Blood Test

“Two weeks before harvest a killing frost borne by frigid air currents crept up from Mexico. There’d been a rash of tropical storms that had battered the Caribbean and the frost was an aftershock. Most of the trees died overnight and the ones that survived dropped their fruit. There was a frantic attempt at rescue. Several of the people I met in Florida had been there to help. They described it to me: Garland and Emma running through the groves with smudgepots and blankets, trying to wrap the trees, warm the soil, do anything to save them. The little girl watching them and crying. They struggled for three days but it was hopeless. Garland was the last to accept it.”

He shook his head sadly.

“Years of work were lost in a span of seventy hours. After that he withdrew from horticulture and became a virtual hermit.”

It was a classic tragedy — dreams savaged by the Fates. The agony of helplessness. Terminal despair.

I began to catch a glimpse of what Woody’s diagnosis must have meant to them:

Cancer in a child was never less than monstrous. For any parent it meant confronting a sickening sense of impotence. But for Garland and Emma Swope the trauma would be compounded, the inability to save their child evoking past failures. Perhaps unbearably ...

“Is all of this well-known?” I asked.

“To anyone who’s lived here for a while.”

“What about Matthias and the Touch?”

“That I couldn’t tell you. They moved here a few years ago. May or may not have found out. It’s not a topic of public conversation.”

He smiled the waitress over and ordered a pot of herb tea. She brought it, along with two cups, which she filled.

He sipped, put his cup down, and looked at me through the steam.

“You still harbor suspicions about the Touch,” he said.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “There’s no real reason to. But something about them is spooky.”

“Somewhat contrived?”

“Exactly. It all looks too programmed. Like a movie director’s version of what a cult should be.”

“I agree with you, Doctor. When I heard Norman Matthews had become a spiritual leader I was rather amused.”

“You knew him?”

“By reputation only. Anyone in the legal profession had heard of him. He was the quintessential Beverly Hills attorney — bright, flamboyant, aggressive, ruthless. None of which jibed with what he presently claims to be. Still, I suppose odder transformations have taken place.”

“Someone took a pot shot at me yesterday. Can you see them doing that kind of thing?”

He thought about it.

“Their public face has been anything but violent. If you told me Matthews was a swindler I’d believe it. But a murderer...” He looked doubtful.

I took a different tack.

“What kind of relationship was there between the Touch and the Swopes?”

“None, I would imagine. Garland was a recluse. Never came to town. Occasionally I’d see Emma or the girl out shopping.”

“Matthias told me Nona worked for the Touch one summer.”

“That’s true. I’d forgotten.” He turned away and fiddled with a container of unfiltered honey.

“Mr. Maimon, forgive me if this sounds rude, but I don’t see you forgetting anything. When Matthias talked about Nona, the sheriff got uncomfortable, as you just did. Broke in with a comment about what a wild kid she was, as if to end the discussion. You’ve been very helpful until now. Please don’t hold back.”

He put his glasses back on, stroked his chin, started to lift his teacup but thought better of it.

“Doctor,” he said evenly, “you seem a sincere young man and I want to help you. But let me explain the position I’m in. I’ve lived here for a decade but still consider myself an outsider. I’m a Sephardic Jew, descended from the great scholar Maimonides. My ancestors were expelled from Spain in 1492, along with all the Jews. They settled in Holland, were expelled from there, went to England, Palestine, Australia, America. Five hundred years of wandering gets into the blood, makes one reluctant to think in terms of permanence.

“Two years ago, a member of the Ku Klux Klan was nominated for state assembly from this district. Part of it was subterfuge — the man concealed his membership — but too many people knew who he was to make the nomination an accident. He lost the election but shortly afterward there were cross-burnings, anti-Semitic leafleting, an epidemic of racist graffiti and harassment of Mexican-Americans along the border.

“I’m not telling you this because I think La Vista is a hotbed of racism. On the contrary, I’ve found it an extremely tolerant town, as witnessed by the smooth integration of the Touch. But attitudes can change rather quickly — my forebears were court physicians to the Spanish royal family one week, refugees the next.” He warmed both hands on his cup. “Being an outsider means exercising discretion.”

“I know how to keep a secret,” I said. “Anything you tell me will be kept confidential unless lives are at stake.”

He engaged in another bout of silent contemplation, the delicate features solemn and still. We locked eyes for a moment.