"Like what?"
"Dolphins."
And, sure enough, there is a school, a pack of dolphins crossing, leaping through the air, coming up out of the water, as if performing an athletic dance, as if waving good morning.
"I have to go down there," she says. "Are you coming?"
"I think I'm going to stay. I need to make a few calls."
CECELIA'S HIP has come in. "If it's OK with you, I'll go ahead and have them put it in. I won't be able to work for six to eight weeks."
"I'd like to send you a check," he says.
"Are you firing me?"
"Of course not; I imagine you'll have some expenses."
"Hold on to your money."
"Cecelia, when you check into the hospital, get a private room. I'll pick up the difference — you should have what you need."
"I'm fine with what they give me."
He calls the nutritionist. "Cecelia told me you were away," she says.
"I was on a retreat. They had spirulina and ground flax seed."
"Very good. So where is your new place?"
"Malibu."
"Oh, far. I have a route that I kind of stick to, but I could meet you somewhere along the way. Maybe Santa Monica?"
"Whatever works; I'm flexible."
"Meet me in the Fred Segal parking lot tomorrow at two-fifteen and I'll make you a bunch of things that will get you through the week."
"Good, and I'll need a double order — food for two."
"You're pregnant?"
"No, I have a friend staying here."
"A friend — congratulations."
He calls the trainer. "Malibu — wow, you're out of my service area. When will you be back?"
"A month, maybe two."
"There's got to be a gym or a Shanti out there — look in the phone book under 'exercise.' "
He does, and finds something called Malibu Gyrotonics.
"Have you ever done Pilates, gymnastics, or other dance-based exercise?" the woman answering the phone quizzes him.
"No."
"I can put you in with Sydney tomorrow at three."
"Perfect."
"It's eighty-five dollars a session."
"Perfect."
"Not covered by insurance, unless you have a physical-therapy prescription."
"Perfect."
He calls Lusardi's office.
"How was it?" the receptionist asks.
"Transforming," he says, laughing. "Everyone got diarrhea. I need to make a time to come in."
"How's today at one?"
"Perfect." Everything is suddenly perfect.
"If your stomach is still bothering you, bring a sample and we'll culture it."
He pretends he didn't hear that.
There's a knock on the front door. It's Billy, the real-estate agent. "Everything hunky-dory?"
Richard nods. "Why didn't you tell me whose house this was?"
"It seemed obvious."
"To everyone but me."
Billy shrugs.
"Last night my windows blew out," Richard says. "I need someone to take a look, but I've got no idea where to begin."
"Billy knows someone," Billy says, pulling a little black book out of his back pocket. He scans the minuscule but deeply neat handwriting — a list of names and numbers. "Billy's made a lot of friends over the years."
"Thanks, Billy."
Richard calls Billy's contractor friend. "I'm right around the corner. Are you home now? How soon can you be there?"
"Forty minutes — an hour?"
"Fine," the guy says. "Call me back when you're close."
Cynthia comes back from her walk. "I've arranged for us to get food," Richard says proudly. "I'm meeting the nutritionist in Santa Monica, and she's going to make us a package of good things."
"Great. I met someone on the beach, a woman who knew of a program started by a plastic surgeon — housewife rehab. He started it because he would do all this work on people and they were still miserable, which depressed him. They have a social worker, yoga and nutrition classes, and they help you get a job, and it's free. The doctor calls it his debt to society."
"Are you sure it's not a cult or a way he drums up business?"
"I'm so excited," she says, "I'm going to get a job. I haven't had a job in years."
"That's fantastic," he says, careful not to burst her bubble. "I've got to go," he says. "I'm meeting a contractor. I'm late."
"Go," she says. "I'll call and find out more about it."
RICHARD HURRIES out to the car. He's there again, the guy from last night. He's wearing Richard's old jean jacket and has a noise-canceling headset on.
Richard sees the guy and taps the side of his head. "I have those too," he says loudly.
The guy just looks at him and then pulls the headset off one ear.
"I have those too," Richard says again. "I love them."
"Are you the asshole?"
"Excuse me?"
"The asshole who bought that shit box to tear it down."
"No, I'm the tenant."
"Do you know the asshole?"
"No."
"Then what are you doing here?"
"My house fell into a hole and broke; I'm renting. That's my jacket. I left it for you last night; I thought you were homeless."
"Nope, I live here," he says, gesturing to the house next door. "Fits good — thanks." He adjusts the jacket.
"I saw you going through the trash."
"You almost ran me over."
Richard nods.
"I had it," the guy says, "the perfect line. I wrote it on something and now it's in there — somewhere." He bends over the trash can. "Oh, my back. Do me a favor, I can't reach that one bag at the bottom, can you pull it out for me?"
The trash can stinks, the horrible, fetid smell of decay. Richard tries to pull the bag out without sticking his head in.
"You have to bend into it," the guy says.
And so Richard bends, dipping his whole upper body in, pulling out the bag, and getting some stinky mystery juice on his shirt.
The guy rips the bag open. "Arrggghh," he tilts his head back and bellows like a wild man.
"OK, then," Richard says, getting into the car, "have a good one."
THE CONTRACTOR walks in circles around the house, throwing his weight against the pilings, attempting to shake the foundation.
"Electric and water still on?"
Richard nods.
"You should turn them off: not worth the risk." He bends, scooping up pieces of broken glass; they are like beach rubble, glistening, sharp. "I've never seen glass give out like this — I'm impressed."
"OK, so now what?" Richard asks.
"Well, you can either go the restoration route or, you know…" He pauses. "A lot of people are doing it these days — just knock it down and start over. That way you can have whatever you want — take care of all the little things that always bothered you — where the bathroom sink was, the way the doors in the bedroom opened, wishing your view was better from your bed."
"Seems like a large proposition, knocking down my house. I was thinking of something more like just getting it back to where it was last week, when it had windows and everything worked and I liked it just fine."
"Up to you," the guy says, handing him his card.
Richard drives back to Malibu, stops at the grocery store, goes up and down the aisles, surprised at what he's choosing — organic vegetables, soy protein, tofu cheese — piling the cart high. He wants to stay clean, to maintain whatever it is he got while he was busy transforming suffering. They sell bundles of wood in the store. He puts four in the cart and thinks it's funny, buying a bundle of wood for five dollars. Why not sell sticks for a dollar each?
In the store, he sees the guy from the trash cans, wandering, sampling greens, talking to people who seem perfectly happy to talk to him, who seem to know him. He's got flip-flops, shaggy gnarled long hair, and a peculiar, deeply masculine, but ever-so-slightly feminine physical presence, a godly stature which gives off a lot of self-confidence for someone who looks like he hasn't had a bath in weeks.