Walking Through Walls (17 page)

I thought to myself, “Of course she doesn't know what he's talking about.” People like Mrs. Bennet simply did not admit to having vaginal infections or any other disease that was not socially acceptable. Instead they got tennis elbow, or gout from too much drinking, but never vaginal infections.

“This infection is causing itching and soreness and can lead to other more serious problems,” my father explained. “I'm worried that this could spread and really turn into a major complication.”

“Fine, Lew, I'll call my doctor in the morning. Will that make you happy?” Even though she was clearly rattled, she didn't move from her position in front of my father's desk. Her voice went up an octave and grew in volume. “Can we
please
get back to the carpet? Now, if you like the gray, do you think it should be one of those seagull grays that are so popular, or should we go with a deeper charcoal gray? Then again, the pink might be nice.
Lew Smith,
what
do
you think you're doing?”

Without saying a word, my father had reached out across the desk and placed both of his palms about three or four inches in front of her crotch. Mrs. Bennet probably thought he was trying to molest her, but I knew he was sending her healing vibrations to cure her infection. Pop was doing his laying-on-of-hands routine, to channel healing energy to her diseased area. God knows what this would have looked like if someone had walked into the office at that moment. I kept thinking this was one person he shouldn't have tried to heal. I was certain he was asking for trouble.

“
Ouch!
Stop that, you're hurting me!” I didn't know what she was complaining about. My father's hands were hovering inches away from her lower area. She was really resisting the healing. She should have considered herself lucky, as my father was saving her a trip to the doctor.

“I'm not touching you. See where my hands are? What you're feeling is the healing energy cleaning out the infection. I'm just guiding the energy to where it is needed. Stay still for another moment; we're almost done.” For Pop, curing a vaginal infection was now as routine as applying a Band-Aid to a small cut. Mrs. Bennet wore an expression of disgust as my father proceeded to slowly move his hands over her pelvic area.

Based on what my father had told me in the past, his patients all felt a warm, tingly sensation when he performed his laying on of hands. I wondered when Mrs. Bennet would calm down and enjoy her warm, tingly moment. As far as Mrs. Bennet was concerned, my father was fine for picking carpet or wallpaper, but she certainly didn't want him to be physically close to her, especially down there. “
Really,
Lew. I don't know what you're doing, but I must ask you to stop. Now!”

With a sudden jerk, my father's hands flew away from her crotch as if it were a hot stove. I knew from watching previous healings that this meant that the session was over. Mrs. Bennet wiggled a bit as if adjusting herself and asked, “What was that snap I heard?” She quickly looked around the room with some alarm, as if the hook on her bra had just popped open. I was alarmed too—alarmed that she was going to hit him and start screaming for the police.

“Don't worry. That was the sound to signal you that the infection is leaving your body. It is now gone. You won't have any more problems. In case there is any residual infection, I want to give you some homeopathic tablets that will take care of it. Here…” Opening the drawer next to his desk, my father pulled out a small brown glass bottle of homeopathic medicine called Arsenicum album, which he had imported from England. He handed the bottle to Mrs. Bennet and said, “Put two of these under your tongue in the morning and before bed. This will prevent the infection from coming back. Do this for four days.”

I noticed that Mrs. Bennet slipped the bottle into her purse. She got up to leave and said, “Call me tomorrow with your decision about the carpets. Don't forget we have a deadline to meet.” Waving to me as she left, she called out, “Philip, nice to see you. Tell your father to keep his hands off the ladies.” She giggled and disappeared into her waiting chauffeured Rolls.

When she was gone, I said pointedly to my father, “She didn't seem too happy with you touching her.”

“But I never touched her.”

“Yeah, but she thinks you did. I don't think she appreciated her healing. Maybe it would be better to ask someone if they want to be healed before you did it. This way they won't get so upset.” I couldn't believe that I was giving my father advice, much less lecturing him. But I was both concerned that he had made an enemy of his client and that he was opening the door for serious problems.

“It really doesn't matter what she thinks. The important thing is that I removed the infection, and she won't have any more problems. The infection could have really spread throughout her body. I have a responsibility to heal whenever I can.”

“Pop, I have nothing against you healing somebody. It's just that I don't want to see you get into trouble. You don't know who these people are. They could call the police and get you arrested. People don't seem to hesitate to call the cops on you.”

“Spirit only sends people to me who are in need. I am always watched over and taken care of. Don't worry, nothing will ever happen to me.”

“Okay.”

Two days after Pop removed Mrs. Bennet's infection, a man in a bad dark suit walked into the office carrying a heavy briefcase. This was a man who went out of his way to let the world know that he had no taste and no style. I immediately thought to myself, “What's this guy doing here? He's not going to be buying any custom bedspreads or furniture.”

“Can I speak to Lew Smith?” the guy said to my father. This was really unusual. Almost everybody who walked into the studio knew exactly who my father was from his pictures in the paper or his appearances at various charity functions. Even the cashier at Tang Too, the local Chinese restaurant, knew Pop from his picture in the society page of the paper.

My father got up from his desk and introduced himself. “I'm Lew. What can I do for you?” I could tell that my father was acting cautious by the way he kept his distance from this man. Usually Pop was very effusive when he greeted people. I wasn't the only one who didn't like this guy.

“Ray White, FDA. A complaint has been filed against you.”

“Complaint? For what?” My father had a look of shock on his face. He and Mr. White stared at each other like two gunfighters. Neither one of them was going to be the first to back down. They were oblivious to my presence.

Mr. White recited from memory, “Distributing unapproved pharmaceuticals, practicing medicine without a license, endangering the health and welfare of a U.S. citizen.”

“Doing what?” Pop acted like he hadn't heard the man properly. His mouth dropped open in disbelief.

Mr. White repeated the charges. “The person who filed the complaint claimed you dispensed pills that gave them stomach cramps and induced hallucinations. They said that they had to be hospitalized. It is our responsibility to investigate these claims in order to protect the health and welfare of American citizens. We understand that you distributed some medication by the name of Arsenicum album. We don't show any such medication in our registry. Where did you get this Arsenicum album?”

As soon as I heard this, I knew that bitch Mrs. Bennet had done this to get back at my father because he had embarrassed her. I wished my father had listened to me and asked her permission before he began to heal her or just let her suffer with her infection. Meanwhile, he had probably saved her life—or at least a trip to the doctor. God knows what her millionaire husband would have thought about her unmentionable infection.

Not realizing that he should have an attorney present, my father began to hand the FDA just what it wanted. “I don't quite understand your charges, because Arsenicum is a homeopathic remedy made by pulverizing, refining, and distilling various substances such as arsenic until only the healing essence of those substances remains,” he said. “It triggers the body's own healing mechanisms to produce well-being. Because there is no traceable medication in homeopathic tablets, it is impossible that Arsenicum could have induced hallucinations or any other disease.” My father assumed the matter was now closed and extended his hand to bid Mr. White good day.

“Excuse me, Mr. Smith, but you said you are dispensing arsenic? Are you aware that arsenic is a poison?”

“Arsenicum album works like a charm, especially on ambitious, demanding people. It seems to reorient their disposition; rebalances the body so that all the systems align harmoniously.”

“Arsenic is a poison.”
Mr. White was very upset.

“Well, maybe it could be used as a poison, but in a homeopathic dose there is no poison, just the healing vibration. Do you understand the basic concept of homeopathy, known as ‘like cures like'? Look, a lot of medicines originate from poisons; take digitalis, for example. So when you compound something homeopathically…” Pop was talking way too much.

“I'd like to see the bottle of this Arsenicum.” Mr. White pushed aside some colored-pencil renderings on my father's desk and opened his attaché case. He raised his eyebrows as he removed a Polaroid camera and a ream of official-looking documents with my father's name on them. I sensed that Mr. White thought that he was in the presence of a major criminal and that arresting Pop was going to make his career.

Pop opened a desk drawer filled with various bottles of homeopathic tablets, copies of esoteric prayers and anatomy charts, and strange devices made from copper wire and magnets. Rummaging around his alternative medicine cabinet, he produced a brown glass bottle, which looked the same as the one he had given to Mrs. Bennet.

Mr. White, excited by the easy cooperation of his prey, grabbed the bottle from my father's hand and began examining it. I couldn't understand why he was making such a big deal over this one bottle. Since I was a kid, my father had given me homeopathic tablets whenever I was sick. I never had any side effects because side effects from homeopathic medicines are impossible.

“You see, Mr. White, unlike the medicine the doctor gives you, these pills have no negative effects and will never harm you.”

“No side effects?”

“None. As I told you, there is no medication of any kind in these tablets. Just the essence and vibration of the healing substance.”

“No medication?”

“No. Nothing.”

“So these are nothing more than sugar pills?”

“Not exactly. They are sugar pills that contain a specific healing energy but no specific medication.”

“Mr. Smith, this is more serious than I imagined. Not only are you prescribing and distributing unauthorized and poisonous medications, you are peddling fraudulent medications. This is a matter we will have to bring before the attorney general.”

My father blinked in astonishment. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, and neither could I. The gravity of the situation—a situation I felt was about to spiral out of control—was finally beginning to hit him. Pop had always talked to me about the evil FDA and how it was in the hands of the moneyed pharmaceutical profession. I vividly recalled his countless stories of doctors being jailed by the FDA for trying to cure cancer through strange methods that included magnets and laetrile, a supposedly natural anticancer agent made from the pits of apricots. A lot of those doctors fled to Mexico and set up alternative cancer clinics to avoid persecution. Suddenly all those stories about the FDA were hitting home. I could just imagine my father being hauled away in handcuffs. They were definitely out to get him. I realized there was no way for him to retract his earlier statements. For the first time I could ever remember, Pop looked very nervous. I wanted to help in some way but just didn't know what to do.

Mr. White closed his attaché case, laid the bottle on its surface, and began to load his Polaroid with film.

“What are you doing?” My father's voice had gotten smaller.

“Evidence,” Mr. White said with a “gotcha!” smile.

I was surprised that my father, with all his psychic powers, couldn't make Mr. White simply disappear into thin air. Usually he would say a prayer or contact a spirit guide who could make his problems vanish as suddenly as they had appeared. Just then Pop looked startled, as if he had heard something break. He began to swat at his neck like a mosquito was buzzing him. “Mr. White, would you excuse me for a moment?” he said. “There is a matter I need to attend to in the back. I'll return as soon as it is taken care of.” The FDA agent didn't bother to look up from his camera. He was busy trying to get the best angle of the bottle, as if he were shooting a jewelry catalog for Christie's.

I quickly followed my father into the back workroom. “Pop, what are you going to do? I don't want you to go to jail.”

“Don't worry, I have no intention of going to jail. The spirits won't let me. I am here to do good, and these idiots won't stop me.” Along with improving his psychic abilities, my father was increasingly contacting his spirit guides for advice just as one would pick up the phone to ask a question of a lawyer or a good friend. I had no idea where or how he “met” these spirits. There was no formal process of introduction that I was aware of; they just seemed to appear and be on call at all times. Most of the time, he used their supernatural expertise for assistance with his healings, but at times like these, he used them to rearrange reality when necessary.