The Answer to Everything (14 page)

I found him in the tennis bubble. He was drinking beer and unpacking building materials for a massive sculpture he planned to construct. He had convinced Phil to let him use the defunct space as an art studio for as long as he wanted. Obviously, John felt zero compunction about exploiting a cancer-ridden man who was at his most vulnerable. But he thought it was just fine to make me feel like an idiot for actually trying to help that man.

“Ah, there she is:
reiki master
.” He said it with a Japanese accent. He bowed.

“That’s funny stuff.”

“You know about the guy who invented reiki, right?” He swigged his beer and belched. “The whole healing touch thing?”

“No. I don’t know anything about him. But I guess you’re going to tell me.”

“Can’t remember his name, actually. But the important thing to know is that he died of a stroke when he was sixty.” John laughed.

I let him have his little victory, then I said, “Presumably you’ve heard of the placebo effect?”

“You think that’s what’s going on in there?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t conducted any long-term clinical studies. I suspect that’s what’s happening. But I don’t claim to know everything about everything.”

“I see,” said John. “You’re open-minded.” He said it with derision. He said it with air-quotes.

“Yes, I’m
open-minded
. Now gimme a fucking sip of that.”

“There’s more,” he said, gesturing to the fridge. “Grab me a fresh one.”

I should have told him to get his own freaking beer. But I didn’t. I fished out two cold Steam Whistles. John twisted the cap off his and flicked it across the tennis court. “You know that Dawkins quote about being open-minded?”

I sighed.

“ ‘Let’s be open-minded, but not so open-minded that our brains drop out.’”

“Ha ha.”

“You think Anne-Marie believes she’s administering a placebo? You think Tyson thinks that?”

“No. Obviously not. That guy’s frightening.”

“Yeah. If God were so benevolent, would he have given dude a neck that’s wider than his head?

“Funny.”

“I can’t believe Phil’s subjecting himself to such mishegoss.”

“What difference does it make? Phil’s happy about it. It might look weird, but there’s no harm in it.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“So helping Phil to relax is harmful?”

“I don’t know. It was making me sick to watch it.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes. I got dizzy. Felt like I was going to hurl.”

“Yeah, well … you started this.”

“Yeah, well … maybe it’s time to end it.”

“Now that you’ve got your patron. And your free studio. Who paid for all these materials?”

John didn’t answer. He drank his beer. He smiled. “Ever get fucked in a tennis bubble?” he said, moving in on me.

“We should get back.”

“Take your pants off.”

“No.”

“Come on,” he said, tugging at my belt loop. “I’m sure Eldrich has got it covered.”

“No … it’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“Urinary tract infection.”

“Jesus. Another one?”

“Yeah, well … we’ve been having a lot of sex, you know. All kinds of sex … and all it takes is the tiniest bit of E. coli bacteria to get in there.”

“Hmm. So much for being ‘wonderfully and perfectly made.’”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Nothing personal. I’m just saying an intelligent designer never would have put the cunt hole so close to the ass hole.”

I had to laugh.

“The vadge should be here.” He gestured to his belly button. “The asshole should be clear the fuck on the other side. Like right at the tailbone. Or better yet, at the bottom of the foot. Vadge where it is, but shit-hole at the bottom of the heel. Food goes from the stomach, down the leg and out the foot. That would be a far more intelligent design, don’t you think?”

Silly, yes. But I guess he had a point.

A transformation. An awakening. An ancient key delivered in a mysterious way. A young woman decides to venture out. A neighbour with a need for a roommate. A fresh face across the hall. A thirst. A hunger. Disclosure (loss). Embrace. Endeavour. The striving. The outreach. A technological tool. A tweet from afar. A journey of a thousand miles. The missionary. The messenger. A guide with a gift. The sacred flesh. The withered phalli. Teonanácatl. God’s mushroom. God’s flesh. The taking in. The cracking open.

Revelation.

Transcendence.

The new Eucharist.

So Eldrich does ‘shrooms with Steve and everything goes wonky up at Elderbrook.

Instead of nibbling psilocybin, then blissing out to tunes or giggling their asses off or staring at mirrors or their own hands for hours on end, Eldrich and Steve gobble half the stash, then go gallivanting around the property, beseeching God to “reveal himself,” chanting and moaning, rending their garments—one moment dancing like sprites, the next solemnly summoning “the Creator” to appear. Unamused, I roll pickles in turkey slices and retreat to my bubble to sup and work on MAMA. (Did I mention I was given the tennis court to use as a studio over the winter?) I find the boys later, zonked out of their gourds in Phil’s crazy-ass, egg-shaped marble bathtub, writhing like snakes against the dry stone. Eldrich—in just undies and socks, Steve,
sans
trousers and sporting an irretrievably shredded “Neutral Milk Hotel” concert T. This appears to be more of a sensual than sexual affair. Their hands palm the smooth marble surface as they squirm and grope, Helen Keller–like, feeling and feeling, grinding their hot faces against the tub’s cool interior.

“Gentlemen,” I say, taking hold of the Estée Lauder Youth Dew bath oil and the Pink Peruvian Infusion Crystals, “could
I prevail upon you to relocate? It is time for Johnny’s bath.” I’ve been hanging in Phil’s master ensuite almost every night. The marble egg is a superb soaking tub. Just the right angle for comfortable reclining, with or without a book. I make the water almost unbearably hot, pour in a cocktail of perfumed unctions and steep until shrivelled. Amy sometimes joins me, but on this night she’s at home, trying to catch up on school work. I haven’t been home for a week.

Although they appear uncomprehending, Steve and Eldrich oblige, slithering out of the tub and skittering across heated marble floors into the bedroom. I don’t encounter them again that night.

The following afternoon, I find Eldrich seated cross-legged atop the granite island in the kitchen. He is sporting a paisley silk robe that is four or five sizes too small (Phil’s, obviously). He informs me that not only did he see God on the previous evening, he briefly
became
God. I congratulate him as I thaw a rib steak to grill for my lunch (barbecuing in the snow makes me strangely happy). Eldrich concludes that his messed-up state on psilocybin was “the true reality” and that the generally accepted, run-of-the-mill version is actually a “hallucination.” He is caressing a kiwi when he tells me this, stroking its soft sides with an index finger, as if it were a pet, as if he were a Bond villain. When the microwave
dings
, he cocks his head like a chicken and laughs incongruously.

Gradually, over the next couple of weeks, Phil’s peaceful suburban retreat becomes an open-all-night drop-in centre for the congregation and their stray associates. Mushroom Steve is Eldrich’s faithful acolyte. They seem inseparable,
wandering and pondering, administering to the flock, conducting “research” on Phil’s computer or having frequent breath-holding competitions in the swimming pool (why they do this, I do not know).

Phil, meanwhile, lies feebly in hospital, recovering from an all-day surgery, oblivious to the fact that his house is being overrun by maniacs, including a green-eye-shadowed creature named Catelyn who has actually moved in with her daughter (after being threatened by her ex, ostensibly), setting up camp in a guest bedroom. Garbage bags full of clothes and toys abound. I feel uneasy about this state of affairs, but Eldrich assures me that Phil will be “cool” with it. He tells me that Phil is behind the Institute 100 percent. When I suggest that Phil’s support likely doesn’t extend to secretaries and their toddlers taking up residence, he leads me deep into Phil’s bedroom closet (which, I feel the need to share, has three fucking skylights in it) and fishes out an old photograph album from a mahogany pocket-square drawer. Inside is an envelope, containing a legal document. It is a signed amendment to Phil’s will, which basically states that should he die during his procedure in New York, or in the year following his return to Toronto, his house (and sufficient funds to pay required taxes, and legal and transfer fees) will be left to the Answer Institute, provided that it is used as headquarters for the organization, and that Eldrich sits on the board of directors.

“See,” says Eldrich.

But I don’t see. My heart is doing a Buddy Rich–on–timpani imitation. “Um …” I say. “I know Phil is going to be fine—”

“He is,” says Eldrich. “I
know
he is.”

“But just in case—”

“He will be,” says Eldrich with his wise-man smile.

“No, I know, I know. The operation was a success, thank goodness.”

“They think they got all the cancer.”

“That’s great. Thank God!” I pause here for a moment. “But considering what’s at stake … and given that there’s still the tiniest scintilla of a chance that something could go awry—”

“It won’t.”

“No, I hope not. But Phil
is
in a very weakened state, right?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, you haven’t actually spoken to him, have you?”

“No. I’m in touch with his friends.”

“Then I think it can’t hurt to err on the side of caution. Because if anything did happen to Phil, this would be meaningless in a court of law.” I wave the amendment at him. “I mean, I think we need to respect Phil’s wishes, and that means we should probably consult a lawyer. We should probably make the Answer Institute legal and official as soon as possible. Just in case.”

Eldrich gives me a funny look.

“I know you’re not into the organizational stuff, and that you’d prefer to keep everything open and organic, and not in any way corporate, and I agree. I mean, I’m an artist, not a businessman. But honestly, in this case, I think we need to act. If only out of respect for Phil.”

“It’s OK,” says Eldrich, patting my knee. “It was taken care of. Right after Phil left.”

“Oh,” I say, trying to sound casual. “By who?” I’m thinking Mushroom Steve is an evil genius. He shows up with his
psychotropics and his beard braids, and everyone thinks he’s some dumb-ass hippie. Meantime, he spied an opportunity and he fucking seized it.

“Amy,” says Eldrich. “She’s good at all that business stuff.”

“Amy?” I said, not quite grasping this info or its implications. “
Amy
had the Institute incorporated?”

“I figured you knew.”

“No … she didn’t mention it.” Punch in the gut. Lungs squeezed by invisible hands.

“I guess she’s been super-busy with school.”

“Yeah, I guess she has.”

“She hasn’t been around much.”

“No, she really hasn’t.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“I’m fine,” I say. But I’m not. I’ve just been torn from my accepted reality, the waking dream in which Amy and I are together. A unit. I flash on the last conversation I had with my father. He is urging me to trust no one (before my mother grabs the phone away).

“Anyhow,” says Eldrich, sliding the paper back into the envelope and the envelope back into the photo album and the photo album back into the mahogany pocket-square drawer, “I wouldn’t worry about Catelyn moving in for a bit. I’m sure Phil wouldn’t mind.”

“You’re probably right,” I concede. It’s not Catelyn I should be worrying about.

December was a total nightmare for me. I had multiple papers due and two exams to study for, and I was stupidly behind on everything because of my work with the Institute. Oh, and to top it all off, I was cat-sitting for my parents, who were in Arizona looking for a vacation property. And I wasn’t even allowed to bring Jasmine to my place—that would be too traumatic for her—so I had to trek out to the Beaches every day to feed and pet her. Forget cleaning my apartment or getting a badly needed haircut or even thinking about Christmas shopping. That stuff wasn’t even on the table. I was going almost around the clock, getting about four hours of sleep a night. I had sacrificed a ton of my study time for the Institute, but instead of being thanked or appreciated, I was attacked. Now, I know that John likes to paint me as all cutthroat and conniving, but the fact is, I was only trying to protect Eldrich and Phil. Eldrich asked for my help, and I responded in a way that felt most correct in my gut.

I’d also like to point out that I never initiated anything.
Eldrich
came to
me
. After Phil left. He was upset. He confided that Phil had laid a huge responsibility at his feet, and he was feeling uneasy about it. He didn’t want to have to handle it on
his own. What happened was, just as Phil was getting into the limo to go to the airport, he handed Eldrich an envelope with a surprise inside. Essentially, Phil had changed his will and was leaving his house to the Institute if he were to pass away during surgery or in post-op. Phil was really very sick. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility for him to die during a twelve-hour surgery. I knew that if this unfortunate turn of events came to pass, we would be in a huge pickle, given that Phil was still legally married and that the Institute was not in any way an official entity. His home was worth between three and four million dollars. People have killed for a lot less, right? Can you imagine the endless courtroom battles that would ensue over something like that? It would be frickin’ Bleak House, assuming we weren’t just tossed out at the onset. I suggested to Eldrich that the smartest thing to do was incorporate the Institute immediately. Then at least we wouldn’t be embroiled in quite such a litigation hell should anything tragic occur. He agreed with me. He agreed 100 percent. And he asked me to handle it. He had no idea how to do it, and he asked me to do it. So I did. To save money for the Institute, I dealt with it myself, online, without the aid of a lawyer or accountant. It’s a pretty fiddly process, and it took me about a week to make it all happen, a week in which I could have—and should have!—been focusing on my school work. But did I get any props for my sacrifice? No. Just the opposite, in fact.