church and go through what she called “Introductory Auditing.”
“It was like hell,” she told me. “They kept us awake day and night, screaming at us, making us memorize Shiva’s prophecies, telling us all that we were worthless. I was nobody, nothing. Over and over, they shouted that into my head. That we were dead people. Meaningless. ”
I noticed that her voice was trembling, on the verge of tears, as she added, “I spent a month listening to it. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.”
I was still holding her arm; had finally stopped her from using the scrub brush. I said, “Calm down. You’re getting upset. There’s no need.”
“It makes me so furious!”
“I understand. Take all the time you need. Have a seat—stop cleaning, please. I’ll fix myself a drink, then we can sit down and talk about it.”
I felt her eyes on me as I half-filled a tumbler with Nicaraguan rum, added ice, juice from a whole key lime, and topped it with seltzer water.
The marina’s black cat, Crunch & Des, sat next to me on the outdoor teak table between two rockers, on the northeastern side of my porch. It’s the portion of porch that hangs over my shark pen, and looks out over the bay.
Unseen below us, beneath dark water, two bull sharks and a smaller, seventy-pound hammerhead circled. They were always moving.
The cat was close enough that I could reach over and scratch his ears if I wanted to. He’d never been an affectionate cat, but, in the last half year, he’d become more attentive toward me. Spent more time following me around the house than he did hanging out by the marina’s fish-cleaning table.
Unusual.
I’d dismissed Tomlinson’s explanation out of hand (“You’re fighting demons and he wants to provide comfort”) but it was nice having the cat around more. Crunch & Des was good company. Tail twitching, he liked to lie on the stainless-steel dissecting table in my lab, beneath the rows of bubbling aquarium tanks, and stare down octopi.
I scratched the cat’s ears now, sipping my drink. I’d given Sally the abbreviated version of my encounter with Frank DeAntoni, and told her that he was interested in talking to her. Didn’t mention the photo.
While we waited, I sat quietly and let her vent. Told her I’d have one drink before showering, so it was a good time to help me catch up on what had happened in her life. It was a nice night to play the patient, friendly ear. A southern breeze, water-dense, weighted with salt and iodine, drifted out of the shadows while the rim of the moon ascended above mangroves.
I listened to her say, “At first with Geoff, our marriage was pretty good. We live—we lived —in Coconut Grove, just off Bayshore, a great view of Biscayne Bay. This little gated community called Ironwood. You have to cross a canal that’s more like a moat, and there’s not a home under four thousand square feet allowed. Luxury homes, that’s the real estate term. Screened infinity pools, boatlifts, everything. Most people’s dream place.
“Our next-door neighbor is a U.S. senator. Another owns part of the Dolphins. You add up all the wealth, all the political power, there’s no place in Florida that probably compares.”
She said, “When my husband got involved with Shiva, he would stand around at parties, barbecues, whatever, telling our neighbors how great Shiva was. That’s when invitations started dropping off, potential investors started avoiding us. Then our whole business operation began to slide right into the tank.”
I said, “The more your husband promoted the cult leader, the more he became dependent on the cult leader’s money.”
I watched her smile as she lifted the mug of tea to her lips. “Marion Ford. Back when I was a little girl, and you were the big, star high-school jock, people used to say you were strange because you collected bugs and fish and all kinds of stuff. But I always stuck up for you. I told them it was because you were so
“It was like hell,” she told me. “They kept us awake day and night, screaming at us, making us memorize Shiva’s prophecies, telling us all that we were worthless. I was nobody, nothing. Over and over, they shouted that into my head. That we were dead people. Meaningless. ”
I noticed that her voice was trembling, on the verge of tears, as she added, “I spent a month listening to it. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.”
I was still holding her arm; had finally stopped her from using the scrub brush. I said, “Calm down. You’re getting upset. There’s no need.”
“It makes me so furious!”
“I understand. Take all the time you need. Have a seat—stop cleaning, please. I’ll fix myself a drink, then we can sit down and talk about it.”
I felt her eyes on me as I half-filled a tumbler with Nicaraguan rum, added ice, juice from a whole key lime, and topped it with seltzer water.
The marina’s black cat, Crunch & Des, sat next to me on the outdoor teak table between two rockers, on the northeastern side of my porch. It’s the portion of porch that hangs over my shark pen, and looks out over the bay.
Unseen below us, beneath dark water, two bull sharks and a smaller, seventy-pound hammerhead circled. They were always moving.
The cat was close enough that I could reach over and scratch his ears if I wanted to. He’d never been an affectionate cat, but, in the last half year, he’d become more attentive toward me. Spent more time following me around the house than he did hanging out by the marina’s fish-cleaning table.
Unusual.
I’d dismissed Tomlinson’s explanation out of hand (“You’re fighting demons and he wants to provide comfort”) but it was nice having the cat around more. Crunch & Des was good company. Tail twitching, he liked to lie on the stainless-steel dissecting table in my lab, beneath the rows of bubbling aquarium tanks, and stare down octopi.
I scratched the cat’s ears now, sipping my drink. I’d given Sally the abbreviated version of my encounter with Frank DeAntoni, and told her that he was interested in talking to her. Didn’t mention the photo.
While we waited, I sat quietly and let her vent. Told her I’d have one drink before showering, so it was a good time to help me catch up on what had happened in her life. It was a nice night to play the patient, friendly ear. A southern breeze, water-dense, weighted with salt and iodine, drifted out of the shadows while the rim of the moon ascended above mangroves.
I listened to her say, “At first with Geoff, our marriage was pretty good. We live—we lived —in Coconut Grove, just off Bayshore, a great view of Biscayne Bay. This little gated community called Ironwood. You have to cross a canal that’s more like a moat, and there’s not a home under four thousand square feet allowed. Luxury homes, that’s the real estate term. Screened infinity pools, boatlifts, everything. Most people’s dream place.
“Our next-door neighbor is a U.S. senator. Another owns part of the Dolphins. You add up all the wealth, all the political power, there’s no place in Florida that probably compares.”
She said, “When my husband got involved with Shiva, he would stand around at parties, barbecues, whatever, telling our neighbors how great Shiva was. That’s when invitations started dropping off, potential investors started avoiding us. Then our whole business operation began to slide right into the tank.”
I said, “The more your husband promoted the cult leader, the more he became dependent on the cult leader’s money.”
I watched her smile as she lifted the mug of tea to her lips. “Marion Ford. Back when I was a little girl, and you were the big, star high-school jock, people used to say you were strange because you collected bugs and fish and all kinds of stuff. But I always stuck up for you. I told them it was because you were so
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