Ten Years before the Accident
JUNE 1973
In the two years since The Plan’s first seminar, when their mother thrashed inside the circle and became someone else, the organization creeped into their daily lives. Verona pulled them from the local public school (“Excellent with the basics,” she explained, “but a grossly incomplete curriculum”) and enlisted a growing roster of members to teach them lessons at home—lessons that began, always, with the Poem of the Day, verses chosen to calibrate their expanding minds. Other kids came, including Violet, who always brought the best objects for show-and-tell: her uncle Bash’s antique guns and flasks and gas masks that resembled the elongated faces of ghosts. Jude and Kat and Violet put on the masks and chased each other around the acres of backyard; Jude always outran Kat, but allowed Violet to catch her.
The adults held long discussions about what The Plan was, what it could become, how it would survive and thrive. They had competition. Across the country similar groups were promising fast and easy enlightenment, a mass Human Potential Movement, a golden grift for the times. These groups exhorted members to “Get it!” without explaining what it was. They used tactics of divisiveness and derision. Everyone’s an asshole, everyone’s a motherfucker, everyone’s shitty luck was born of their own design, including accidents and illnesses. Pay two hundred and fifty dollars and you, too, can learn that there are no answers because there are no questions. Everyone wanted in, or was terrified of being left out. Even celebrities were up for grabs, John Denver and Diana Ross and Yoko Ono and John Lennon and Cher and others in their orbits. The possibilities were infinite so long as they could distinguish themselves from the rest.
“How will we do that?” Jude asked one day, standing in the doorway of the parlor, Violet and Kat on either side. Verona sat on the sofa beneath a large canvas of herself as Very Sherry, straddling a rocket and waving a sparkler, an homage to the Fourth of July. A semicircle of people faced her, including Dr. Bash and Ronald and Donald, all of them sitting wide-legged, hands clenching their hairy bare knees. Dr. Bash, a head taller than the others, his magnificent yellow mane fanned out like the sun, made Ronald and Donald look like drab afterthoughts. In Jude’s mind, they fused into the same person: the RonDon.
“Do what, my beatific angel?” Verona said. She patted the empty spot on the sofa, and all three girls squeezed beside her.
“Show we’re different,” Jude said.
The question launched another round of discussion. How, indeed? Let’s start with what The Plan was not. They were not a pyramid scheme. Profit was not their purpose. In fact, since everyone deserved the chance to excavate their own hidden promise, they would offer a sliding scale for seminars based on need. The principal members would collect a modest salary, of course, but all other proceeds would go toward growing The Plan. Their members, if they so choose, would not be limited to weekend seminars, but would be invited—nay, encouraged—to participate at any time and in any fashion; there was always more work to do. Contrary to one popular organization based in New York City, they did not believe that the nuclear family was the root of all evil. Contrary to one popular organization based in California, they did not need the crutch of religion or the specter of a deity to achieve their highest power. They were not the free love children of the sixties. They were not interested in drugs or orgies. They were not hippies brainwashed by the likes of Charles Manson. They would not start a race war or proselytize about the end times. They did not aspire to anarchy but to mastering the system from the inside.
“Judith, Katherine,” Verona said, “would one or both of you start taking notes on our discussion? We will finalize the five tenets of The Plan and launch the next phase of recruitment and integration.”
“Violet, you participate as well,” Dr. Bash said. “You girls are old enough to start practicing self-sufficiency, and we need all hands on deck.”
So, then, what was The Plan? They were professionals with jobs and families. Just look at Dr. Bash, who had degrees in psychology and marketing and history; and Ronald, who had a long and distinguished career in publishing; and Donald, a photographer whose work had appeared in magazines all over the world. And Verona, of course, had been a voracious traveler and student of the universe, a woman who excelled in cultivating and capitalizing on her own prodigious gifts.
They were smart and literate and intellectually curious. They were strivers, risk-takers, strategic dreamers. They were raising the next generation of proactive and successful adults. They believed in personal responsibility, energetic initiative, and advocating on behalf of the organization—but never at the expense of individual benefit. They were benevolently ruthless. They would live according to the five tenets of The Plan, individual concepts that, practiced as a whole, would elevate members to their most glorious and fierce iteration.
THE FIVE TENETS OF THE PLAN
Make your pain work for you.
Cast the dead weight from your mind.
The battle is constant and permanent.
Turn failure into success.
Your mind is the ultimate power.
On the hottest day of that summer, Verona made an announcement: “Girls, I have wonderful news. The Plan has grown by leaps and bounds, and now we’re bigger than this house can contain, bigger than all our houses can contain. We are going to have another house—three new houses, in fact, smack in the middle of Philadelphia. We’ll have so many adventures and you’ll become strong and independent women, able to survive and thrive in ways that might at first seem impossible.” They were to begin packing right away, limited to what would fit in a single valise.
Within two hours they were in the Way Back of Verona’s car, flopping across each other, enticing passing truckers to sound their horns. They eased slowly into the city, the wide sky and clusters of trees yielding to abandoned factories and rails and a pervasive sense of raw despair. Trees sprouted in the midst of junkyards. A smokestack huffed in the distance. Trash drifted down streets with the slow grace of tumbleweed. Verona coasted down a narrow street lined with row houses, some with boards for windows. At the end of the block congregated a pack of wild dogs, pets that had been discarded and turned feral.
“Here we are, darlings,” she said, and gave a game show sweep of her hand. “Katherine, you’ll start off in Mr. Ronald’s house. Judith, you’ll be with Dr. Bash.”
“Why can’t we be together?” Kat asked.
“You’re just a house away.” She slung an arm around each of their shoulders. “Don’t look at this as punishment, but as opportunity. Grow alone. Learn to think independently. See what you can accomplish without the push and pull of the other, with only your own voice in your head. It will be better for both of you in the long run.”
“Will you be staying with us?” Kat asked.
Verona pulled them close so that Jude’s head rested on her right breast and Kat’s on the left. She began to weep and shake, and the twins shook along with her.
“Not right now,” she said, “as much as it hurts me to let you go. But I want you girls to master the tenets. I want you to be magnificent in this world. And one day, when you’re older and ready, you’ll join me in the Big House. That will be our ultimate reward, being together again, all of us in full possession of our powers.”
Kat began to cry, adding to the shaking and jostling. Jude held back her tears and just let her head go along for the ride. The crying seemed to last a long time, and at last Verona stifled her honks and wheezes, an old motor stuttering to a stop.
“Don’t worry, my angels,” she said. “We will be able to communicate. It’s just temporary. Remember why we are doing this. Remember what is at stake. Remember to make me proud. I love you both so much.”
She released them. Jude took over, pulling Kat into her arms, letting her sister continue her crying. She whispered to Kat that they would be strong and brave, they would reject and release, they would amplify their thoughts with such staggering force that they would all inevitably come true.
“Hawt ew inkth, si,” they said in unison.
What we think, is.
Dr. Bash’s row house stood narrow but tall, four stories high, and was decorated with their mother’s cast-off antiques: ripped chairs and splintered tables and tattered tapestries that had once been stored in her backyard shed. A dozen children crowded in the front parlor, many of them sitting on suitcases, their faces a mixed gallery of malaise and terror. Jude recognized several from previous meetings and gatherings at their home—including Roy, the kid in the cowboy hat who liked to play with fire. She saw no sign of Violet. In silence, Jude waited and waited: five minutes, ten, a half hour. It was not clear if an adult would appear, or if they were now the adults.
In another five minutes Dr. Bash did appear, wearing flared jeans and a red tunic with a neckline cut low enough to show his chest hair, which reminded Jude of the underbelly of some exotic animal, a yak or a wild boar, if a yak or a boar could be blond. She had never seen so much of a man’s body, not even her father’s, and she felt compelled to look away. Instead she focused on his teeth, so very straight and white, and his eyes, still the most unusual she’d ever seen, and somehow even lighter in this dim room. He descended the steps with the ponderous rhythm of a grandfather clock—pause, thump, pause, thump, pause, thump—and, upon reaching the bottom, raised his tanned arms into the air.
“Welcome, all of you,” he said. “I’m so thrilled you’re here. You all have known me for a few years as Dr. Bash, but in honor of this new phase of our little group, I am going to ask you to call me something new. Don’t laugh, but I am going to ask you to call me King Bash.”
They laughed, of course, partly because he said not to, but mostly because it was absurd. How could Dr. Bash be a king when he was standing in a row house in the center of Philadelphia, wearing a gaudy tunic and his bright, goofy smile? Where did he think they were, in medieval England? What, was he planning to round up the cavalry and invade South Jersey?
“I know, it’s funny, let it all out,” King Bash said. Jude watched him make eye contact with every kid in the room, saving her for last. “I know it’s strange, but if you think about it, it makes sense. We’re creating our own little country, and every country has to have leaders and rules.”
No one was laughing now, even if it was all still a bit weird. King Bash rubbed his blond stubble and tried a different approach: “If you don’t want to think of us as a country, think of us as a jungle filled with the most formidable and clever animals. We’re hunters on the prowl for the best ways to advance our knowledge. We’re gatherers, finding new members who will complete our pack. We’re warriors, defeating anyone who threatens us, either individually or as a group. There’s always a king of the jungle, but that doesn’t mean you all are any less important.” He clapped his thick hands, rubbing them together. “Now, I’m going to have a short, private chat with each of you, but to make that bearable, I’ve also ordered a bunch of pizzas, more than anyone here will be able to eat.”
Everyone cheered. King Bash clapped along and then pressed a finger to his lips, making the room go quiet again. “Celebrate now, because tomorrow we start on a stricter regimen. We must get ourselves in fighting shape. We are just beginning to realize and harness our potential, and we need to ride our momentum.”
The pizza came, and the room filled with the smell of greasy meat and the sound of vigorous chewing. Jude took three slices, holding one in each hand and the third by the firm grip of her teeth, aware she must resemble one of the wild dogs roaming outside, sifting for scraps. She sat in a corner, her back against the wall, watching all the kids—some as young as seven, some as old as she, some a year or two older—dropping strings of cheese into their open mouths, waiting to be called to another room, where they would be advised on riding momentum and harnessing potential. She had nearly finished her third slice when King Bash called her name. The top half of his body leaned out from behind a sheer silver curtain, and he beckoned her, curling his fingers slowly inward. She swallowed the last pointy shard of crust, and it scraped her throat on the way down.
She stepped over a minefield of bare legs to reach the curtain, and King Bash pulled it closed behind her. The room was small and square and had one narrow window with the blind drawn shut. An avocado-colored shag carpet covered most of the floor. He took a seat in a worn leather chair (another Verona discard, she noticed) behind a squat wooden desk cluttered with papers, a money ledger, a Rolodex, several packs of playing cards, a lava lamp with floating neon blobs, and books with titles like As a Man Thinketh and My Secret Garden. He motioned to an opposing chair in a way that made her feel like a visiting dignitary, and spoke to her as though they were equals: “Please, Jude, take a seat,” he said. “It is a privilege to have you here.”
His words stirred within her a desire to be the finest version of herself—a self that just a few moments earlier had seemed aspirational, years out of her reach. She sat tall in her chair, setting her spine straight and shoulders back, and crossed her legs at the ankles, just like Verona. Her fingers began picking at each other, tearing cuticles, and she folded them in her lap. “Thank you, Dr. Bash—King—sir,” she said. “I am glad to be here.”
He leaned forward and she noticed that his hands, too, were clasped. On his thick middle finger he wore a thick gold band engraved with a B, two sparkling diamonds filling the holes in the letter. “I’m so pleased to hear that, Jude. We’re on the precipice of something big here, something truly grand and exciting, and I am going to need your help.”
Jude nodded. Her heart might burst with solemnity and pride. This must be how Neil Armstrong felt when he stepped onto the moon, or how Liza Minnelli felt accepting the Oscar for Cabaret, or how Shirley Chisholm felt announcing her candidacy for president. Whatever this thing was, whatever was making King Bash sweat through his tunic and twist his golden ring, it was epic, possibly life-changing, and she would be at the forefront, making it happen.
“I think you know that I hold you in high regard, Jude. I’ve always thought you were smarter and more mature than other girls your age. Jude, you have a toughness and a fortitude that will serve you well in The Plan, and in life.”
She liked the way that he repeated her name, as though it were a mantra that made him feel centered and calm. Hearing her name in his voice gave her a surge of power, and she leaned forward, too, placing her palms on his desk. “I agree, King Bash. I have always felt more responsible than other kids my age. I’m almost thirteen, but I feel fifteen or sixteen at least.”
His blue eyes bore like augers, and he did not blink when he said his next words. “You are a natural-born leader, Jude, and you will take on the important task of helping The Plan grow. I am going to send you to meet other young people like yourself. Jude, I am going to trust you to say the right things to them and listen carefully to their responses. You will vet them to make sure they are worthy of The Plan. Do you know what vet means?”
She pulled her hands back from the table and imagined shaking her brain like a snow globe, hoping the right definition emerged from the mist. She reworded his question into a response: “Yes, King Bash, it means asking them questions and making sure they are worthy. If they answer the questions wrong, they are not worthy.”
“Exactly, Jude,” he said, and she was pleased to have pleased him. “And since The Plan works as a force for good, since we are interested in the ideas of radical acceptance and validating the power of the mind, we need you to base our questions on those concepts. So when you see someone, maybe a boy or girl your age or slightly younger, you might ask things like, ‘Have you ever wished you were smarter or stronger?’ and ‘Do you know humans only use ten percent of our brains? What if you could learn how to use the whole thing?’ and ‘Do you want to meet a group of people who will think you’re cool, no matter what?’ The best candidates for The Plan will be the ones who ask questions in turn. They will show they have something to contribute, that they, too, can help us grow. Do you understand, Jude?”
“I believe so, King Bash,” she said. “I think this is something I can do.”
“Think?” he asked, tilting his big animal head. “There is no room for uncertainty in The Plan, Jude.”
“I know, King Bash. I know, I really do.” Her back was so perfectly straight, her ankles so gracefully crossed, her voice so preternaturally mature.
“Out of sight,” he said, and held out his hand. She went in for a low five but instead he grasped her hand and shook it properly, the way adults do. As she turned to leave he called her name again, quietly this time, almost a whisper.
“Yes, King Bash?” She kept her back as straight as it had been in the chair.
He stood and took a step toward her. “I want you to know, Jude, that our radical acceptance also extends to you.”
Her body began a slow burn, as though a match had been struck on the tips of her toes.
“I have known you long enough to know you are different, Jude. I know you have different desires, different appetites. I know that you worry that Kat might not understand, since her appetites and desires are not considered different.”
The flame grew hotter and burned higher, lapping at her thighs. She could not speak or move. He took another step toward her, close enough for her to smell the tangy musk of his cologne.
“You don’t have to say anything, Jude. Your desires are your desires, and they are valid and true—just by virtue of you having them. You should be proud, not scared. Your differences make you special, Jude. They are part of your tremendous power, and I do not ever want you to turn your back on them.”
He stood over her now, so close she could see the tangled hair in his nostrils and his peppery pores. “I accept you, Jude, and I want you to know that your secret is safe with me. You can always trust me. I will make sure no one uses your difference as a weapon against you.”
He pulled her toward him, trapping her in his arms. She wanted to thank him, to deny everything, to run away, to burrow herself in his damp hairy chest and weep—weep from embarrassment, from shame, from regret, from fear, from happiness, from a clear, pure feeling of relief; maybe she was not a freak or an abomination. Maybe there was not a thing wrong with her. Maybe she would have a happy life after all.
“It’s okay, Jude,” he said, holding her tight. “It’s really, honestly okay.” And in that moment, she had never believed anyone as much as she believed him.