Miss Buddha (13 page)

“Wouldn’t surprise me one bit.”

“I’ve decided to forgive Charles,” she said
then. “I can’t stay angry with him, though God knows he deserves
it.”

“You’re a good person,” said Ananda, and
meant it.

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“I do,” he said.

::
25 :: (Pasadena)

They remind me a little of the wet leather
strips they used to secure me to that donkey—these tendons and
muscles and arteries and lungs. This head, these arms, these legs,
these toes, these fingers. Tightening as they dry, solidifying as
you settle in and they grow, for now you are no longer boundless.
No longer shapeless and airy.

Nor as expansive as in Tusita, where your
body feels more like cloud than prison.

For once again I have solid
form, the always present pressure of
outline
, capable of hurting. Mass
permeates me, or I it, as if to remind me: I have struck a bargain,
I have made an agreement.

It is mine. This thing. All of it. For a
lifetime.

Though the truth is that
this
it
, this
little life we call Ruth—nearly two weeks old now—is perfectly
capable of living without me, without my supervision, without an
inhabitant. Lots of life here going on without me adding to it. All
that metabolism, all those endocrine glands, sensing, sampling,
testing, measuring and secreting—to keep at optimum levels—all
those little hormones. There is a city—nay, a country—nay, a
world—of life rushing hither and yon, busy, busy, busy, with little
or no thought of anyone or anything directing it all, this
congregation. Busy just keeping alive: cells forming, dividing,
dying, forming again.

An ocean of constant process.

And into this ocean I have settled. It is a
little unsettling.

I feel, of course, that I’m wasting time,
waiting for Ruth to grow. But what were the options? It’s not as if
I could pry someone loose from an adolescent body, or even
adult—not ethically, anyway. The game here is you enter through
this, the newly born. And—for better or for worse—you stick with
it—literally.

Of course, at this stage of possession the
typical possessor is not aware of possessing anything—too busy
drowning in the body-sea, and will not surface for years. But I am
Siddhattha Gotama, I am Giordano Bruno, I am Ruth, I am the Buddha
Gotama, and I don’t drown. This is both blessing, and price to pay:
for in this constantly shifting slough of an ocean, I am fully
aware.

Aware of the little bed I lie in,
comfortable and mostly drowsy. Aware of my room—light blue walls
with stars and far too many moons pasted to the darker blue ceiling
(Melissa insisted upon it). My room is on the ground floor—the only
floor—of a very nice house in the city of Pasadena, California. It
lies south of the freeway, as Charles likes to point out to friends
and family (Pasadena is a city with a dual reputation: north and
south of the freeway, south the less affordable), and is built from
brown wood. It sits on a large lawn, which I am sure will need a
lot of watering come summer.

And I am aware of the many needs of the
little body, its frequent hungers and thirsts, and of course the
frequent needs to dispel—which I can do at will and at any time;
I’m supposed to do just that, and Melissa is supposed to clean me
up. It’s an odd and a little embarrassing arrangement, but I
remember it well from earlier little lives.

I am aware of my parents, Melissa and
Charles, and of their troubles. And not only am I aware of them as
human beings—I hear them talk often—but also as souls: I am aware
of their inner landscapes, their images and thoughts and
turbulences that sail like white and gray and sometimes rosy clouds
across Melissa’s sky, and mostly like dark thunder across Charles’.
These many clouds move in and out of view and obstruct outlook and
reason for these poor people.

These poor humans.

I am aware.

::
26 :: (Still River)

Charles answered the phone.

“Yes?”

“Good morning, Charles. This is Ananda Wolf.
I’d like to speak to Melissa, please.”

“She’s asleep.”

Why Charles always seemed on the edge of
complaining, Ananda had yet to figure out.

“Ah. Is she doing okay? And Ruth?”

“Mother and baby are just fine, Mister
Wolf.” Meaning, as far as Ananda could tell: please hang up and
don’t bother us.

“Perhaps you could let her know I called.
And tell her that I might come down to see her and Ruth soon.”

“There’s no need for that.”

“Melissa has asked me to.”

“I know.”

“So, perhaps in a week or two?”

“There really is no need.”

“I realize that. It’s no problem.”

“I will let her know that you called.”

And in the middle of Ananda’s “Thank You”
Charles hung up, without another word.

Ananda did, too. A little worried for mother
and child.

:

Melissa called him back later that
morning.

“Ananda. Charles said you called.”

He could tell that she was upset. “Yes, I
did.”

“I had to drag it out of him,” she said.
Then added, “I heard it ring.”

“What happened?”

“I’m not really sure. He is being
difficult.”

“How difficult?” he asked, not knowing how
better to put it.

The line went silent. Ananda could hear her
breath, short and urgent.

“Are things all right?” said Ananda into the
silence.

“No,” she said then. “No, things are not all
right.”

“He is not abusive?” said Ananda.

“No. Oh, no. Not
physically, if that’s what you mean. He just isn’t,” and she
hesitated. “He just isn’t
with
us. As if Ruth were a burden, that he is now
blaming me for.”

“Has he
said
that?”

“He doesn’t have to say it. It surrounds him
like a cloud. I thought he was going to be happy about it, that
things were going to grow more loving, more honest, between us once
Ruth arrived. But it’s just the opposite, he’s more distant. He’s
broody.”

“But he is not,” and Ananda—thinking of
Gotama—cast about for the best way to put it. “He’s not a danger,
is he?”

“No. Heaven’s no. He’s morose and not very
pleasant to be around, but he would never, no.”

Ananda believed her, and felt relieved. “I’d
like to come down and see you.”

“That would be nice,” she said. “That would
be very nice.” Then asked, “How is the book coming?”

The book. Yes. The book. “Fine,” he said.
“It’s coming along just fine.”

“I’m glad,” she said.

“I’ll call again soon,” he said.

:

Ananda had barely hung up the phone when
Ruth spoke, Gotama making nothing of the distance between them.
“She is worried,” she said.

“Yes, I can tell.”

“Coming down would not be a bad idea. And
sooner rather than later. She does not see how upset Charles really
is beneath the morose surface.”

“Is he a danger?”

“I doubt he is, but he could be, yes.”

“I’ll make the arrangements,” said Ananda.
“Do you think I should come to stay for a while?”

“How long is a while?”

“Weeks, months.”

“No, I don’t think so. Not yet at any rate.
But she needs you right now.”

“I will book a flight.”

“That would be good.”

::
27 :: (Pasadena)

Charles was not happy to see him, and was not
going to any great lengths to conceal it. Melissa, the very
opposite.

“Mister Wolf,” he said, answering the door,
making it sound like an accusation.

“Mister Marten. Charles. Good to see you
again,” said Ananda, offering his hand, which Charles took, more by
reflex than by courtesy. A huge hand, Ananda reflected and not for
the first time. Charles had been a quarterback, or was it wide
receiver, in college, one or the other, where hands this size
apparently were of some use.

Charles let go of Ananda’s hand the moment
he realized he was holding it, as if burned. “Yes,” he said.

“I’ve come to see Melissa,” said Ananda.
“And Ruth.”

“I gathered,” said Charles, but only after a
brief internal debate stepped aside to let Ananda into the
house.

And there they were, the Buddha Gotama and
his mother, in the living room doorway, Ruth cradled in Melissa’s
arms, wide awake and looking directly at Ananda with startlingly
blue eyes. So blue they seemed to carry their own light.

“Melissa,” said Ananda.

Melissa smiled, and waved with the fingers
of her right hand the way friendly young women do. He crossed the
entryway and looked down at Ruth, all pink face and blue eyes still
fastened upon his. “And Ruth,” he said.

Melinda held up her daughter to give Ananda
a better look. Motherly. Proudly.

“It is good to see you again, Ananda,”
thought Ruth into the privacy of Ananda’s universe.

“And you,” answered Ananda over the same
path, and as clearly into Gotama’s universe.

“I’m late,” said Charles arriving back from
the inside of the house, now carrying his briefcase and coat. Then,
half-way through the outside door, he turned: “There’s a chance
I’ll have to go down to San Diego today. Might be late.”

Melissa lost her smile, looked up and nodded
that she had heard.

“Don’t wait up,” said Charles.

“I won’t,” said Melissa.

Charles did not slam the door shut behind
him, but he pulled it twice to ensure it was truly closed, as if
the lock might have a habit of acting up. Satisfied that the door
was indeed shut, the sound of Charles’ footsteps carried him away
from wife and child and for the dog-eat-dog of law.

“He works long hours,” said Melissa as if
Charles had called for an explanation.

“It cannot be easy,” said Ananda, “to work
for your father.”

“Especially his father.”

“He set high expectations?”

“He sets unattainable expectations. That’s
what I think.” Then she entered the living room, inviting Ananda to
follow. She sat down, and looked at Ruth for a long silent moment,
then said, as if this had been on her mind ever since Ananda
arrived:

“She doesn’t cry.”

Before Ananda could answer, or even think of
one, Gotama’s thought spanned the room to where he sat.

“I know,” he said. “I am supposed to
cry.”

“Yes, you are,” Ananda replied. “You must
not frighten her.”

“What did you say?” said Melissa, startled
out of gazing at Ruth.

Neither Ruth, nor Ananda, answered, on any
plane. But they both wondered the same thing: She had heard?

Then Ananda collected himself sufficiently
to answer her, “That makes for nice, restful nights. Doesn’t
it?”

“Well, it should,” said Melissa. “But then I
worry instead, and that keeps me awake.”

“She doesn’t cry at all?” said Ananda. As
much to Melissa as to Ruth.

“No, she doesn’t cry at all. She has never
cried. Not even at the hospital, one of the nurses told me. She
didn’t even cry when she, well, arrived.”

“She didn’t?”

“No.”

Ruth looked at Ananda. Guilty as charged,
and not proud of it was what Ananda saw.

“Have you asked Doctor Ross?” said Ananda,
after a brief reflection.

“No.” She said, “She’s not her
pediatrician.”

“Ah. Does she have one?”

“Of course,” said Melissa, with a quick
glance from Ruth to Ananda. “Doctor Fairfield.”

“What does he say?”

“She. Beverly Fairfield.”

“Sorry.”

“You couldn’t know.”

“Did you ask her?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s probably nothing to worry about.”

“She’s almost three weeks old,” said
Melissa. “From what I’ve found on the Internet, it’s very unusual.
And not even when she was born,” she added.

“But not dangerous? Surely?”

“No, not that I have found, just very
unusual.”

“I’d ask Doctor Fairfield about it.”

Melissa, seemingly caught in another
thought, said, “I’ve tried to explain this to Charles.”

When Ananda said nothing, Melissa went on,
“You know what he said?”

“No.”

“Well, he apologized, of course, said it was
a bad joke, and that he really didn’t mean it. And that he was
tired, so he didn’t really think about what he was saying.”

“What did he say?”

Melissa had trouble telling him, but in the
end managed. “Let sleeping dogs lie. That’s what he said. Let
sleeping dogs lie.”

Ananda was a little shocked at that, at the
insensitivity of the man. But perhaps he should not be surprised,
he thought. It seemed like par for the Charles course.

“That was a bit insensitive,” said
Ananda.

“It was very insensitive,” said Melissa.
“And I told him so. That’s when he apologized. Even he saw that
that was a stupid thing to say.”

Ananda said nothing.

“Then I tried to explain to him how worried
I was about it.” Melissa briefly looked out the window, eyes shiny
with tears not yet arrived, and Ananda was struck by how her eyes,
too, like Ruth’s, now seemed to hold some internal light. Then,
seeming to address the sky outside, “He listened for a while, I
could see that he made an effort.”

Then she turned to face Ananda again, “But I
could also see that to him this was not a problem, and that he
listened—or appeared to be concerned—just to make me feel
better.”

Ananda almost said “Well, that’s always
something.” But he didn’t. Instead he said, “Do you want me to talk
to him?”

He could almost feel Gotama shake an
invisible head at that. Matching Melissa’s blond hair swaying back
and forth as she, too, shook her head. “No,” she said. “He wouldn’t
listen to you.”