"The good thing is, it's only a car."
"A beautiful car, and now she has a mistake."
"It will be fine."
"It's nice you are not angry or thinking that I mistreated the car."
"I am not angry." Richard smiles, a little disappointed that the show of affection wasn't for him, but happy to see Anhil regardless.
"Can I give you a donut?"
"Just some hot water and a piece of lemon, if you have it."
"The ceremony was so beautiful, so respectful of the automobiles, people blew their horns." Anhil pours him the hot water. "I have your cereal."
Richard shakes his head. "I had a very early breakfast."
"How was your silence, was it clarifying? Did you hear voices? That's what happens sometimes: all the great religious figures — the visionaries and prophets — heard voices. I didn't want to say anything before you left; I could have made you worry."
Richard checks his watch. "I should go."
Anhil walks out with him and shows him the car. All along the passenger side is a thick scratch.
"Only a very unhappy person would do something like that."
"It's fine," Richard says, getting in. "I'll see you soon."
SHE IS THERE: sitting on the doorstep looking well rested, rejuvenated, hair done, in a Golden Door sweatsuit — Our Lady of LA.
He doesn't even open the front door. He just notes that the house is where he left it, the hole is still there too. Everything is as it was, with the exception of two orange cones by the curb and a series of marks spray-painted from the middle of the street up onto the grass.
"How was it?" he asks.
"Amazing," she says. "Really great. You look thin."
"Everyone got diarrhea. It was either food poisoning, a stomach bug, or too much fiber."
"Every morning we went for a five-mile hike," she says, following as he walks up the hill. She is pumping her arms, making circles around him.
"Go slow," he says. "I spent the last five days sitting. Every day there was an hour of walking meditation, but that was it." Richard does an imitation of a walking meditation. He looks like Marcel Marceau on a space walk.
"So where are we going?" she asks.
"Tad Ford's house."
"No, we're not."
"Yes, we are."
"Why didn't you say something? I'm not dressed, I'm in a sweatsuit."
"It's perfect."
"I won it playing bingo. How do you know him?"
"I met him when the horse fell into the hole."
"That's weird."
Richard nods.
"I just came from a seven-thousand-dollar spa week, and now I'm going to a movie star's house for lunch with a man I met in the produce section. It's like one of those Touched by an Angel TV shows. By the way, how is your leg?"
"Better."
"I told Andy to pick me up at four; is that workable?"
"When did you finally call him?"
"One of the women sneaked her cell phone in and let me make a call in exchange for not turning her in. When I called he said, 'I've got your number on Caller ID.' 'It's not my number,' I told him, and he said, 'You have to tell us when you're coming back; the laundry is piling up, the dishes are everywhere, we're running out of food.' I told him, 'There's detergent in the laundry room, a scrub brush under the sink, and a grocery store just down the road.' And then I said, 'I have to go now.' "
Richard has the sensation of being without skin. Everything he sees, smells, touches has a profound impact. He is entirely permeable, and it's not exactly a good feeling.
Tad's little sister lets them in. "I'm Savannah."
"Her name's Julie, but she changed it," Tad calls from the kitchen.
"It's a free world," Savannah says.
They walk through the movie star's living room and onto a patio that hangs cantilevered out over Los Angeles. Savannah hands each of them an icy-cold red drink.
"Pressed-pomegranate lemonade," Tad says, coming out with an apron tied around his waist.
"It's incredible," Cynthia says. "Where do you get it?"
"I make it, starting with a lime-sugar base that I cook down, and then adding fresh pressed lemon and pomegranate. I filter it, chill it, and just before serving rub in some mint from the garden."
"Perfect combination," Cynthia says.
"You two look alike," Richard says, as though it might come as a surprise.
"Irish twins," the sister says. "He's eleven months older."
They sit at a beautiful table set with dishes that look like they came from somewhere very far away, a very long time ago.
"Tuscany?"
"Neiman Marcus," the sister says.
"I want to hear everything," Tad says to Richard. "Does your ass hurt? Do you feel different? Are you exhausted?"
"I feel good," he says. "I'm glad I did it. It was interesting to notice how much my moods shifted even when nothing was happening. As quiet as it was on the outside, it was very loud on the inside."
"I knew it, man, you're on a path."
"Either that or you should be on medication," the sister says.
"You're going to change the world," Tad says.
"Hey, thanks for the cushion, it made a big difference."
A timer rings inside the house. "That's lunch," the movie star says, and he and the sister go inside.
"He's so cute," Cynthia whispers.
"They have the same expression," Richard says. "It's disconcerting."
"Twice-baked Chilean sea bass," the movie star announces, carrying out the fish.
"Avocado, tomato-onion salad, salad with arugula and fennel," Savannah says.
"You should do a cookbook," Richard says.
"Are you also an actor?" Cynthia asks the sister.
She takes a deep breath and belts out the beginning of an aria. The sound that comes out of her mouth is otherworldly; it freezes the canyon, hangs out over the hills, fills the crevasses, holds the air for a moment, and echoes back.
Her audience applauds. "Wow," Cynthia says.
"She's the real star," Tad says.
"I'm just here for a couple of weeks, and then I go back."
"Back to?" Cynthia asks.
"The Paris Opera."
"This is the best meal I've ever had," Richard says. "Talk about transformative."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment with a grain of salt," the movie star says. "After all, you haven't really eaten in seven days."
"And what about you?" they ask Cynthia.
"I've been at the Golden Door all week — just got out this morning."
"Isn't it the best?" the movie star and his sister say simultaneously. "We took our whole family."
Richard sits quietly, listening as Tad and Cynthia talk. The terrace, the landscaping, the colors, the textures of everything are all amazing to him. He could almost swear that he's on drugs, that the morning good-bye tea was some sort of monkey juice. Everything on the movie star's patio is perfect, everything is the way you would want it to be.
"Are you all right?" they ask.
"Fine, I'm fine," he says.
Cynthia is telling Tad and Savannah about her childhood adventures, crabbing with her father on the Eastern Shore, dangling raw chicken into the water from a piece of kite, watching the crabs' pincers grab the meat.
"I didn't know you were from the East Coast," Richard says.
"Of course I am, hardly anyone is really from here — we're all imports."
Cynthia and Tad really seem to be hitting it off. Why wouldn't a movie star have a lot in common with a depressed housewife?
"So what do you do when you're not making a movie, or pulling horses out of holes?" Cynthia asks.