Sleeper Seven (6 page)

"That's where the sun house is at!" he exclaimed excitedly. His mother, ignoring him, continued on.

"Is that near the lake, then?"

"Mom, that's the place just nearby," the boy continued, prompting the father to join in.

"Oh, yeah," he recalled, turning to his wife. "The place with the dome."

"Yeah — the big sun!" the boy repeated, vindicated.

"Shhh...Finish your lunch," the father whispered to him, then turned back to Jess. "So...what exactly goes on there?" he asked, with a casualness that betrayed a distinct curiosity.

"We'll it's like a retreat, I think...it's my first time, actually."

"Well you're almost there, it's just up the road," the mother interjected. "I think it's like a spa or something, probably some crystal healing too, or maybe pyramid power stuff? Well...what did you sign up for exactly?"

It was clear neither had any clue about the goings-on there, and were not-so-subtly prying for information.

"Well I haven't actually signed up, I guess I'm just a walk-in. What are you here for?" Jess replied, changing the subject.

"Oh, we're on our way to the lake, we're renting this year, but we're in the process of building a summer home here."

Apparently there was some sort of resort down the road; Jess had no idea. In any case, they were no help in calming her nerves about the center; their curiosity only increased her latent anxiety.

Returning from the kitchen, the waitress reappeared with a notepad, interrupting their awkward conversation — which was just fine with Jess.

"Specials are up on the wall, soup is New England clam chowder, and there's $2.00 Stellas all day long. Can I get you a drink?"

Jess ordered the special — blackened catfish — and a root beer, and after taking her order, the waitress hesitated for a moment.

"Adams Center, huh?"

"Yeah," Jess replied, "have you heard about it?"

"Well sure! It was a big deal back in the 70's and 80's. We used to go there every year. Decided in '88 to skip the drive from Portland and just pack it all up and move here! I'm Kal, by the way," she said, placing her pen behind her ear and offering her hand.

"Jess, thanks."
Why did I just say thanks?
she asked herself.

"Yeah, mostly it's a vacation for old-school new-agers from the 80's, like us, 'cept with money," Kal added with a throaty laugh. "Did pry open our minds a bit though, which is always good! You say you don't have a reservation? What's yer deal here sweetie?"

"I'm not really sure, but definitely interested in what's going on there. So...what goes on there?" Jess asked with a wry smile, as the parents behind her shushed their kids.

"Well it's different for everybody, so I guess you'll find out soon enough," she answered mysteriously. "When you get there, though, ask for Terry, tell him you talked to me, OK? Oh goodness, I'm sorry — we've been gabbing so long, I haven't even put your order in." She headed back toward the kitchen, shouting "Hal! One dirty kitty!"

Jess checked her Twitter feed on her phone — painfully slowly over the old-tyme EDGE connection she was getting — until her order arrived. She wolfed down her meal, anxious to get going and finally resolve the mystery of the Adams Center. Belly full, she settled her bill and yelled her goodbye to Kal as the screen door slammed shut behind her.

~ 14 ~

A
few minutes down the road, Jess saw something large and yellow behind the trees to her right. Coming around a bend, she spotted the massive dome rising from the ground in the distance. It seemed to be a couple hundred feet in diameter, but it was hard to tell as the far side was embedded into the slope of a small hill. A ribbon of forested hills splayed out behind it, merging with the blues and greens of the aptly named mountains that shimmered on the horizon beyond.

Glancing back at the road, she almost missed a faded white wooden sign at the edge of the partially-hidden sloping driveway. Slamming on the brakes, she made the turn even before she had time to fully read the sign, which stated, simply:
Adams Center for Consciousness Studies — est. 1972
. Heading down the gravel drive, an old Victorian-era mansion appeared on her left. The large house, still in relatively good condition despite her age, was skirted with a wide wraparound porch, and nestled within a shaded grove of tall pines. The driveway continued further towards a scattering of other outbuildings — and the dome itself — but as this appeared to be the main house, she parked the car in front.

A grizzled older man in overalls, his doughy, shirtless paunch peeking out from underneath the blue denim, sat reclining in a peeling white rocker on the front porch. His large, rough hands, interlaced over his belly, rose and fell with the rhythm of his breath, and a straw hat covered his face as he slept. Her arrival hadn't seemed to stir him, and after climbing the steps up to the porch, she stood before him, wondering what to do next. The buzzing of two flies wound past them and disappeared around the side of the house.

"Howdy," he rumbled, without lifting his head — or his hat for that matter.

"Um, Hi," Jess replied, startled. "I'm looking for Terry. Ah, Kal at the Runaway sent me."

"Inside. Kitchen," he replied, with a voice like the loose gravel of the driveway. Raising one hand from his belly, he lifted his hat and dropped it back to his face — eyes still closed — in a parting gesture clearly optimized to require the minimum energy expenditure possible.

Opening another wooden screen door — they seemed ever-present here — and entering the house, she was reminded of a bed and breakfast. Antique furniture and knick-knacks were scattered throughout the living and dining rooms at the front of the house, and down the main hall beside a large ornate wooden staircase, a potbelly stove poked out of the doorway to what she presumed was the kitchen. Hearing some shuffling coming from that area, she headed back to investigate.

"Hello...I'm looking for Terry?" she queried, knocking on the rail of the staircase as she approached. A shock of white hair, perched on a bespectacled head, appeared in the kitchen doorway.

"Hi!" the head said joyfully, before disappearing again to take care of some kitchen business, then re-appearing, body in tow. The tall, thin man headed towards her, smiling as he wiped his hands on the large checkered apron he wore. Reaching her, he held out his hand and shook hers, but only smiled, and said no more.

"So...you're Terry?" Jess asked, trying to jumpstart the conversation.

"Oh, yes!" he replied, as if also remembering it himself, "Yes, of course. And you are?"

"Jess, Jess Armitage. Kal from the Runaway told me to ask for you."

"Kal! Yes, of course. Kal...wonderful soul. Well! Come on back, I'm fixin' up some granola."

Jess stifled a laugh as she followed him back;
Of course he's making granola,
she thought to herself. Standing in the small kitchen, she watched as he returned to mixing the contents of a large white ceramic bowl. She figured she would wait for him to say something this time, but after a few minutes, the silence became almost unbearable to her. Making a game of it, she decided to see how long she could go. She wondered if he was playing this game too, but had a hunch he wasn't.

"So! You're here now," he finally offered, after a few more long, painful minutes of conversation-less mixing had elapsed. She took that as an opening, but unsure how to respond, decided to play along.

"Yes, I'm here now. Just arrived from Chicago."

"Chicago! Wonderful place. I remember Second City, back in the day. Used to smoke the Ganja with John Denver. Oh, and the Old Town Ale House! Yes. And
Del!
How could I forget Del? Oh my. Wonderful.
Wonderful
." He seemed lost in reverie, and began absentmindedly stirring again, much too slow for any tangible effect on the ingredients.

"Got crabs from a girl there once..." he mused. This had the effect of utterly blowing through Jess' defenses, and she let out a long, hearty laugh while holding onto her mostly-healed ribs. He regarded her overreaction curiously, but then began giggling as well, as if agreeing with her that it was indeed funny.

"OK, you win," she said, relenting.

"Oh, no, no, no...there are no winners here. On the flip side, no losers either. So it's like a nice warm bath. But it's not
Communism,
" he lectured sternly, while shaking an oats-and-brown-sugar-laden wooden spoon at her, dropping dollops onto the floor. "So don't even start up
that
alley
Young Miss
."

Holding her ribs tighter, she laughed aloud again. She couldn't tell if he was baiting her or not, but he
did
glance at her with a sideways smile this time, which gave away...something. Maybe. He either had a deviously dry sense of humor, or was a very, very confused man.

"Aaaaaand round two goes to you," she retorted, composing herself. "The challenger remains...the challenger. So
anyway,
I'd like to find out a little bit more about what goes on here."

"Well, you're in the right place for that, aren't you?" he replied, then balancing the bowl on his hip, turned and leaned toward her as if sharing a secret. "You have got to taste this when I get it out of the oven," he whispered. "
Some
people think it's better the next day, like meatloaf, but I like it nice and hot, and I need somebody else on my side in this." With a wink, he turned back to the counter and began to spread the mixture onto a baking pan.

"Not a problem," she replied. She was beginning to think she would never discover what this place was all about. "Um, do you mind if I have a look around?"

"Please do...and oh, if you have any bags just leave them at the foot of the stairs."

Well I guess I have lodging — at least for tonight,
she thought as she returned to the front of the house.

~ 15 ~

O
n the other side of the central staircase was a formal dining room with a long oak table, neatly decorated for afternoon tea. There were peanut butter cookies, ladyfingers, and small slices of sandwiches, along with an array of liqueurs; but no one around to partake. She went out to her car, and after retrieving her paisley duffel bag from the trunk, lugged it up the path to the house. Reaching the porch, the gentleman in the rocker — now fully conscious — addressed her.

"Stayin' a spell, ah?"

"At least for tonight, yeah, maybe longer."

"Well if ya hear like a woman gettin' kilt tonight, don't let it bother ya none. S'jes the squatches a-hollerin back 'n forth."

"Oh, ah, ok...thanks?" she said. She waited a moment for him to introduce himself, but when he disappeared back under his hat, she walked back inside, shaking her head at his un-Southern hospitality.

As she set her bag at the foot of the stairs, the strains of a distant conversation wafted in through the open front door. Closing it, she peeked out the living room window and spied a group of four walking up the gravel drive from the direction of the yellow dome. A younger gal led two middle-aged women, one tall and large and the other simply tall, and one older man. All, except for the leader, were engaged in an animated discussion, which she couldn't quite make out until they neared the porch.

"...It didn't register that it was the farm until just now, it was like I couldn't
recognize
it from that perspective," said the larger of the two women.

"There was definitely the presence of something powerful —
that
I could feel," the other woman replied.

The man, lagging behind, didn't seem half as animated, and contributed little to the conversation. They quieted down as they passed the troll on the porch, and upon entering the house the leader of the group noticed Jess.

"Looks like we have a new guest, everyone!" she announced, extending her hand to Jess. "Hi, I'm Sophie, and you are?"

"Jessica, thanks...call me Jess," she replied, as Sophie reeled her in by the arm and embraced her in an arguably non-consensual hug.

"Oh, well, sure," was all Jess could muster, holding her arms above her new friend's back and gently patting her shoulders politely in return.

"Welcome!" Sophie reiterated, with a final, painful, squeeze. "This is Melody, Nancy, and Jan." Jan, referring to the older man, was pronounced
Yahn,
and they all shook her hand politely, in marked contrast to Sophie.

"I don't remember seeing a fourth on the registration this week," Sophie said with concern, "and unfortunately you're a few days late already. Was there a miscommunication somewhere?" This was clearly a polite way of asking Jess what her deal was.

"Well I guess you could say I'm a walk-in, I'm sorry, I don't really have a registration, and I don't want to intrude, but something brought me here, I don't know what exactly, but..." Jess realized she had said too much and cut herself off. This woman was clearly more with it than Terry, and now she worried that her confused blathering would cause her to be shown the door.

"
Slow down
Jess! Got plenty of time here, and don't worry one bit. You're not the first to be
drawn
here," she added, glancing at her other charges. "Let's get you working with Terry to see where you are, and then perhaps we can get you caught up in a day or two. Sound good?"

"That's perfect, thank you."
I guess the freaks get stuck with Terry,
she thought to herself with embarrassment.

"Well, looks like we have our tea ready, come on and join us, Jess," she offered. As Sophie headed toward the dining room, she almost tripped over Jess' bag. "Oh, this must be yours, do you have a room yet?"

"Well not really, is there one open?" she asked meekly.

"Surely! Take the Tannenbaum, up top and to your right."

As Jess hefted her bag up the creaky stairs, she thought how strange it was that no paperwork was filled out, no credit card number taken — nothing.
Was this southern hospitality, or just this place?
she wondered. Entering her room, she was reminded again of a bed and breakfast: it contained a springy antique double bed with far too many decorative pillows arranged on top, a lovely little balcony facing towards the dome and mountains beyond, and, to her relief, an en-suite bathroom, with adorably tiny original porcelain fixtures.