The Answer to Everything (25 page)

I’m actually really looking forward to that.

You know what pisses me off? All the “act of God” talk. What happened behind Phil’s house was not an act of God. It was an act of unstable air meeting moist air, followed by acts of baffling, unconscionable stupidity.

God did not “save” Staci and Heather. Heather was sensible enough to coax Staci inside when she heard thunder. Staci had been curious about “the lady” in the tennis court; Heather enticed her indoors by promising to show her the sculpture.

God didn’t save. Common sense saved.

Art fucking saved.

At this point, I don’t care what happens to MAMA. When I finish something, I move on. Artists are like sharks. Keep moving or perish. I’m onto my new project already. Heavy into it and feeling the throb. I rented a studio at Lansdowne and Dupont, and have more than enough for materials. The fridge is stuffed with organic cherries and grass-fed beef. The bar is stocked with Aberlour A’bunadh. I have all the time in the world to work.

So why I am so out of sorts?

I’m out of sorts because I can’t sleep.

I can’t sleep because I’m subconsciously irrational.

Intellectually, I know I’m not responsible for nine deaths or any deaths. I cannot and do not accept culpability for people’s bad and stupid choices (i.e., burrowing under trees in the middle of an electrical storm). And yet I’m up every night with my heart pounding hard. It blasts me awake and keeps me that way.

My brain says one thing. My ticker says another.

One thing they agree on is that it’s all very sad. I feel sad about those people. Especially Phil. Phil was a neat guy. Funny. Endearing. I really miss our daily confabs. Our
Storage Wars
bed-and-smoothie parties.

I find myself flashing on one particular night at the Institute. It was during our perfect summer. Before things went south. July 1. We had a Canada Day bash in the yard. Big barbecue. Lots of Seekers and friends of. Kids. Popsicles. Hot dogs. Sparklers. Much drunkenness and dancing on the lawn as the sun went down. Phil had the place wired for sound, and Mushroom Steve had made an all-Canuck playlist to groove to. “Sunny Days”; “Blow at High Dough”; “My Definition of a Boombastic Jazz Style.” It was a warm night. Flowers blooming moist and humid, grass freshly cut. Everything smelled sweet and good. Especially after the neighbours down the street started lighting up the sky with fireworks, adding that delicious gunpowdery top note to the air. We danced and danced. Barefoot on soft grass. Kids darting around, waving their sparklers with hectic, allowed-to-stay-up-late energy. It was during the Alternaverse period, and there was a lot of crazy-ass strutting going down on the lawn. I myself was looped on tequila and jumping manically to Teenage Head’s
“Let’s Shake” when I noticed Phil watching wistfully from the deck stairs, smiling at the spectacle, too weak to join in. I pogoed over and scooped him into my arms. He laughed and hooted and threw his head back as I danced him into the centre of it all. The man was tiny and, at the time, practically weightless—an infant in my arms as I jumped and jumped in the middle of the madness. He couldn’t stop laughing. Then the song ended and the first slow one of the night came on. It was something I’d never heard before (but have listened to a hundred times since). “The Valley” by Jane Siberry. Sung by k.d. lang—a live version. It was incredible. Otherworldly. I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. That voice. That strong, clear voice, married to that lilting, gorgeously sad swoop of a song.

I danced Phil through it, floated him all the way through—dipping, gliding, soaring, plunging—while the kids swirled their sparklers and Seekers clung to each other, swaying. When the song ended, Phil sighed and rested his head against my chest. “Handsome, thank you,” he said. “I die happy now.”

Poor Phil.

Poor all of us, for that matter. Poor everyone, trying to make it in this hard world. Like plants in concrete. The tender shoots can’t do it. They’re not strong enough to push through. So they reach for anything that might help them gain purchase—drugs, God, booze, art—whatever gives them the strength to push through. But only the toughest weeds make it.

So far I’ve been able to find the cracks. But it’s getting harder and harder. And sometimes, honestly, I just want to
not try
.

Sometimes, I just want to lie in the dark on a duvet that smells faintly of lemons, and have long cool fingers trail up and down my spine.

I really need to stop thinking about that.

~

I had the solution. I knew how to tell the story. I emailed the editor and asked if I could please take her out for lunch to discuss it (rather than send an outline). She agreed to coffee. We were to meet at the Starbucks around the corner from her office at 11 a.m.

At 11:10 she sailed in like the
Queen Mary
. Large, steady, imperious. I bought her an Iced Hazelnut Macchiato and got straight to the point.

“Fiction,” I said.

She looked at me with heavy-lidded eyes behind thick-framed glasses. “Fiction?”

“Yes.”

She sipped her macchiato.

“You know what Ralph Waldo Emerson said? ‘Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures.’”

A thin smile. Swathes of linen and sizable chunks of silver jewellery shifting, adjusting.

“It would be a veiled account of what happened at the Institute. You know, ‘inspired by.’ I’d set it in a different city, change the names and some details. And unlike the article, which was largely about one follower’s experience, I would really get into the hearts and minds of the organizers and the guru.”

“Hmm.”

“I see it as a meditation on faith. What are we looking for in God? What does God represent? What are the things that humans need to feel fulfilled and happy? And what are they willing to do to get those things? I was thinking of calling it ‘The Answer to Everything.’”

The editor laughed. “Well,” she said, “with a title like that, you’ll be obligated to figure it out. Your readers will expect you to know what it is. The answer. To everything.”

I nodded, trying to process that. Then she told me that she’d prefer a non-fiction account (more marketable, etc.), but since I seemed passionate about the idea, she’d be happy to read it when I had a draft. She sailed out then. And I headed home.

For the next seventeen hours I barely budged from my computer, surfing everything from Aristotle to Krishnamurti to Martin Seligman to Epictetus. Philosophical treatises, psychological studies, poems, quotations, bible excerpts, TED Talks, etc. It was exhausting. Confusing. By the time the sun showed up, I had mega screen-head and felt giddy and stupid and no closer to my goal.

On a whim I emailed Eldrich. I said:
If I send one more question—my last, I swear—will you take the time to answer honestly and seriously (i.e., no pictures of polar bears on ice floes, no links to Blind Melon tunes)?
A few minutes later he responded (normally):
Yes. I promise. Send me your question
.

So I did.

And barely ten seconds later he sent a response. No words. Just one emoticon.

I guess I should have known.

Re: THE ANSWER TO EVERYTHING

Eldrich Becker

To: Griffin Hill

    ♥

Thank you to the following fine people:

Patrick Crean—my very wise and perceptive editor; Jackie Kaiser—my wonderful agent; Barbara Gowdy; Gil Adamson; Melanie Little; Lynn Crosbie; Iris Tupholme, Maria Golikova, Kelsey Marshall, Alan Jones, Joanna Ebejer, Emma Ingram and everyone at HarperCollins Canada; Kevin Connolly; Jason McBride; San Grewal; Hugh Graham; Kathleen Scheibling; Matthew Friedberg; Richard Kramer; Fern Sager; Betsy Aziz; Holly Kent; Ingrid Paulson; Judy Phillips; Chandra Wohleber; Stuart Ross; Denis De Klerck; Michael Winter; Alan Zunder; Ariadny Fragos; George Gooderham; Leah Simson; Robyn Friedman; Randall Cole and Max Friedman-Cole.

I am truly grateful for the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council.

Eldrich’s entry on page 268 is an excerpt from the poem “The Tables Turned,” by William Wordsworth.

Eldrich’s quote on page 255 is from
Nature
, by Ralph Waldo Emerson.

John’s photo-dissolving artwork was inspired by a piece I
saw in a small gallery back in the 1990s (either in Montreal or Toronto). Alas, I didn’t take note of who made the thing, but I never forgot the brilliant installation. So thank you to the mystery genius artist.

ELYSE FRIEDMAN
is the author of
Long Story Short
, a novella and stories; the novels
Then Again
and
Waking Beauty
; and the poetry collection
Know Your Monkey
. Her work has been shortlisted for the Trillium Book Award, the Toronto Book Award and the ReLit Award, and has won a gold National Magazine Award for fiction. She lives in Toronto.

Visit
www.AuthorTracker.com
for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

“Elyse Friedman has always been a daringly inventive and hilarious writer. With
The Answer to Everything
, she proves herself to be a first-rate storyteller in the bargain. Not even five pages into the novel I found myself ensnared by her disarming characters and their poignantly misguided yearnings. By the last page I was convinced that Friedman is a fictional force unto herself. Certainly, she is like no other writer I can think of.”

BARBARA GOWDY,
author of
Helpless
and
The White Bone

“This book seized me by the throat: the attack ended when I read the last page. I say this with joy. Friedman is one of a very small group of addictively readable, lyrical, fiercely intelligent and funny writers.”

LYNN CROSBIE,
author of
Life Is About Losing Everything

“
The Answer to Everything
is compelling proof that Elyse Friedman is one of Canada’s best and most crucial writers. Both cynical and searching, it’s a hilarious yet deeply moving portrait of an upstart cult gone wrong—it drew me in from page one but never let me
settle
, continually surprising me and challenging my take on things. It puts its players through the same paces, and the result is a cast of some of the most memorable characters I’ve met in a long time. It feels urgently timely, too—a book that I’ll be recommending far and wide.”

MELANIE LITTLE,
author of
Confidence

“A compelling, modern tragicomic novel that, like all of Friedman’s work, betrays a deep empathy while it delights in human foibles. What’s most striking is how real it all feels—step into this story and you’re caught.”

GIL ADAMSON,
author of
The Outlander

COVER DESIGN: INGRID PAULSON

The Answer to Everything
Copyright © 2014 by Elyse Friedman

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EPUB Edition July 2014 ISBN 9781443429177

A Patrick Crean Edition published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

FIRST EDITION

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