Song of the Shaman (6 page)

2006

New York City

THE CONFERENCE ROOM WAS STIFLING. Vents in these old loft buildings never worked well. The offices were as cold as a meatpacking warehouse, while the wide hallways and meeting areas remained morbidly hot. Sheri untied the Hermès scarf around her neck and stuffed it in the pocket of her wool suit. In the post-9/11 advertising world, budgets shrank to half their sizes and so did agencies. Aeon moved its offices from high-rolling midtown to the humbler Flatiron district, where rents were lower and ominous dust clung to exposed ceiling pipes. She gave up her corner office with sweeping views of the East River for a cell in the middle of the hall sandwiched between the CEO and the CFO. It didn’t bother her as much as she thought it would. In fact, things that used to get her riled up at work had little effect on her these days. Liane dragged the meeting out with her usual strategic drivel.

“The 2006 Response Rate Trends Report helps us develop comprehensive, results-oriented campaigns…improve overall marketing performance…increase JetSet sales, leads, traffic…”

PowerPoint screens flipped page after page of numbers while Sheri drew black inky doodles in the margins of her yellow legal notepad. Elaborate swirls, squiggles, and stick-figure designs eventually took over the whole sheet of paper. She had lost her patience for long meetings and spent more time doodling than taking innocuous notes, even at a presentation as important as this one. The drawings reminded her of the original infamous logo she had designed for JetSet. Unbeknownst to Sheri, the logo prompted uproars from a native tribe who claimed it was a revered symbol in their culture being used for profit. She quickly made revisions while JetSet apologized with a sizable donation to an Indian college fund. Then it had seemed like just a freak accident, and she didn’t give it a second thought. The angry letters stopped years ago. Why was she thinking about them again? Zig.

She masked a yawn and checked the time on her BlackBerry—over an hour already and they had not gotten to the creative portion of the meeting. Across the cherrywood table sat the three Brits—Thom, Jude, and Karston. They were slender men with pallid complexions, around the same age and height, wearing navy blue suits and flat expressions. JetSet Airways pins shone on their lapels. Sheri knew this account inside out. It was her ad campaign that catapulted the tiny boutique airline to fame, more than tripling the budget in less than five years. Karston Roberts, JetSet’s senior brand manager, was at the far end of the table. He scratched his nose and avoided her eyes. Karston had tried to kiss her after too many hours together on a shoot in LA and too many drinks. Even when he was drunk he was a humorless bore. Sheri twirled her pen between her fingers. She had no intention of mixing business with pleasure, no matter what the cost. Now, despite the fact that Aeon had put JetSet Airways on the map, they were thinking of taking their business elsewhere. The first telling sign was the audit. Quiet little men with calculators sat in their offices every day for weeks amidst rumors of misappropriation of funds. Aeon’s president blamed the CFO and fired him, hoping to quell the suspicions. Then came Karston’s amorous advances. It was hard to blot the embarrassing scene from her memory; JetSet was the agency’s biggest account. If they lost it half their revenue would be gone. Staff would be cut drastically, and Sheri could be among them. Other agencies were invited to pitch the business. Most were of no consequence; Ogilvy was the one she was concerned about. She glanced at Roland and Marcus. Their legs were casually crossed but their jaws were clenched. Everyone felt the pressure. She had been up half the night editing spec TV spots for the meeting. At 2:00 a.m. she took the executive committee—Roland, Aeon’s senior VP account director; Liane, senior VP media director; and Marcus, the president and CEO—through the new campaign. It went over budget but the work was outstanding. Marcus and Roland were ecstatic, convinced that Aeon would win them over again. Sheri wasn’t so sure.

The door creaked open and a stream of light entered the dark room. Grace, Sheri’s new assistant, crept in to hand her a note. Sheri strained to read the tiny handwriting.

Jacqueline Dodson from Excelsior Prep called and wants you to come to the school ASAP.

Sheri looked around the table. The others were still in the marketing twilight zone. She got up and walked calmly to the door. Once outside she quickened her pace. Grace met Sheri halfway down the hall.

“What happened? Is Zig okay?”

Grace walked backward toward her desk, cracking her knuckles.

“I’m not sure…She wanted to talk to you. I told her you were in a meeting…”

Sheri stared at the note in her hand. What did he do this time? Did he get into a fight? She imagined him rolling around on the rubber matting under the monkey bars, wrestling with a red-faced kid. Did someone tease him? Bullies called him “asthma boy” and “maskhead” when he went to the nurse for a nebulizer treatment.
Come to the school ASAP.
Her head pounded. Grace waited, her nervous eyes searching Sheri’s for orders. On Grace’s desk a red candle shaped like a devil had
I’ve Got the Hots for You!
printed across its belly. Next to it was a clock radio with a huge neon-colored digit display. 11:48 a.m. Excelsior Prep was just over the bridge, less than half an hour away. She could make it back in time for lunch with the client. Roland would have to present the creative campaign. Sheri dashed to her office with Grace at her heels.

“Tell Marcus and Roland I had an emergency—I’ll meet them at Gotham for lunch. Call the school; say I’m on my way. Cancel my 4:00 dental appointment and check my calendar to reschedule early next week.”

She snatched her handbag from under her desk and adjusted the straps on her sling-back shoes. Through the grime on the wide loft windows clouds in the sky appeared thick and muscular. Grace was still standing in her office. Sheri gave her a deadly look and she scurried away.

She took a gulp of her hours-old Starbucks coffee and blotted her lips on the back of her hand. Lack of sleep was wearing on her. Not having to present to Karston gave her some relief. Now she just had to endure him through lunch. The screen saver on her computer flashed a slideshow of Zig making funny faces. She grabbed her coat and umbrella off a hook behind her door and rushed to the elevator. He had gone too far this time.

A cold mist started to blow when she hailed a cab on Broadway. Things had gotten out of hand these past few years. Zig could act wild and rebellious. Maybe she let him get away with too much. At times she even admired his stubbornness. He was fearless and she encouraged it. However, letting an obstinate ten-year-old go unchecked is asking for trouble. “Conduct Needs Improvement” and “Unsatisfactory” were written all over his last report card. How could he get straight As and be such a bother? Now it was raining. She put the window up and became instantly overwhelmed by the sickly sweet car deodorizer dangling from the rearview mirror. The windshield wipers swooshed and blurred the bodies of people huddling under umbrellas into a melancholy smear.

This all started with Zig’s crazy Indian fantasies. Dr. Breen was wrong—it was not a boyhood phase that would eventually peter out. On the contrary, as Zig grew older he became more obsessed with it. Wearing sandals in the dead of winter…the pouch made out of a lost leather glove to collect feathers and stones…the constant search for some ulu stick that drove Leatrice crazy. Zig would wander into remote areas in Prospect Park looking for broken tree limbs to drag home. He fought fervently to keep his so-called ceremonial sticks, demanding that Sheri let him whittle the bark off with a penknife. Watching him hop up and down in bed to demonstrate his tribal dances was sweet at first. When it didn’t stop she began to worry. She had to find out where this was coming from, and soon. The JetSet review that bogged her down for months was coming to a close. Funny enough, just today she remembered the issue with the old logo…

She made good time to Borough Hall; no major traffic. It was just 12:15 p.m. The sidewalks were spotted with trial lawyers hunting down their lunch. Sheri pushed open Excelsior’s ornate brass doors. Mrs. Johnston, the usually jovial receptionist, greeted her with solemn civility and directed her to the headmistress’s office. Sheri’s heels clopped on the marble floor, the hollow sound echoing in the Ancient Greece–inspired moldings. Around a column she caught sight of Zig slouched on a sofa opposite Jackie’s oversized, intimidating desk. He twisted the hem of his polo shirt, his eyes lowered. Jackie was busy writing in a notebook. A polished woman in her early sixties, Jackie had been head of an elite school in North Carolina before coming to Excelsior a year ago. Excelsior wanted to change its image to attract more families from the city, bolstering a pseudo Ivy League exclusivity that Sheri was not thrilled about. Jackie never married and had no children. In her pale green tailored suit she appeared as frosty as a mint julep. Bifocals magnified her watery eyes. She peered over them when Sheri entered the room.

“Sheri! Thanks for getting here so quickly. Please, sit down.”

The office was spacious and furnished with tasteful antiques, yet it exuded a pretentious lifelessness. Sheri walked to the stiff, upholstered sofa thinking how ironic it was that Zig ended up in a snobby private school just like the ones she’d felt out of place in as a child. She wasn’t zoned for the one decent public school in the area, and private schools were her only resort for the small classrooms, afterschool programs, and peace of mind she desperately needed.

“Hey, sweetie!” She reached out to squeeze Zig’s hand. He pulled away, his lips tight. “What’s going on?” She didn’t like the way he looked.

“During recess today there was an accident in the playground that involved four children. Zig, would you like to tell your mother what happened?”

Not a word came out of his mouth.

“All right then. Some of the children were playing pretend games—I believe it was based on that TV cartoon called Avatar, wasn’t it, Zig?”

Again he was silent.

“Yes, that’s it. Anyway, Zig called their game ridiculous and proceeded to teach them
his
game. They sat away from everyone in a circle with Zig in the middle. The children were quiet for some time. The teachers thought they were playing cards or telling stories. Then a girl, Francesca, got up and started screaming, waving her arms in a panic. When the teachers rushed to help her, Francesca fainted and fell to the ground. An ambulance took her to the hospital. Her parents were notified and are with her now.”

Sheri looked from Jackie’s concerned expression to Zig’s closed face.

“We are not quite sure what happened; the other three children won’t talk. Zig hasn’t told us anything, either. We’re hoping you can help us find out what went wrong.” Jackie leaned forward on her desk, folding her hands.

Sheri was taken aback at her insinuations. “Why do you think Zig had anything to do with her fainting? It could happen to any kid!”

“Yes, but the game was his idea. Francesca fainted while they were playing together. We’re just trying to understand why. She’s never fainted before and has no medical condition. Her parents are looking for answers. We don’t know what to tell them. I’m hoping you can talk to Zig.”

The headmistress was obviously shaken. Her perfectly coiffed, beauty-parlor-silver hair gave her an embalmed look. Sheri leaned down to Zig’s ear.

“What sort of game were you playing, Z?”

He fidgeted in his seat. “We were just pretending. Only real pretending.”

“What’s ‘real pretending’?”

Zig paused and swung his feet at the headmistress’s desk. “It’s like remembering the past, that’s all.”

“How exactly do you play ‘real pretend’?” asked Jackie in a lyrical yet prickly voice.

Zig threw up his hands. “You just
concentrate!”

“Con-cen-trate…” Jackie jotted down a few more notes. “On what?”

“On who you are and who you’ve been, that’s all.”

There was an awkward silence. Sheri feared it might come to this one day. It was just a matter of time before he introduced some of his wild ideas to his schoolmates. Why did she put off the talk she planned to have about his imagination, to remind him that not everyone would appreciate his stories and musings? The headmistress flipped through pages in her notebook.

“I recall Ms. Herman telling me about your fantastic Indian stories.”

Shit.
Sheri held her breath.

Zig looked up at Jackie. “What did she say?”

“Ms. Herman said your colorful accounts of indigenous life were somewhat accurate, but your outbursts about actually being an Indian were quite disruptive to the class.” Jackie read from her notes.

Zig grumbled.

“Excuse me?”

He didn’t answer. Jackie pursed her lips.

“So tell us, Zig—how do you play the real pretend game? You were sitting on the ground with Francesca, Daniel, Kwami, and Jacob…”

Silence.

“Zig?” Sheri prodded him gently.

“She yelled at me!” He cried, finally looking at Sheri. His mouth tightened again. Jackie continued taking notes.

“I’m sorry if you thought I raised my voice!” Jackie replied, as genuine as NutraSweet. “Let’s just try to get to the bottom of this. You were concentrating…How do you do that?”

He hesitated for a moment. “We all closed our eyes and crossed them in our head until.”

“Until what?”

“Until we saw something.”

The headmistress stopped writing. Sheri twitched in her seat. Where was he going with this?

“Daniel was the first to remember. He said he was a Viking soldier and his armor was heavy and stinky.”

Jackie glanced at Sheri.

“What happened to Jacob?” said Jackie.

“Jacob said he was a tall man with a long beard wearing a turban and a long white robe. He said his sandals were funny looking and hot sand kept getting on his toes.”

Zig twisted the middle of his shirt.

“And Kwami?”

“Kwami was in a barn with lots of horses. He said it was real hot and hard to breathe, said he had a hammer and was hitting something hard.”