Miss Buddha (15 page)

When I walked northern India, the highest
King as well as the lowest laborer knew that all was not well, that
all was part appearance, and that there was a spiritual choice, a
lasting path. The meanest thief, the wealthiest merchant, the most
lascivious of prostitutes, the most leprous of beggars, they all
knew, and accepted, and acknowledged as justified, that many a
seeker chose to leave his household life and wander the roads with
his mendicant bowls in search of a higher truth. The misery of
appearance was no secret then, the door to a richer spiritual path
had not yet closed. Even the most ignorant of souls knew this.

They even pretended to know this in Bruno’s
realm, this path leading away from the flesh, the door partially
open still. A few even found it and stepped out.

But not today. The spirit, for all the lip
service paid to holiness, is wholly submerged, fused with its
desires. The crevice, the door, closed.

Melissa and Charles are both Catholic, on
paper. Still, they are as removed from any God—or any concept of
true deity—as are any of their furniture; especially
Charles—perhaps I am being unfair to Melissa, for she is closer to
the surface by far.

I hear what is said on the radio. I hear and
see what is spoken of on the television, and it rends my heart: the
darkness, the complete absence of even the smallest fissure between
spirit and greed, the merging, the welding of these poor people
into the dictates of craving. And I wonder what can possibly stir
them awake? What can I possibly do to reach them?

And as again I examine the Magga—the
eightfold path I conceived as Buddha Gotama—I attempt to adopt it
to this changed and solidified world, keeping despair at bay with
one hand, and the question whether I am indeed too late, at bay
with the other.

And so, as I dwell in the stillness of the
fourth Jhana in search of answers, I am momentarily lost to the
world.

::
33 :: (Pasadena)

Melissa, after cleaning most of the morning,
and now taking a well-deserved rest in front of the television set,
tried to put her finger on something. She looked at her watch, then
looked around her. Then back at the screen. It eluded her.

It was past noon. The nature show she liked
had ended, and they were now well into the midday news with its new
accidents, its new stock market figures and business problems, its
latest shooting, and with its ever worsening traffic—none of which
she really cared about. It certainly wasn’t delivered to cheer
anyone up, that’s for sure, and only caught some of her
attention.

All the while that missing thing, that
something that needed her finger put on it kept out of sight,
though still somewhere nearby in all its missingness. Quietly
nudging.

What
was
it?

She looked at her watch again, then around
the room. Then out through the window at a blue sky, just a thin,
high cloud to mar it. Oh yes, of course, the gardener. Should have
been here by now? There was no buzzing of lawnmower or scream of
leaf blower. That’s the missing thing.

Or not.

No, that wasn’t it. Today was Thursday, he
was not due until tomorrow. What then?

She glanced through to the kitchen, nothing
missing there. Then down the hallway to her left, leading to the
bedrooms, to hers and Charles’ far too large—in her opinion—master
suite (why do they call it “master” suite, anyway? Why not the
“mistress” suite?), to the guest bedroom, and on to Ruth’s
beautiful little chamber (which is how she thought of it). And then
things fell into place, the missing thing stepped into view: Of
course. It was past eleven, when she normally ate, way past. Ruth
should have let her know by now that she was starving.

For she had become quite vocal about
that—much to her relief, actually—about eating, about feeding
times. Crying, just like a baby should, and when she should. And
should have by now.

Melissa turned off the television set, rose,
and made her way to Ruth’s room. Softly swung the door open.

She was still asleep, bless her. Soundly,
too—she would normally stir when she entered the room, as if
somehow she knew.

Melissa bent down, her lips close to her
daughter’s ear, and whispered her name, “Ruth. Ruth.” And still she
slept on, not even a stir.

“Ruth,” she whispered again.

Not a stir.

“Ruth.” A little louder this time.

Not a stir.

“Ruth.” Nearly a shout.

Ruth did not respond.

Here rose panic, profound and vicious, and
it nearly gagged her. A mute scream, her viscera in unison:
Something was terribly wrong. She fought it down, willed herself
calm. “Ruth,” she said again. “Wake up.”

Not a stir.

“Wake up.” Louder still.

Ruth did not wake up.

Melissa then touched her daughter’s
shoulder. Lightly at first. Then firmly. Then she shook it, none
too gently.

But Ruth remained asleep.

The ugly song of dread reached her heart,
and Melissa backed off, staring at the crib and the lifeless thing
within it. Her fist rose and reached her mouth.

“Charles,” she heard herself say, though
barely aloud, as if he—and his grasp of law—could make this wrong
thing right.

When panic took full charge, Melissa knew
that her daughter had died. Babies die, it happens. And it had just
happened to Ruth. She bit her knuckles so hard that she yelped a
little; brought her fist out of her mouth and saw deep teeth mark
in the skin, broken, about to bleed.

But why? Dear God, why?

Although terrified now, although hovering
over an abyss only too ready to receive and swallow her, by sheer
act of will she forced herself to again approach Ruth’s cot. She
reached it and there stood very still for many a quick breath
watching her face, her arms, her chest, and then she saw: its slow
and soft rising, its slow and soft falling. Its stillness.

Its slow and soft rising, its slow and soft
falling. Its stillness.

Again Melissa leaned over her daughter and
put her ear to Ruth’s nose. There, the soft whisper of breath
kissed her lobe, and Melissa’s vision blurred. After making doubly,
trebly sure, she straightened and sank to the floor, crying now.
Ruth was alive. Unconscious, unresponsive, but alive.

“Ruth, Ruth,” she said, over and over, a
mantra still ignored by her daughter.

Then Melissa rose again, dried her eyes with
the side of her hands and went to dial 911.

:

They were surprisingly quick. That’s what
she’d tell Becky later, “I barely had time to hang up.”

Melissa heard them pull up, loud siren
shrieking their arrival, and by sheer reflex wished they’d turn the
thing off, Ruth was asleep. Then she caught the contradiction,
shook her head—was she losing it, or what? Then, as the ambulance
stopped, the siren fell quiet. Feet running, and then the doorbell.
She let them in, and led them to Ruth’s chamber.

Ruth stirred as they entered, and opened her
eyes, turned her head, looking for the noise. The two paramedics
looked at Ruth, who suddenly smiled, and then at Melissa.

“Okay,” asked one of them. “What is wrong
with her?”

“She wouldn’t wake up,” said Melissa,
looking at Ruth looking at her.

“She’s awake now,” said the other one.

“I can
see
that,” said Melissa, instantly
regretting her tone of voice. “I’m sorry. She must have just woken
up.”

“So, what happened?” He was the taller of
the two, and had short blond hair. “Tell me what happened.”

And Melissa did.

They then checked Ruth over as well as they
could, but found nothing wrong with her. “You should bring her in,”
said the darker one. The one who wore a T-shirt that said Phish on
it (strange way of spelling it). “They can run some tests.”

“Especially if it happens again,” said the
blond one.

Melissa nodded first to the one, then to the
other. “Yes. Yes, I will do that.”

Then she looked at Ruth, who seemed to
wonder at all the fuss. Then her daughter began to cry. Hungry, she
cried. Definitely hungry.

Melissa thanked the two men, and saw them
out. “Sorry,” she said again, though she wasn’t really sure what
for.

“Better safe than sorry,” said the blond
one, looking back at Melissa. He wasn’t smiling though.

::
34 :: (Pasadena)

It is not the sound that calls me. Not the
wailing, the feverish screeching of wading birds clamoring for
flight, throats aflame, beating the air with furious wings, not
this, for truly I had not heard it, not at first.

It is a panic; a fright broadcast on some
wavelength I am at loss to name. A terror nearby, a breaking heart,
too stunned to mourn.

I ease out of the fourth Jhana, back into
the third, and then the second, and now I hear it clearly, that
wailing, distant though approaching, in response to panic.

And so I ease into and then leave the first
Jhana as well, and step out through eyes flung open onto a smaller
room for the many people in it. Then I recognized the room as mine
and I count only three, though two of them are not Melissa and they
are very large. Melissa looks at me, bewilderment and relief
crowding her eyes.

It is only then that I realize my
mistake.

The paramedics do their best to find
something wrong with me, but fail.

“You should bring her in,” says one of them.
“They can run some tests.”

“Especially if it happens again,” says the
other.

“Yes. Yes, I will do that,” says
Melissa`

I decide I had better tell her I am hungry.
Something for my mother to understand and hold onto.

So I cry my best I’m-hungry impression.

And I notice Melissa relax. She sees the two
men out, then comes back to feed me.

:

There is a lot to be said for a mother’s
milk.

Melissa is young, and I am her first child.
Everything about her works to perfection, and her breasts are a
constant source of warm sustenance.

It is sweet and slightly blue, but to me
it’s golden, like honey. And unending. The more I drink the more
there is to drink.

I feel slightly indulgent, gorging myself on
this energy drink, but the more I drink, the happier Melissa is, so
I’m drinking for both of us.

And now, I can feel her calming again after
her scare. Still, though, between my strong drafts—which seem to
tickle her—the image of my not responding returns to her, and she
tries to understand. Cannot. Cannot see why I should not have heard
her, why I would not have felt her shaking me. As if I had left,
she thinks—which, of course, is not so far from the truth.

She makes a brave attempt to dispel the
episode as some momentary aberration that probably didn’t even take
place, but she is too aware to succeed at this. She knows what she
saw, there is no denying it. Either that, or she is losing her
mind, is her exact thought. And what worries me is that she gives
her loss of mind a small, but nonetheless actual, possibility.

And what troubles me more is that this is my
doing.

And what with Charles being, if not an
immediate threat, still a towering cloud on the horizon, I realize
I need some help, and that I must ask Ananda to come back to
California, sooner rather than later.

I will need him.

Melissa will need him.

::
35 :: (Still River)

Ananda Wolf views the Buddha Gotama’s return
into existence, word by word. It is as if his life has gathered
into closer and closer focus to finally alight upon this story, the
one that needs telling more than any other story.

His cabin, so near the cliff face as to be
perched, overlooks the now agitated lake, and Ananda’s awareness
moves from the steel-gray water to the concerned Gotama.

“Ananda.” The thought not so much arrives as
appears amid his alternating contemplations.

“Yes.”

“I worry about her.”

“I know.”

“I need you here.”

“I can come.”

“Can you come to stay?”

At that Ananda pauses. He had expected this
request, of course. But not now, not for at least a year or
two.

“Will that be necessary?”

“Yes, I believe it will.”

“Something has happened,” Ananda knew as he
said it.

“Yes,” Ruth admitted.

“Tell me.”

“I meditated,” she said. “I entered the
fourth Jhana, the better to see things, and I forgot about her, her
motherly concerns.”

“She tried to wake you,” said Ananda, the
picture quite vivid.

“Yes.”

“And she failed.”

“Yes.”

“What did she do?”

“She called the ambulance.”

“They came?”

“They came.”

“I see.”

“She cannot forget this,” said Ruth. “And
she must not doubt her own perception.”

“Which she may well do,” said Ananda.

“Which she tries to do,” said Ruth.

“It will take some time.”

“The sooner the better.”

Then she left. Though evaporated might be a
better word. The sensation of an awareness shifting away is an odd
one. It is the removal of potential, a nothing which nonetheless is
a something. The perception is acute, though nearly impossible to
describe. Returning to the keyboard, Ananda tried, but was not all
that happy with the result.

:

It took Ananda three weeks to arrange
things. At first he thought of selling his cabin, but changed his
mind. It might be needed later. Besides, he loved the place, it had
grown a part of him, as much as a leg or an arm.

He advertised it for rent, and within a week
had settled on a young couple, both professionals, but both
pinching pennies to pay off their student loans (they said), a
rental was precisely what they needed, and this one was perfect—if
a bit snug. It was understood that the arrangement was to be
month-to-month, though nothing was put in writing. Ananda knew
people by seeing them, and he knew this young couple to be
honorable and reliable simply by perceiving their private
universes.