. She would miss their discussions of the events of the day, politics, the judicial process.
Therefore she was surprised but delighted to be invited out to what Gordon called the Compound for July Fourth. She had no other good invitations and she was curious about him. She threw some clothes in an overnight bag and drove out, following the photocopied directions. They were so precise she assumed Gordon had written them. After aseries of turns, she found herself crossing a humpbacked rickety wooden bridge to the island where Gordon had a summer home.
She had imagined a glassy modern house on various levels, nicely landscaped. There was such a house, but there were five other buildings, four of wood and one of stucco, so different one from the other and bizarrely constructed, she assumed Gordon, perhaps with the help of some of his sons and daughters (she knew he had five children ranging in ages from nine years older than her to sixteen years younger), had thrown them up by whim. All this random architecture was built in the lee of a bayside sand dune obviously blowing away. No one had landscaped. Piles of discarded objects lay about, not trash, not bottles and cans, but abandoned projects—a fence that separated nothing from nothing, a shed without a roof, a half-built tower, a flagstone path that led halfway across the courtyard, various pieces of abstract sculpture of rusting metal. She learned that the second wife, Mrs. Caldwell, had dabbled in sculpture.
Gordon greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and a little more body language in the hug than she had expected. “Where’s Fern?” she asked, looking around. She saw many people picnicking, sunbathing, sitting in the shade—including a baby in a playpen—but no Fern.
“Fern has filed papers. I told you, she’s tired of the noise. I think she imagined that things would quiet down over the years, but they never have.” He waved his hands vaguely at the scene. Children in a loose posse were chasing a black Labrador. Another kid was throwing a ball hard against one of the houses. Voices were raised in song somewhere, several radios were playing not only competing stations but wildly incompatible music,
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