Terminal Therapy Read online

  “And mouth,” she said. I couldn't argue with her there.

  Talking about bulimia reminded me that I'd barely eaten. Paula told me to partake while she mingled. I found an empty spot along the wall next to a window, and rested my food and drink on a table.

  In between bites I gazed out the window. It was too dark to enjoy the view of the water, however, even though outdoor floodlights were on. The boat’s gentle sway was soothing, though. Donning my “enjoys company but content to be alone” look, I dove into the delicious food and drink.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next character's entrance, from the back rooms into the back of the party room, was the most dramatic of all. Short, thin gray hair, hearing aids, nondescript suit with no tie. Unremarkable so far. But large glasses with black plastic frames, and wooden clogs which clomped when he walked, announced his presence and personality. His retinue made it clear that he was our conference's rock star, Dr. Jonathan Singer. He filled the hush which his entrance produced with politician-like playing of the crowd. I tried to keep my distance, but Paula pulled us forward.

  “My dear Paula!” Singer said, as Paula blushed. He clasped her hands. “I’m so glad to see you again. Too bad you’re not in my current training seminar at the Institute. I loved the talk you gave last year.”

  Paula’s blush deepened, but she was spared the need to reply when Singer moved away. “Isn’t he amazing?” she asked me. “A person of his stature taking an interest in me. I owe him so much.” From what I’d heard of Singer I guessed that Paula’s beauty might not have diminished that interest.

  Singer, a striking older woman at his side, made his way to the front of the room. He fiddled with something behind the podium, cursing and smiling--not bothering to disguise either. The woman reached around him and flipped a switch, which turned the microphone on.

  Her gray hair and suit mirrored his, but hers were immaculate. The pale pink of her polished fingernails, and her mauve-colored blouse, provided tasteful color. When she drifted behind Singer's right and stood with her hands crossed below her waist, I thought bodyguard.

  “Hello, everybody,” Singer said in German-accented English. As he pulled the microphone out of its holder, it slipped out of his hands and fell to the floor. “Shit!” No accent there.

  He bent over to retrieve the microphone--but so did his companion. Their heads knocked with an audible thud. Metallic tinkles signified items sliding out of Singer’s pockets, as though the microphone were a magnet. The pair arose together, each rubbing the other's head. He was laughing. She let a smile escape as she scooped up his trinkets.

  “We have to stop meeting like this!” Singer directed his cliché at the audience, and received the laughter he obviously expected. Ah, celebrity. I judged that neither of them needed medical attention. The woman handed him the microphone and placed his trinkets on the podium.

  “What do you expect from rental boats?” Singer said. “At least we have it for the week. Now where was I? Yes. I hope you're all enjoying yourselves. The food and drink are good, no?”

  Yes they are, I agreed in my head. “I hope you'll stay for dessert,” he continued. “I plan to supply the icing. A little surprise announcement.”

  He raised and lowered his eyebrows, then surveyed the silent crowd and smiled. When he raised his left arm to check his watch, however, he was toppled by an earthquake which rocked our boat. At least that's what I thought it was, until I heard a commotion out on the deck.

  Several people helped Singer to his feet. He seemed intact once again. I looked out a window and saw another boat, which had apparently rammed us.

  Footsteps on the deck were followed by the entrance of five denim-clad, green-armband-wearing invaders into our room. When our crowd backed down before their advance, I saw that they were unarmed, so to speak--and that the last two were my parents!

  Curiosity replaced my initial fear. Gray hair and panting belied the ferocity of their expressions. And although I cannot often predict my parents' behavior, violence is out of the question--I think.

  “There he is,” my father said, pointing at Jonathan Singer.

  The gang of five pushed forward, in amoeba-like fashion. A woman with scraggly gray hair, and glasses hanging from a chain around her neck, stepped forward. She jutted her chin forward but leaned back, as if pre-flinching. If silencing the crowd and gaining their attention had been their goal, they'd fully succeeded.

  “Jonathan Singer,” she began. Her tremulous voice cracked. She cleared her throat, looked briefly at my parents, then resumed. “We're the Green Panthers-”

  “Green Pussycats, you mean,” Singer interrupted. “I know who you are, Bitty Smyth. You can't fool me.” His gray-haired “bodyguard” approached him from behind, but he waved her back.

  “And I know who you are, Jonathan,” Smyth replied. “But this isn't about us. This is about a bigger issue. The wind turbines.”

  One of the intruders had drifted to a wall and was leaning against it, smirking. His T-shirt with a Budweiser logo, and a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his left sleeve, contrasted with his group's attire. As did the anchor tattoo on his arm. Smoker’s wrinkles framed his deeply tanned face, suggesting that he was younger than he looked.. His wiry muscles took the smirk off my face.

  “Who do you think you are,” Singer asked, “ramming and boarding my boat?”

  Rental boat, I nit-picked in my head.

  “Ramming wasn’t part of the plan,” my father said, glaring at the T-shirted smirker. The smirk grew.

  “We demand that you withdraw your opposition to the wind turbines,” Smyth said.

  “Demand?” Singer's mouth smiled. His eyes, which supposedly could barely see, were locked on Smyth.

  “We must all do our part,” she said, “to reduce our reliance on fossil fuels for energy. So we can reduce greenhouse gases and slow down global warming.”

  She ran out of breath by the end of her obviously prepared statement. Now I understood my parents' presence. It was another of their causes. I sympathized with Smyth's argument for harnessing the clean energy of wind power. Although maybe not her tactics. Maybe. How would Singer respond?

  “I'm in favor of wind power, too,” he said. “But not here. The Cape is a sacred shrine. No one has the right to desecrate it.”

  I was surprised to see the Marlboro Man nodding. Whose side was he on? Smyth looked at my parents again. My father pumped his fist, apparently encouraging her. She re-addressed Singer. “Sometimes sacrifices are necessary for the greater good.”

  Singer's smile vanished. He approached Smyth, bringing his face within a foot of hers. My father stepped up to Smyth's side. The entire crowd seemed to draw closer.

  “I've heard that argument before. From fascists.” Spit flew from Singer's mouth. Smyth retreated, wiping her face with her shirtsleeve. I saw tears in her eyes. “Now get the hell off my boat,” he said.

  His assistant placed a hand on his shoulder. He backed up a step and gave Smyth a dismissive wave. “Bah!”

  He turned, but my father tapped his arm. “Don't patronize us, your highness. You'll regret it.”

  Several people rushed to Singer's side. The Marlboro Man moved next to my father. I inched forward, wishing that Mitchell Singer, the large Mitchell Singer, were present to act as peacemaker. Where was Mitchell? I heard a someone say that the police were on their way.

  Jonathan Singer, however, seemed unperturbed. He shook his arm free and adjusted his glasses. “Do I know you, young man?”

  Under normal circumstances, I felt certain, my father would have appreciated--and laughed about--the compliment about his age. “Threats don't impress me,” Singer concluded.

  Paula pushed me. “Do something before someone gets hurt.”

  I tried to step forward this time, but there were too many people in my way.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Hold it right there, folks!” The authoritative voice accomplished its stated purpose: the combatants froze. At firs
t I saw only a cowboy hat across the room. The hat bobbed and weaved closer and closer, until a paunchy man in his mid-fifties emerged. Sporting a white polo shirt under his brown sports jacket, and a massive gun in a holster at his waist, he was John Wayne crossed with Don Johnson.

  “Lieutenant Albert Hansen,” he announced while flashing his badge. “Now who's in charge here?”

  Singer's sidekick answered first. “I'm Judith Klansky, Lieutenant.” I detected an English accent, my favorite--after Scottish and Irish. “This is Dr. Jonathan Singer. And this is his party.”

  “Heard a lot about you, Doc. So what's going on?”

  Klansky spoke again. “These terrorists-”

  “Environmental activists,” my father said.

  “Quiet, sir,” Hansen said, pointing his finger at him. He noticed the Marlboro Man. “You, too, Tom?”

  “You know me,” Tom grinned. “Anything for a buck.”

  “Or a beer,” Hansen countered. “I assume these are the intruders, Dr. Singer?” He swept his pointing finger across the Green Panthers.

  “Yes they are,” Singer replied.

  “Do you want to press charges against them?”

  Singer paused. My father glared at him. My mother locked her arm around his. She seemed washed out, but maybe it was just the lighting. Smyth put her hands in her pockets.

  “No, don't bother,” Singer said. “Just get them off my boat. They've wasted enough of my time.” He turned around and departed out to the deck, holding his arms out. A signal that no one should follow him.

  I approached my parents. “Mom, Dad. What's going on? Are you OK?”

  “Stand back, sir,” Hansen said to me.

  “Call us later,” my mother said.

  Hansen spread his arms, as if to engulf the Green Panthers. “Thank your lucky stars that you're not going to jail, folks.” He shooed them to the exit door, evidently expecting them to behave like sheep. “You brought these losers here on your boat, Tom?” was the last thing I heard before they all left.

  The crowd exploded with pent-up conversation, not to mention pent-up hunger and thirst.

  “Can you believe their nerve?” Paula asked me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ambushing Dr. Singer on his own boat.”

  “Hey. Those were my parents, Paula. Don't you think they had a point?”

  “I know. But still...”

  We compromised by attacking dessert, splitting slices of baklava and chocolate layer cake. Doubling the pleasure without doubling the decadence, the joy of sharing an added bonus. I saw Mitchell Singer enter the room and grab dessert, too. A powerful-looking middle-aged blonde woman joined him.

  “That's Dr. Tracey Shanley,” Paula told me. “Second-in-command at the Singer Institute. I was wondering where she was.”

  Shanley left the room, but returned shortly to rejoin Mitchell. The two of them went to the podium. Shanley bent over the microphone and tapped it.

  “Excuse me,” Shanley said. “I hope you're all having a good time. In spite of the little disturbance.”

  People raised their glasses and nodded. Shanley continued.

  “It's time for Dr. Singer, Jonathan Singer I mean, to cap off our evening. But there's one small problem. He's missing. Has anyone seen him?”

  “Any young woman missing, too?” I heard someone grumble.

  Judith Klansky stepped forward. “I saw him go out to the deck about fifteen minutes ago. We all did.” She turned to address the audience. “He told me not to accompany him. But was anyone with him? He's never alone for long.”

  People looked at their neighbors. The crowd's buzzing was interrupted by Mitchell Singer. “I was with him briefly. But that was a few minutes ago. I left when he told me to leave him alone. Who saw him after that?”

  Everyone looked around again. No one responded. Party-goers set down their drinks as their expressions sobered.

  “I'm starting to worry,” Paula told me. “Maybe this isn't just one of Jonathan Singer's little jokes. Let's go look for him.”

  I heard Stephanie Carstens' voice from the back of the room. “I'll go out to the deck and see if he's there.” She pushed through the crowd, toward the exit door.

  “I'll come with you,” Paula said.

  “Can I help, too?” I heard several people say at once. The crowd milled in the direction of the exit, as if expecting someone to yell “fire!”

  “Wait a minute!” Mitchell Singer's voice rose above the others', aided by volume and height. “Tracey was just out there to check, and didn't see him.”

  Carstens stopped, and focused on Mitchell. The audience hushed, then buzzed once again.

  “It’s dark out there despite the floodlights,” someone said. “Easy to miss him.”

  “We've got to do something,” said Andrea Peterson, the conference coordinator, from somewhere in the crowd. “If only because we can't conclude our festivities without Dr. Singer's grand announcement. I'm sure we're all giddy with anticipation.”

  Half the crowd giggled. But the other half, including Paula, glared at her. My arm, unfortunately, was the most convenient object for her to squeeze. Someone tapped the microphone. I looked at the podium and saw Tracey Shanley.

  “My friends. Your attention please. We have to find Dr. Singer, but this boat is much too small to include all of us in the search party. Stephanie, go look in your back room again. Judith and Andrea, check out the other rooms in the back. Mitchell, please call his house. If there's no answer, go there for a quick search. I'll look around the deck again. The rest of you stay here.”

  Heads nodded as she scanned the room.

  “Good,” Shanley said. “Let's all return in five minutes. I'm sure we'll find him soon, and have a good laugh together.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Everyone followed Tracey Shanley’s directions. They were probably grateful, as I was, that someone had taken charge.

  “She’s clearly a natural leader,” I told Paula.

  “I guess you're right,” she replied. “I wanted to look for Dr. Singer myself. But I suppose that we couldn't all do it.”

  The room was eerily quiet. The music had stopped, and no one was eating or drinking anymore. The cleared-off buffet tables had resolved the dilemma of whether it was in good taste to indulge while worrying about Jonathan Singer's fate.

  Carstens, Klansky and Peterson all returned, shaking their heads. Shanley barged back into the room, waving something in each hand. When Mitchell Singer joined her I was close enough to see her show him a pipe, and hear her address him.

  “I found this out there. I assume it's yours?”

  He patted his pockets, apparently found nothing, then took the pipe from Shanley. “I must've dropped it. Did you find him?”

  She shook her head. “No, but...” She slapped something onto the podium which made a banging noise. She tapped the microphone, but the gesture was unnecessary this time. Everyone's attention was already directed at her.

  “I see Stephanie, Judith and Andrea in the back. So you must not have found him.”

  “No,” they all replied.

  “I don’t know how to say this,” Shanley said, her voice cracking. “There may have been a terrible accident. Mitchell, please call 911.”

  Gasps, hands to mouths. “What are you talking about?!” Mitchell exclaimed.

  Shanley picked up the object from the podium and held it in the air. “When I finished looking around the deck I looked over the railing. It was dark, but the floodlights helped. When something floated by I grabbed a pole I found leaning on a wall and fished this out. Unless someone else dresses as peculiarly as Jonathan does, this clog is his.”

  As Mitchell pulled out his cell phone our brief calm exploded. Paula raced out to the deck, followed by Carstens, Klansky, and several others. The crowd moved in all directions at once, shouting unintelligibly, making frantic and aimless gestures.

  I felt the boat sway. What should I do? My inclination was to follow Paula,
but that might only add to the chaos. On the other hand, what was I accomplishing where I was?

  “Please, everyone,” Shanley said, back in her authoritative voice. “Let's stay calm. Wait for the police to arrive.”

  But this time no one appeared to pay attention to her. I left as well, heading out to the deck to find Paula. She was leaning over the railing in the right hand corner of the front of the boat. Starboard side of the bow, I imagined her telling me. I tapped her shoulder.

  “Paula-”

  “Someone said that this is where he was. I'd jump in, but I can't see a damn thing.”

  The water was a black void except for the boat's perimeter illumination. “I thought you couldn't swim,” I said.

  “I can dog paddle. It wouldn't stop me from trying to save him.”

  “I'll bet it wouldn't. But it should.” I remembered my first junior life saver lesson: don't try to rescue a drowning person unless you're fully trained, or there soon would be two drowning people.

  “Do you have any idea how special he is?” she asked. She scanned the water again, then slapped the railing. “This is so frustrating,” she said.

  I took her hand but didn't speak. We spent the next few minutes staring out at the water, hoping to see an active swimmer rather than a lifeless floater. Others joined us on the deck, their faces changing as though in shifts.

  From the landward side of the boat I heard a car drive up and a door slam. Lieutenant Albert Hansen and his ten-gallon hat appeared at our side.

  “I feel like a broken record,” he said. “What's going on here, folks?”

  Multiple people spoke at once.

  “Hold on. One at a time.” He looked through our group and fixed on Judith Klansky. “You. Ms. Klansky. Tell me what's going on. Everyone else, hold your horses.”

  “Dr. Singer, Jonathan Singer, has disappeared. We've looked all over the boat for him. Dr. Shanley-”--Shanley took the cue, and stepped forward--“looked for him out here, and found Dr. Singer's clog floating in the water.”