Tales from the Yoga Studio (36 page)

F
or days, Katherine has been mulling over her conversation with Graciela. As soon as they got into the house, Graciela started asking her questions about what had really happened with Conor, and why, and what she planned to do about it. It was funny, really, seeing her be so assertive and insistent about getting answers. It was almost as if she was playing a role, like a kid suddenly interrogating her parent. It wasn't a role that suited her perfectly, but maybe that's why Katherine found herself opening up completely, telling her all her fears about her past and what Conor would make of that, and then forcing herself—though it was torture to do so—to describe what had happened with Phil, the whole stupid, awful, humiliating series of events.

Graciela looked at her for a few silent, unnerving moments and then said, “I hate to tell you this, Kat, but you're not nearly as bad and unreliable and nasty as you seem to want to believe. You're one of the most solid, together people I know. Look around. Whoever is living in this house is
not
out of control, crazy, or currently self-destructive. Write him an e-mail. Tell him what happened. You don't even need to apologize. And let me know as soon as you've got it done.”

Katherine had tried to do just that a number of times but had always stumbled over apologies, lame excuses, the crazy details.

She's lying in bed, and it's almost dawn, and she can see the strange, magical blossoming of light in the sky outside her windows. The blue seems to deepen and then start to bleach out into paler shades. She'd love to stop the day right here, when it's silent and still, cool and full of possibilities. Graciela was right. Of course. She isn't afraid of hurting Conor. Not entirely, anyway. She's been terrified that he's going to hurt her, reject her, leave her stranded. It's not like it hasn't happened before. But it's not so bad when you're dating a creep and it's a
given
from the outset that he's going to wound you somehow or other.

But how many possibilities can the day hold if you don't stick your neck out? If you're not willing to take a few risks, you have to settle for things as they are.

She gets out of bed and goes into the dining room. She sits in front of her computer, an ancient Mac desktop thing that is so chunky and heavy, the screen so weirdly small, that it has the look of another era altogether and fits right in with all her vintage clothes and décor. She folds herself into a lotus position on the chair and starts to type.

Now, now, now, before the sun comes up and all that light starts flooding in. She hits the “send” button and goes to make coffee.

S
inew and Fireplug made it clear, to the point of being insulting, that it's an honor to be invited to Zhannette and Frank's house in Laurel Canyon. After a while, Lee began to feel that the two men were crazily jealous that Lee and Alan—unworthy newcomers—had received an invitation.
They usually don't invite
teachers
out to their place. None of the
employees
gets a personal invite.

“You're just picking on nothing,” Alan says. “Probably because you're a nervous wreck about meeting them.”

There's something about the term “nervous wreck” that Lee finds insulting, especially since it's clear that Alan is the one who's anxious about this meeting. He spent half an hour trying to figure out what to wear, he has been scratching his neck a lot, and he's even been ignoring the chirping sound his phone makes when he gets a text message, something that's been happening about every ten minutes since he came by the house to pick up Lee and the kids. Apparently his friend Benjamin wasn't happy when Alan told him he was moving back home in two weeks, especially since Benjamin kicked out one of his roommates to make space for Alan. They're driving the kids to the studio, dropping them off with Barrett, and then continuing on to Laurel Canyon. The kids are strapped into the backseat, and they have the windows down and the air conditioner on. Wasteful and not very green, but one of those indulgences Lee allows herself from time to time, especially when Alan is so stressed.

“Just remember, no matter how rich and successful they are, they're just people.”

“I didn't think they were deities,” Lee says.

“Jesus Christ, Lee. Can you try to curb the irony for maybe one hour? I know you're a bundle of nerves, but come on. Don't try and get me upset, too.”

Lee wants to correct him and point out that she's not a “bundle of nerves,” she's a “nervous wreck,” but better just to change the subject. Chirp. Another text message.

“How many messages is he sending?” Lee asks.

“He's nuts. I told him it was temporary lodging. I never even
implied
to him, or
anyone
, that we were getting a divorce. People are so fucking conventional, as if taking a little breather means some big thing.”

There's something disturbing about this comment, but Lee lets it go.
Let it go, let it go, let it go. Just move forward.

“You kids looking forward to the class?” she asks.

This starts Michael and Marcus on their new favorite pastime, which is competitive chanting of “om” to see who can be the loudest. It can be irritating, but it's cute, too, and it's certainly a lot better than the pushing and shoving and swatting each other they were into before they started practicing. When they get close to an intolerable volume, Lee joins in, as if they're all singing together, and then Alan adds his best rolling bass.
Okay,
she thinks,
nothing's perfect. But at moments like this, we're at least a happy little family.
If she has to close the studio for this, so be it. In the end, this is more important.

As they're about to walk into the studio, Lee takes Alan's hand and kisses him. “I'm not a nervous wreck when you're around,” she says.

He leans his shoulder against hers and says, “Lend me a little of that calm, then. I'm tense.”

Barrett is sitting behind the registration desk scribbling on a piece of paper with one hand and, with the other, doing something with her BlackBerry. Like everyone else, she's been a little grumpy and uncommunicative, and in truth, Lee can't say she blames her. She expected there would be a lot of this once word got out. Lee's been doing her best to find places for everyone, and last night she sent an e-mail to Barrett telling her it looked about ninety percent sure that the school system was going to hire her to teach yoga to the kids, three times a week, as part of the physical ed classes. It's a little bit of a shock that she didn't respond. She doesn't even look up when they walk into the studio.

The kids rush behind the desk, and Alan, iPhone in hand, walks through the glass doors into the yoga room.

“Ready for chaos?” Lee asks, nodding toward the kids.

Barrett shrugs. “Whatever.”

“Did you get the e-mail I sent you last night?”

“Yeah, I got it. Thanks.”

“You know, I really worked hard to make that happen, Barrett. It wasn't easy. It's going to be great for the whole school, but it's going to be a good thing for you, too.”

“I just
said
thank you.”

“I know you did, but it might sound a little more sincere if you'd look at me when you say it.”

Now Barrett's phone is chirping, too. Someone ought to do a psychological analysis of the world's most annoying ring tones and cell phone signals and how people choose the ones they choose. Barrett checks her message and then does look at Lee, right in the eyes. “Thank you,” she says. She grabs the pad of paper she's been scribbling on and stomps out to the sidewalk.

“Mood alert! Mood alert!” Michael and Marcus chant, echoing the phrase Lee and Alan having been using around the house for years.

Lee goes behind the desk to check the computer. There's that chirp again! Is she hearing things? No, Barrett walked out without her phone and it's sitting on the desk chirping and blinking. Lee moves it to the far end of the desk, and in doing so she notices that it has an alert for an incoming text message.

From Alan.

Interesting.

Z
hannette and Frank's house is one of those miracles of modern architecture clinging to the side of a hill in Laurel Canyon. From the street, it looks almost like a little glass box that would be too thin to stand up in. Obviously an optical illusion. But even from below and even though there are other houses around it, it exudes some feeling of peace and balance, both things Lee is feeling the need for right now.

Alan chatted pretty much the whole drive out here about some changes he wants to make on
their
house—basically: install a home gym in the basement, a career investment since he's planning to start auditioning for performing gigs in a more active and aggressive way once they get the monkey of Edendale off their backs and a little more money in their joint account. He didn't seem to notice that she was saying pretty much nothing the whole way. In fact, Lee felt a strange and welcome kind of peace come over her as soon as she got into the car with Alan and started to mull over what she'd seen. And what she'd seen—and
all
that she'd seen—was Barrett's BlackBerry indicating that she'd received a text message from Alan. Lee has received text messages from Barrett on many occasions, hasn't she? Wouldn't it be dangerous to leap to assumptions and make accusations? Yes, it would be.

“Is this amazing or what?” Alan says, looking up at the house reverently.

“I'd have to have curtains,” Lee says.

“They probably don't have anything to hide.”

“Everyone's got something to hide, Alan.”

They climb up the steep steps and are met at the top by a slim man with a blond crew cut. Definitely a yoga fanatic, Lee can tell by the build, and definitely a fanatic in some other ways, she can tell by the too bright, unblinking gaze. “You must be Lee and Alan,” he says, hand out. “I'm James. Zhannette and Frank are very eager to meet you. They've been waiting.”

“Are we late?” Alan asks.

James makes an amused frown. “You're seven minutes late, Alan. Hardly worth mentioning. Don't even think about it. They know you wouldn't be even a minute late for classes.”

“Traffic,” Alan says.

James lays a hand on Alan's arm and his gaze grows even more intense. “Don't even think about it, all right?”

Lee takes a small measure of comfort in knowing that she is not responsible for this horrible seven-minute faux pas. There's also something about the treatment they're receiving that makes it clear, in case there was any doubt, that this is a business meeting more than a social call. When was the last time Lee called out any guest for being a few minutes late? For being late, period?

The first thing Lee notices about the inside of the house is that it's the most perfect temperature she's ever felt. There must be a sophisticated climate control in here that regulates the temperature and the humidity and the ions. Maybe the scent as well; there's a fragrance in the air, like roses, but lighter. And there are soft sounds, too, something between wind chimes and the chirping of distant birds. Even in her less-than-spectacular frame of mind, Lee feels calmed and reassured by the atmosphere.