Bitch Slap Page 7

  “Nonsense. No intrusion whatever. We were just finishing.” He pumped my hand. “Glad you came, Mark. Let me introduce you to Tamra.” His manner was far more vivacious that I’d seen before, leading me to conclude that he was happier in Tamra’s presence than in Gillian’s—a safe bet (though I did not know Tamra, I was beginning to know Gillian only too well).

  “Mr. Manning,” said Tamra, padding across the bare room toward me, “welcome to my ashram.” She extended her hand.

  Esmond clued me, “An ashram is a place of spiritual retreat.”

  “Ah.” I shook the woman’s hand lightly, finding that her grip was stronger than mine. “Thank you, is it ‘Miss Thaine’?” I didn’t know if she preferred some Hindu form of address.

  She smiled. “Everyone calls me Tamra.” She wore no makeup; a few soft lines creased her face around the eyes and mouth. Her light brown hair, showing some gray streaks, was pulled back in a loose knot. She had an ageless quality about her—the word inscrutable sprang to mind. I honestly couldn’t guess whether she was thirty or sixty. Though there was nothing Eastern about her name, her clothing, or her physical features, she seemed blissfully serene and “in the zone.” Had she achieved inner peace? Or was she on drugs?

  I told her, “And everyone calls me Mark. I hope you will, too.”

  With the slightest bow of her head, a mere nod, she said, “Thank you, I shall.” But I found it odd that she did not repeat my name.

  Esmond said to me, “I’ve already told Tamra that you might want to print something about the institute in the Register.”

  “That would be wonderful,” she said with enthusiasm so mild, it could have passed for sarcasm.

  “It’s definitely news,” I told them, “and I think a good share of our readers might find it of interest. Eastern studies are relatively unknown here, but that’s the purpose of the press—to inform and educate. I’m ashamed to admit my own ignorance, but I’m always curious.”

  Tamra said, “I’m pleased to know you have a hungry mind. May we show you around?”

  “I was hoping you would, yes.”

  Esmond took over, saying, “This way, Mark.” And he led me back along the corridor I’d already walked. Tamra followed as Esmond explained, “The offices and classrooms, sorry to say, are still a mess, but our energies have been focused on the grounds and the buildings—first things first. We’ve managed to clear out the studios for the private lessons.” He paused at the front door, where he and Tamra stepped into their sandals, then led us outside.

  “What sort of lessons, specifically?” I asked, pulling out my notebook and uncapping my pen.

  Standing in the slanting afternoon sunlight, Tamra answered, “Hatha yoga has been the mainstay of my practice and will, at least at first, be the primary discipline taught at the institute. It is a system of physical exercises for the control and perfection of the body—based on asanas, or postures—but yoga is only one of the four chief Hindu disciplines. I also have a keen interest in ayurveda, sometimes called the sister science of yoga, which seeks to inform wellness decisions based on both diet and exercise. Lately, I have been studying reiki, a healing discipline based on touch, deriving not from India but from the Far East. My journey has barely begun, but these are all worthy disciplines, and I hope to share my knowledge of them with the people of Dumont.”

  Making note of these terms, I said, “Yes, there’s definitely a story here.” My tone may have sounded ambiguous because my open-mindedness was still struggling to overcome my skepticism.

  “Come this way,” Tamra again addressed me without saying my name.

  Esmond and I followed as she led us from the parking area to a narrow path that skirted one of the buildings, then disappeared into the trees. The gravel underfoot gave way to matted pine needles as we ducked beneath branches and were seemingly swallowed by the deep, cool shade. The legs of Tamra’s tight white leotards scissored ahead of me as she moved swiftly through the trees, then stopped. Turning back to us, she asked with a stilted inflection, “Is this not sublime?”

  Catching up with her, I saw that we had arrived in a small clearing, perfectly circular, with the ashy remnants of a campfire at its center. The tall, slender trees surrounded us like a wall leading upward to a pinched circle of sky, giving me the uneasy feeling that we were standing inside a chimney. I asked, “Sublime?”

  “I discovered this space after we acquired the property. It’s perfect—utterly perfect—for drumming.”

  “Drumming?”

  Esmond amplified, “Drumming in the woods.”

  Scratching a few notes, I told both of them, “I’m sorry, but I must be dense. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Esmond and Tamra exchanged a crooked smile. Their meaning was not difficult to decode—they agreed that I was, in fact, dense, and they felt not derision but pity for this woeful shortcoming.

  Tamra took a deep breath, held it for a long moment, then raised her arms to the circle of sky and exhaled noisily. If this demonstration was meant to evidence a healthy body and spirit, it was unconvincing. The rattle of her lungs suggested she indulged in chain-smoking, though this seemed unlikely.

  Thus purified (or whatever she had done), she turned to me and explained, “Drumming in the woods is an ancient practice, rediscovered in our own age, stemming from both Native American and holistic traditions. In the quest for harmonic convergence, drumming can be usefully combined with pranayama, or regulated breathing. The breath, we know, is a manifestation of the life force.”

  I wasn’t sure what to make of this. It sounded thoroughly loony, but I thought I should take notes. “Could you define harmonic convergence?”

  “According to Quetzalcoatl, it’s the fulfillment of the prophecy of thirteen heavens and nine hells, when humanity will experience an unprecedented new age of peace. The convergence began in 1987 and will end in 2012, with the culmination of the cycle of evolution.”

  “Really?”

  “So they say. In the yogic tradition, harmonic convergence relates more to chakras, which are energy points in the body corresponding to glands and emotions. Yogic practices, combined with drumming and pranayama, can help to balance the energy of the chakras.”

  I surmised, “The goal being … what, inner peace?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  Esmond added, “So naturally, Tamra intends to include drumming groups among the classes offered here at the institute.”

  “Naturally,” I agreed, putting a period on my notes and closing my pad. “It seems we’ve barely scratched the surface of all this, so I’d like to assign this story to one of my writers, who can take the time to sort it out and do it justice.”

  “Mark”—Esmond beamed—“that would be wonderful. As you know, Gillian has threatened to withhold her promised funding of Tamra’s important endeavors here. I still don’t know if Gillian was just blowing smoke, but either way, the publicity will help. By raising the community’s awareness of the institute, we can attract not only students, but other funding sources.”

  Leaving the drumming circle, we retraced our steps through the woods and emerged into the full daylight of the parking court. As Esmond and Tamra were walking me to my car, he asked, “Can we expect to hear from your reporter, or is there someone we should call?”

  “I’ll talk to our features editor about it. She’ll either take the story herself or assign it to someone else. In any event, she’ll phone you to set up an interview. What number should she call?”

  I opened my pad again to take down the number Esmond gave me. Then he asked, “May I borrow your pen, Mark? I’d like to make note of your editor’s name.”

  “Sure.” I turned my pad to a new page and passed it to him with my pen. “Her name is Glee Savage.”

  He nodded, writing the name; I noticed that he was left-handed. When he finished, he tore the page from the notebook, which he returned to me with my pen.

  Replacing everything in my pockets, I exte
nded my hand, thanking Esmond for the tour. Then I turned to Tamra, thanked her as well, and waited to see if she would offer her hand.

  Instead, she brought her hands together in the Hindu gesture of prayer, lowered her head, and said to me, “Namaste.”

  Esmond translated, “‘I bow to the divine in you.’”

  A charming sentiment, I thought, but why hadn’t Tamra spoken my name?

  “Likewise,” I told her with a nod.

  Chapter Seven

  Lucille Haring’s jaw dropped as she listened, sitting across from me at my desk. “You mean, Glee actually hit her?” “Smack in the face. It was her palm, not her fist, but still …”

  Lucy scratched her stubbly copper-colored hair with the eraser of her pencil. “I can’t believe it. It’s so unlike her. Do you want me to have a talk with her?” As managing editor, Lucy outranked Glee, but Glee was older, with a far longer history at the paper. Lucy also understood that I preferred a management style based on trust and delegation, not hierarchy, so the issue of reprimanding Glee was touchy.

  I told Lucy, “I’d like to hear what Glee has to say for herself. Her behavior was a poor reflection on the paper, certainly; much to my surprise, Gillian was more indifferent than indignant. She said that she and Glee knew each other in college and didn’t get along. I have no idea what’s at the bottom of this, but I didn’t get the feeling Gillian would call the cops or start suing anyone.”

  “Thank God.” Lucy crossed the legs of her olive-drab pantsuit and wrote a note to herself on the yellow legal pad that rested on her knee.

  I recalled a detail that I’d found curious. “When Gillian recognized Glee today, she referred to her as Glee Buttles. I’ve always wondered if Glee Savage was her born name, but I’ve never asked.”

  “Me neither. As far as I know, she was never married.” Lucy noted this fact with a measure of approval. She herself had never wed, but her reason for remaining single was different from Glee’s. Glee was a woman who had devoted her life to her career; Lucy was equally committed, but more to the point, she was a lesbian.

  “Where is Glee?” I asked. “Have you seen her?” It was nearly three o’clock, and activity in the newsroom beyond the glass wall of my office had begun to pick up as deadlines approached for our morning edition (the Register’s only edition). The hard-news pages would not be put to bed till later that evening, but features and advertising were already being locked up.

  “Now that you ask, no, I haven’t seen Glee. But that’s not unusual. She keeps her own schedule—and she’s never missed a deadline.” Lucy checked her watch. “She’s bound to show up soon; she has stories to file.”

  “And I’ve got a new story I want her to look into.” Opening the reporter’s notebook that sat on my desk, I added, “You’re not going to believe this.”

  Lucy eyed me skeptically. “There’s more? I thought I’d heard it all. Don’t tell me—after Glee bitch-slapped Gillian, she went on a rampage and robbed a bank.”

  “No, no. Nothing like that—this is a different story entirely. Have you heard anything about the Dumont Institute for Eastern Studies?”

  Lucy thought for a moment, shaking her head, then looked up from the notes she was taking and spelled out the acronym. “D-I-E-S? Catchy.”

  With a laugh, I added, “I presume that was an oversight on their part.”

  “Whose?”

  I filled her in regarding Tamra Thaine’s newly established school, Esmond Reece’s role in securing funding for it from Gillian, and my visit to the compound only an hour earlier. “I got an earful, and it all sounded like nonsense. But I have no background in these disciplines, so I’m reluctant to judge beliefs that are supposedly based on learning that predates Western culture by thousands of years.”

  “Or maybe,” said Lucy, “it’s just nut stuff.”

  “Maybe. And if so, that’s part of the story. We need to go slow with this one and get our facts straight. I’d like Glee to handle it.”

  “Back up, Mark.” Lucy was drawing a grid on her notes, a technique I’d often seen her use when trying to establish the facts of an emerging story. “What’s the connection between Tamra and Esmond?”

  “She’s been his private yoga instructor for several years now. She moved here from Harper, Wisconsin, as did the Reeces.”

  Lucy’s pencil tapped a square on her grid. “Obvious question: Are Tamra and Esmond ‘involved’?”

  “Just what I’ve been wondering. On the surface, I’ve seen nothing to suggest that they’re romantically linked, but they do seem to have a ‘spiritual kinship,’ which may—or may not—draw the line at sex. What bearing does any of this have on the story? I’m not sure.”

  Lucy’s pencil moved to another square on the grid. “Esmond and Gillian—how’s their marriage?”

  “Not good.” I recounted the background Esmond had shared with me in Neil’s office, and I described my observations of Gillian in action, concluding, “She’s one tough cookie, and frankly, if I were Esmond, I’d find Tamra a tempting alternative.”

  “This is starting to sound like a soap opera, complete with catfights and—”

  “Ah!” I interrupted. “Here comes Glee.”

  Lucy turned to watch Glee make her way from the stairs through the newsroom. She apparently knew we needed to talk, as she was beelining toward my office. I stood, leading Lucy away from my desk to the conference area of my outer office. Glee rushed through the door; her big, floppy tiger-striped purse trailed her like a kite on a short string.

  “Mark,” she blurted, “I hope you can forgive my unprofessional behavior today. I don’t know what got in to me. I’m truly sorry.” Her head bowed; her shoulders slumped; her purse dropped to the floor.

  “Glee,” I said gently, approaching her, “of course I forgive you. In the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you make such a gaff—and I presume it won’t happen again. The bigger question is: Will Gillian forgive you?”

  Glee’s head bobbed up again. She answered offhandedly, “Oh, I doubt it.”

  Stepping into our conversation, Lucy asked, “What’s this all about, Glee?”

  I noted, “Gillian said you didn’t get along in college.”

  Glee folded her hands, explaining calmly, “That’s the gist of it, yes. The details aren’t important, not after so many years. When I said that Gillian won’t forgive me, I was referring to our general ill will, which goes back more than thirty years. As for my slapping her this afternoon, she knows as well as I do that I owed her one. I understand she’s become a whiz in the business world with finances and accounting; if so, she wouldn’t lose track of a thing like that.”

  “A thing like what?” I persisted.

  “Mark, it’s personal. Today I evened the score a bit.” Pausing in thought, she then stressed, “A bit.” Her red lips pinched at some memory.

  “Still,” I said, “I think you owe the woman an apology for the incident, if not out of your own sense of courtesy, then at least for the good name of the Register.”

  “I agree,” said Glee without hesitation, blinking away her vexing thoughts of the past. “I’ll phone her this afternoon, then visit her at the house tomorrow so I can apologize in person. Besides”—she grinned—“I don’t want to jeopardize the story on the house. It’ll be a great feature, and Neil deserves the recognition.”

  “Can’t argue with that.” I breathed a quiet laugh.

  “So here’s my plan: I’ll play kissy-face with Gillian in order to get her back in our good graces. And I’ll file a teaser column this afternoon for tomorrow morning’s paper, extolling the Reeces’ new home and whetting readers’ appetites for a full-blown photo feature on Sunday.”

  Lucy said, “Sounds good to me, but you’ll need to write something fast. I’ll tell the desk to save you some space. How much do you need?”

  Glee paused to calculate. “No more than twelve inches of text. You can cut it if you need to.”

  Lucy nodded. “Done.” And she
took her leave, disappearing into the maze of desks in the newsroom.

  Glee stooped to pick her purse off the floor, telling me, “I’d better make tracks. Can’t stop the presses.”

  Wryly, I reminded her, “I can. Sit down a moment, Glee.”

  “Uh-oh.” She eyed me askance. “It seems I’m in for a lecture.”

  “No, nothing like that. I want to discuss a new assignment with you.” My words were true enough, but I was also determined to get the dirt about Glee and Gillian. Motioning toward the low, round table, I asked, “Shall we?”

  “You’re the boss.” Her tone carried a hint of skepticism. Choosing the chair nearest the door, she opened her purse on her lap and pulled out a pen and notebook. Under her breath, she told me, “After what happened this afternoon, I’m surprised you’d trust me with anything more meaty than ‘Dog Bites Man.’”

  “Oh, it’s meaty,” I assured her, sitting in the adjacent chair. “In fact, it’s related to the Reeces.”

  She squinted. “Is this a feature—or an expose?”

  “Possibly both. Ever heard of the Dumont Institute for Eastern Studies?”

  She wrote the name on her pad, then grimaced.

  I nodded. “I know. Someone wasn’t thinking. I’m not sure how we’ll make repeated references to it in print—but now, that’s your problem.”

  “Hey, Mark, back up. Let’s not sweat the stylistic details, not yet. To answer your original question, no, I’ve never heard of this joint. What’s the story?”

  I gave her the same background I had just given Lucy, concluding, “So the institute is very much tied to the Reeces. Not only is Esmond Reece in thick with Tamra Thaine, but Gillian has threatened to withhold her promised funding of the project, claiming to be cash-strapped by cost overruns on the new house—which Neil says is bunk.”

  Glee rolled her eyes. “Consider the source.”