One Book In The Grave

“Well, that’s too damn bad, pal,” I said stoutly, as I stood and brushed bits of grass and dirt off my pants. “You’re stuck with me and I’m stuck with you.”

And just like that, I felt better. Lighter. Happier. Weird, but I guessed I would have to pull weeds more often. No wonder Mom often looked and acted so Zen-like. Through her gardening, she had found a way to clear her mind. Good to know.

Walking around the side of the house, I tossed the handful of weeds into the green trash can to be dried and mulched.

Mom was waiting in the kitchen, putting away the last of the breakfast dishes. I smiled at her outfit: work boots and a faded denim jacket over a long-sleeved purple T-shirt and a calf-length crinkly skirt she’d tie-dyed several shades of sage green.

I felt so plain standing next to her in my blue jeans, a thick navy sweater, and loafers.

But her eyes lit up when I walked inside. “There’s my beautiful girl.”

“Mom, you look fabulous.”

She whirled around like a little girl and we both laughed. Then she sobered. “I’m feeling a little antsy about our mission so I’m going to perform a success ritual before we leave.”

Our mission? Ooh, boy. And rituals? God help me. I thought about stopping her, but how could I argue with a success ritual? After all, I’d never admit it to Mom, but I was a little antsy, too. I’d had a few bad dreams last night featuring Solomon and Angelica. And this morning, the same fearful thoughts had been recycling through my mind.

I could picture them both gloating over their malevolence, rubbing their hands in excitement at the power and control they wielded. I would really hate to run into them on the street in Dharma, knowing they’d be able to read the fear and loathing on my face.

As I waited for Mom to gather her herbs and tools, I recalled that summer I taught the bookbinding class at the Art Institute. I had loved my class, loved bookbinding, and enjoyed teaching in general. But any thoughts of pursuing a career as an art teacher had been effectively squelched, thanks to Solomon and Angie.

I suppose it was unfair to blame my decision not to teach solely on the two of them. Academia was a strange, provincial world and I simply didn’t fit in. The insular attitudes of many of the professors and staff were suffocating at best. And Solomon, while fascinating in the classroom, ruled his department like a despot, handing out praise, assignments, and retribution as though he were Julius Caesar.

Angelica was worse. She was gorgeous, yes, but haughty and domineering. And possessive. Not just with Max, I realized now, but with the school itself and the students. This was Angie’s territory and how dared I think I could ever be a part of it?

I shivered, and all of a sudden it struck me that I was still holding on to so much fear of her. I knew I would have to confront her one of these days.

“Assume the position,” Mom said as she walked back into the room. She chuckled at her own joke while she assembled her ritual herbs and tools on the dining room table.

I gave her a look. “Very funny, Mom.”

“Never gets old.”

When my siblings and I were growing up, Mom and Dad used to regale us with tales from the sixties. One of their favorite stories was of the time they were arrested at China Lake for protesting nuclear weapons. (That’s where my sister China was born, the day after Mom was released from jail. My parents were sentimental that way, naming us all after the places where we were born or conceived or, apparently, where they’d spent a night in jail.)

Mom had advised us that when the cops were arresting you, they would tell you to assume the position. That meant you should stand facing a wall with your feet apart and both hands on the wall. The better to be frisked, she explained.

Of course, Dad always maintained that the actual position you were meant to assume was the one where you bent over and kissed your ass good-bye.

So every once in a while, for no apparent reason, one of my parents would suddenly tell us to assume the position. Being obedient children, we would.

Some of us would go with Mom’s position and stand facing the wall. But some-usually my two brothers-would go with Dad’s choice. Mom and Dad would howl with laughter and we would all make faces and roll our eyes at them. My parents were a couple of cards. No wonder we didn’t do drugs; things were zany enough around our house without the added buzz.

Mom placed three small dishes on the table, filled with rosemary, sage, and dried lotus petals to represent memory, concentration, and truth.

“Here, sweetie,” she said, handing me one of the thick sticks of sage she used to cleanse, purify, and eliminate negativity. “You light the sage.”

“Okay.” I took a deep whiff of the sage before I flicked Mom’s lighter on and held it to the top leaves. They began to smoke, then burn. I let the fire spread across the top of the stick before blowing it out. The strong aromatic smoke filled the room.

“I’m lighting the copal, too,” she said, holding another, more bristly looking herbal smudge stick. Copal was a type of tree resin with a mild pine scent that was often used in incense. Mom used it sparingly with other herbs when she needed an extra boost to attract good spirits.

Seeing the copal made me realize she was even more antsy than she was willing to admit. I guess I was, too.

I waved the sage bundle around, making sure the smoke wafted over us both, up and down and around our bodies and over our heads, while she did the same with the copal stick. We probably looked like idiots, and maybe we were, but I usually found Mom’s rituals oddly comforting.

She rested the copal stick in a small pot she’d filled with sand. As she plucked up bits of herbs and petals and sprinkled them in two circles on a piece of white cloth, she chanted,

Sage and rosemary,

Clear our misty minds.

Lotus, lead the way

To the truth that we must find.

Spirit, show yourself to me,

Shine the light that we may see.

Spirit, once this day is done,

Your knowledge and mine will be one.

Mom waved the smoldering copal stick over the herb circles and tapped a tiny bit of ash onto each of them. Then she buried the burnt end of the stick in the bowl of sand and did the same with the sage bundle.

With scissors, she carefully cut the cloth in half and gathered each of the corners together around the little piles of herbs and ash. After tying each of the bundles with a short raffia string to make two small sachets, she handed one to me.

“Hold this close and I’ll do the same. It’ll keep our minds open and our thoughts pure. That way, we’ll recognize the truth when we hear it.”

“Cool.” I slipped my sachet into the pocket of my jeans.

Mom pressed her hands together, closed her eyes, and breathed slowly in and out. After a minute, she opened her eyes and blinked at me. “The spirits believe you will succeed, Brooklyn.”

“They do?” I nodded, not quite sure of the proper response. “That’s great. Thanks, spirits.”

“The spirits say, ‘No problemo.’” She grinned. “Let’s boogie.”

As we walked down the Lane toward Warped, my sister China’s yarn and weaving shop, Mom leaned close. “Tell me more about the people we’re looking to get intel on.”

Intel? Seriously? But I relented and gave her some of the history of Solomon and Angelica, explained Max’s desperation and his reasons for staging his own death. Mom had tears in her eyes and I wondered if I’d said too much. But I figured if Max ever needed help in the future, Mom would know why and would be there for him. She was easily the most empathetic person I knew.

Mom stopped me a half block up from Warped and stared right into my eyes. “Can you honestly see either of these odd people getting in a car and following all of you to Marin, then taking out a long-range rifle, aiming at you,