| |
“HI, CRYSTAL. GREAT class.”
I was usually bad at names, but “Crystal Phoenix” was pretty easy to remember. It evoked a striking mental image.
“I’ve never seen so many people in class before. When we did the half-moon, I kept worrying that I was going to kick the lady next to me.”
“That wasn’t a half-moon,” she said. “I never called it a half-moon. It’s a bending starfish. It’s my own move.”
“Sorry. I thought Primo called it a half-moon when he—”
“Primo stole my move. It’s okay, you wouldn’t know. Watch. A half-moon looks like this.” She bent to the side and lifted one leg in the air. “My bending starfish looks like this.” She then did what, to me, looked like exactly the same move.
“See the difference?” she asked.
“Sure.” I nodded.
“The earlier class was canceled.” Crystal effortlessly straightened to a standing position. I wondered if I would ever be that graceful. “That’s why it was so crowded. The extra students who couldn’t go to the other class. You look a little tired, Molly.”
“Oh, I’ve earned it. I’ve had a tiring couple of days.”
“Are you drinking the supercharged water I told you about?”
As if to demonstrate the correct hydration protocol, Crystal unscrewed the bottle she was holding and drank from it. It was stainless steel, overlaid with a lacy black mandala pattern.
“Well, I—”
“I always bring some with me,” she said. “You should get into the habit. Don’t ever drink tap water. It’s full of poisons.”
Mahina’s water tasted pretty good, actually. And according to Emma, who was trustworthy on matters of molecular biology, it was perfectly safe to drink.
“Most of the water I consume is in the form of coffee,” I said. “That should count as supercharged, shouldn’t it?”
“Molly, you’re so funny.” Crystal said it in the way people do when they know you’re trying to be funny, but they don’t really think you are.
The conversation went quiet. I supposed it was my turn to speak.
“So,” I ventured, “what’s new with you?”
“Oh, life is totally amazing right now. I’m going through a major change.”
“Really?” I was genuinely surprised. I doubted Crystal was even thirty.
She rolled up her mat and slid it into its canvas carrier. “I’ve cleaned up some important issues, you know, and I think I’m ready for the Universe to send me a soulmate. Someone who can share my path.”
“Ah.” So she wasn’t talking about menopause.
“So your stepson?”
“Stepson? I don’t have a—oh, wait. Sorry. Yes, I do. Davison.” I felt my serenity slipping away.
“I met him one time when your husband brought him into Natural High looking for calendula cream.”
“That must have been when Davison was getting ready to go away to his new school. His father made him get his tattoos lasered off before he went. Apparently, it’s not a painless process. So you have two jobs?”
“I have my own business, too.”
We were in the reception area now and no one was behind the desk. “They don’t like me to promote it here, but I do life coaching, including personal training and massage.” She reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a small stack of rainbow-hued cards. “Here. Share them with your friends. Did the skin cream work out for him?”
“I guess so. I didn’t examine him or anything. Listen, I really need to run.”
“I want you to introduce us,” she declared.
“Crystal, you’re a lovely young lady. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble meeting someone decent.”
I did not want to get involved with playing matchmaker for Donnie’s shiftless spawn. I pushed through the glass double doors in the front, into the warm and heavy air outside. Crystal followed me.
“I know I won’t have any trouble.” She smiled. “Because I’m putting my desire out there for the Universe to answer me.”
“Okay.” I gave her a noncommittal smile. Even if I hadn’t been acquainted with the Biblical observations about the innocent suffering and the wicked prospering, not to mention the couple of millennia of martyrdoms, to me it was pretty self-evident that the Universe was neither just nor benevolent.
“The next time Davison comes home, you should bring him in with you for a free lesson.”
“Sure.” I scanned the parking lot. “That sounds like fun.”
I had no trouble finding my turquoise and white convertible among the lifted pickup trucks (mostly black) and Japanese hatchbacks (mostly white) in the parking lot. I was the only person in Mahina who drove a 1959 Thunderbird. My competent but judgmental mechanic, Earl Miyashiro, made sure to remind me of this every time he had to special-order a replacement part for me.
I slid into the driver’s seat, pressed the button down to lock the door, and started back to campus.
Serena, the dean’s secretary, accosted me as I reached my office door.
“Molly, do you ever check your voice mail?” She waved a handful of message slips at me.
“Sorry, Serena. I still haven’t figured out the new system.”
“You need another copy of the voice mail instructions?”
“No, I’m sure I can find it.”
“Eh, terrible, that thing that happened down at Art Lam’s place, yeah?”
“Yes. It was terrible.”
“Chopped down his papaya trees too, then went broke his window. Can you imagine? So destructive.”
“A broken window? Where did you hear about that?”
“Anyway,” Serena said, “he’s been trying to get a hold of you.”
“Who has?”
“Art Lam.”
“I’m sorry. Did you say Art Lam? The poor man who just—”
“That’s what I said. He wants to talk to you.”
“But I thought he was—”
Serena handed me the message slips.
“He just wanted to make sure you got his message.”
I let myself into my office. Sure enough, the light on my phone was flashing. I dug through my email and found the instructions for retrieving voice mail messages. There were several from the Student Retention Office, dating from the start of the semester. I deleted them.
The first message from Art Lam was timestamped October 28 at 5:12 a.m., the same morning Emma and I had gone down to his place.
“Hello professor, this is Art Lam. Sorry for the late notice, but something’s come up and I have to go off-island today. I won’t be able to make our interview this morning. Please give me a call to reschedule.”
I pressed 9 to save the recording.
Then:
Yesterday. 6:22 pm.
“Hello again Professor, this is Art Lam. Just got back in. Heard you ran into some trouble at my place this morning. Give me a call when you get a chance. I still wanna do the interview, got a few things I wanna say.” (Here a short, raspy laugh quickly devolved into a hacking cough.) “Anyways. You girls call me, we talk story.”
Today. 9:14 am.
“Hello, Professor. Art Lam calling again. My attorney says I cannot talk to no one about da kine, even you university guys, so gotta cancel the interview. Eh, sorry, ah?”