Tales from the Yoga Studio (15 page)

“You're not going to get anywhere like that,” she says. She raps on the door so loudly and insistently that someone down the hall pokes out his head and then retreats.

“Stephanie,” she brays. “Stephanie! It's Billie. Open up. I need to talk to you.”

No response. Undeterred, she tries again. “It's Billie, Stephanie! Open up or I'm getting the super out here.”

Miraculously, there's a rattle of chains from inside, and the door swings open. Before Graciela has a chance to register on Stephanie, she's greeted by a wave of warm, stale air that carries with it a stronger version of the kitty litter odor and the unmistakable smell of alcohol. A skinny little orange and black cat struts out into the hallway, and then Stephanie, acting as if everything is totally fine, stands in the doorway and says, “Graciela. What are you doing here?”

Except her mouth is so dry, it's hard for her to pronounce consonants, and the words are garbled.

“She's worried about you, that's what she's doing here,” Billie says. “And looking at you, I don't blame her.”

“I hadn't heard from you in a few days,” Graciela says, “so I got worried.”

Stephanie's short hair is matted to her head, and her eyes are so red and swollen, Graciela can almost feel an ache in her own eyes when she looks at them. She's wearing a sweatshirt that's dirty in ways Graciela doesn't want to speculate on and a pair of nubby black sweatpants covered in a layer of cat hair and crumbs.

“I've been working,” Stephanie drawls, the least convincing thing Graciela's heard in a long time.

“I figured it was something like that. I know you've had a lot on your plate. Mind if we come in?”

But before Stephanie can answer, Billie has pushed her way into the apartment and, emboldened, Graciela follows. The apartment doesn't look any better than Stephanie herself—newspapers and take-out food containers are scattered everywhere, and on a coffee table near the sofa, there are more empty wine bottles than Graciela cares to see. There's a pile of blankets and rumpled sheets on top of the sofa, meaning Stephanie has been sleeping there. The TV is playing with the sound off, and after a minute, Graciela realizes it's
Silver Linings
.

Most unsettling of all is a big pile of kitty litter in the middle of the room, as if Stephanie was too out of it to fill the box and just dumped it out of the bag onto the floor.

A little gray cat scoots out from under the sofa and rubs against Graciela's leg. She bends down and picks up the sweet little thing.

“Oh, Marlene, there you are,” Stephanie says. “I've been looking for her. I'm sorry I haven't had a chance to tidy up today. I was on the phone, and I was just about to do a yoga tape.”

Graciela thinks about the last time she saw Stephanie. It doesn't seem possible that it was only about two weeks ago. She's suffered such a steep decline, and it's so visible, Graciela feels sick to her stomach. She holds the little cat up near her shoulder and rubs her face against its fur for comfort.

“Stephanie,” she says, “I don't . . . what happened? How did you . . . ?”

But Stephanie has such a far-off look in her eyes, seems so clearly to be
not there
that Graciela knows she isn't going to answer. Even if she herself could formulate a coherent question. Billie has installed herself in the one chair in the room that's relatively uncluttered. “I love this chair,” she says, patting the arms. “Did you get it at Ikea?”

What are you supposed to do in a situation like this? It would almost be simpler if Stephanie were passed out; then Graciela could at least call an ambulance. What Graciela really wants to do is run away and forget she saw any of this. But she can't do that. She owes Stephanie. She drops the kitty down onto the floor and walks slowly toward a glass door. She slides it open, and there's a rush of air into the room that's so cool and sweet, it makes Graciela think she's never fully appreciated the air quality in L.A. She steps out onto a little balcony, takes out her phone, and calls the only person she can think of right now.

A
fter many years of some pretty heavy life experience, Katherine thought she was way past shyness and modesty. The list of “Things She
Hasn't
Done” would be as short as the list of “Mistakes She
Hasn't
Made.” But right at the top of the roster of new experiences would be: “Date a decent, honest guy.” So maybe that explains why she feels so oddly shy about sitting up in front of Conor, half naked and, after twenty minutes of his massage, flushed and blissed out.

“Turn around, Mr. Ross,” she says. “It's a professional courtesy. I'm teaching you the tricks of the trade.”

He runs his hand down her spine, right to where the curve of her butt begins, gives her a crooked smile, and sits on the edge of the massage table, his back to her. She props herself up and leans against him, so he's supporting her weight. Katherine can imagine lots worse ways to spend the rest of the day than closing her eyes and staying in exactly this position. And frankly, she can't think of too many nicer ways.
Please don't fuck this up,
she thinks. But she isn't sure if she's directing the thought to Conor or to herself, and she's not sure if there even
is
a “this” yet.

“I'm so glad you picked up,” Lee says. “I'm up at the house.”

“I know,” Katherine tells her. “Chloe said you're having some kind of meeting.”

“I was, but I don't have time to talk about that. I just got a call from Graciela. She's at Stephanie's apartment, and it sounds as if Stephanie's in trouble. Possibly serious.”

As soon as Lee gives her the news, Katherine realizes she's been waiting to hear something like this for a long time now. Stephanie has the unmistakably fractured energy of someone who's abusing something and headed for a fall.

“Alcohol?” Katherine asks.

“That and maybe pills, too. Graciela isn't too familiar with this kind of thing.”

No surprise there, either. Whatever Graciela's demons might be—and everyone has their own resident devils—they clearly do not live in the neighborhood of drugs and booze.

“She wants me to meet her down there. It's not great timing, but she sounded pretty worked up.”

“What can I do?” Katherine asks.

Conor, sensing the mood apparently, turns around and starts massaging her shoulders and gently rubbing his cheek along her neck as Lee fills her in. Lee would like her to call Barrett and have her bring the twins back to the studio. Make sure everyone's settled in for a few hours and give Barrett thirty bucks, in case she ends up having to take the kids out for dinner. Then walk down to the reservoir, where Lee will pick her up. She's not sure she's prepared to face this alone.

“I've got a little experience in this area,” Katherine says, hoping there's no follow-up question from Conor later. “I'll be there as soon as I can,” she says. “I'm with a friend right now.”

Conor takes this as a cue to kiss her neck.

“Oh, the fireman!” Lee says. “I forgot. Never mind, Kat, you stay there. I'll be fine.”

“No, I don't want you to go alone. I'll meet you down at the reservoir.” She flips her phone shut.

“Problem?” Conor asks.

Reluctantly, Katherine slides off the table and pulls her shirt on. “One of Lee's students,” she says. “Sounds like she's been on a binge or something. I'm going out to West Hollywood with Lee to see if I can help. Good Samaritan and all that.” She turns around and Conor is standing, arms across his chest, still grinning. “Can't you be at least a little disappointed I'm leaving, Mr. Ross?”

“I would be if I weren't coming with you. Don't forget I'm a professional Good Samaritan, Brodski.”

B
arrett is twenty years old and a senior in college. She's a short, small woman who, like a lot of girls who trained to be professional gymnasts, looks as if she's never quite got past age fourteen. She wears her hair in a ponytail, and she talks in a high voice with a slight lisp.

She comes skipping into the studio with the twins and, if she didn't know better, Katherine would have guessed she was their slightly older sibling. Which, all things considered, is a pretty creepy thought. The twins' faces are smeared with chocolate, but, knowing Barrett, it's probably from one of the cocoa puddings they sell at the raw food café down the street. Barrett opens the door to the yoga room and Michael and Marcus dash in.

“Cute,” Conor says. “They remind me of my sister's kids.”

“Your poor sister,” Katherine says.

“Don't say that! ” Barrett says. “They were better today! Only one fight. Well, only one
major
fight. They're really upset about what's going on with their parents.”

Well, who isn't?

Marcus is stacking up the yoga blocks in the careful way he tends to do everything. Architect is Katherine's guess for his future, but in truth, she doesn't really know a whole lot about kids. As soon as he has a stack nearly as high as his head, Michael makes a beeline from the opposite side of the room and knocks it down. Marcus screams at him and launches into a futile defense of his territory.

“I spoke too soon,” Barrett lisps. She effortlessly pops herself up onto the counter at the front desk.

Barrett teaches a yoga class for kids on Saturday mornings. Half price because she's not fully certified yet. She's developing a pretty loyal following of mothers who want to get their kids into something that helps them focus. Katherine observed the class once and couldn't get past her voice. But there's room for a little of everything.

Conor walks into the yoga room and the glass doors swing closed behind him. Like most bullies, Michael responds well to a more physically imposing presence. He begins a wary and quiet retreat from his brother as soon as he gets a good glimpse at Conor's size. Conor kneels down on the floor in front of Marcus and begins helping him stack the blocks. “Hey,” he calls out to Michael, “come over here for a minute. We need your help.”

“Smart,” Barrett says. “That's exactly what you're supposed to do—enlist his help. That way, he won't want to knock it down. It's just he doesn't listen when I tell him.”

“It helps to be six-four,” Katherine says. “And have red hair. And a dick.” She looks at Barrett. “Sorry.”

“I'm
not
a kid,” Barrett says. “I know what those are.” She pulls both legs up on the counter and bends at the waist toward her feet in the most perfect forward fold Katherine has ever seen. “I've even sucked one.”

“Too much information,” Katherine says.

Katherine tells Barrett the new plan of action, without mentioning the real reasons. The fewer people who know about Stephanie's problem, the less likely a lot of rumors are going to start spreading.

Conor comes out of the yoga room and slips his hand around Katherine's waist. Why is this all so easy so quickly? “You handled that pretty well,” Katherine says.

“Speaking as someone who's never done an up dog in his life, don't you think someone ought to get those kids into a yoga class? ”

Talking to her knees, Barrett says, “Alan tried to get them to go, but
Lee
doesn't want to force them into anything just because it's her field or whatever.”

“Well, it sounds like that's where you come in,” Conor says. “You're the resident kid expert, no?”

Barrett pops up and vaults off the counter. “I could give it a shot,” she says. “Even though I don't have a dick.”