A Single Eye (50 page)
It wasn't till I was in the van, looking out the window at Leo standing at the end of the path that led back to the bathhouse, with Maureen and Rob, that I felt the full thrust of missing him.
About halfway along the road, the lawyer from Vermont pulled out an envelope he'd found on his bed. My letter. It was, indeed, from Mom. She had mailed it the day I got my acceptance to sesshin and called to give her the address, in case of emergency.
Darce
,
Surprise! The day your Zen sit ends, we'll all be waiting at the coast road to take you to a huge, carnivorous dinner. In a place that allows dogs. (If Duffy's not in China.)
Love ya
,
Mom
When the dirt road ended, there they were: Mom, John, Gary, Janice, and Duffy, who forgot all his fine training and generations of dour Scottyness and leapt into my lap.
By the time I got home to New York the story of the murder was still ricocheting off its own angles in the New York papers and magazines. Gabe had no remorse about Aeneas, but he came to see plenty about the descriptions of himself: pedestrian wordsmith, shoddy investigator, toothless muckraker, and the most stinging: perennial schlimazel.
Thanksgiving was over and white winter lights sparkled on the street trees as I turned from Sixth Avenue onto Ninth Street. Cabs raced westward, adding their lights to the rush hour array. I walked slowly through the after-workers heading past me to Balducci's for gourmet takeout. I thought of sesshin gruel and how glad I was not to be eating it now. I had expected to find only relief on returning here, but things change. I would have given anything to have avoided going to California and to Leo, but now that I was back here, I thought of him every time I lifted a cup, opened a letter, sat cross-legged alone in my apartment. His words were tattooed beneath my skin, but they weren't enough. I missed his teaching; I missed
him
.
And yet, when I walked into the Ninth Street zendo, gratitude filled me like the incense suffusing the air. The jisha bowed and pointed to Yamana-roshi's dokusan room. I knocked once; he rang his bell and I entered.
Yamana-roshi sat cross-legged on his brown mat. On the altar beside him the candlewick was long and the flame burned high. I bowed to the Buddha and to Yamana-roshi and sat on my cushion. I had already told him about Aeneas's death and Gabe's guilt. Now, here in the dokusan room, the issue was my own practice.
“Be alert!” he said. “Were you alert?”
“I kept an eye open.”
He smiled at that Americanism he so liked. “Just one?”
“Just sometimes.”
“Hmm. Are you out of the woods?”
“Yes and no. I can walk in them, but I'm not out. I wasn't there long enough to not escape.”
He nodded slowly. “Nothing has changed, Darcy. You are still you. I am still me. I cannot help you.”
My stomach lurched. I could feel the panic rising up my body. “But”â
He raised his palm. “Garson-roshi called me. He is leaving the monastery. One of his senior students is taking charge. A man”âa smile flickered on Yamana-roshi-s faceâ“who makes very good chocolate.'”
Tense as I was, I smiled. It was the right choice. Of all of us, Barry was the one who had faced his fantasies and walked on.
“What about LeâGarson-roshi?”
“He said to me, âI am not a desirable commodity just now.' His words. True. But he is a deep teacher, deeper than before. He has agreed to go to a Zen center which needs a teacher. A center in a very sticky situation.”
Yamana looked away for an instant, and I suspected the move was to cover his reaction to the picture of a situation covered in honey.
“Very odd, too good to be true. He needs a jisha he can trust.”
I put my hands together, bowed, and said, “Yes.”
It occurred to me on the way out that I should have asked where that Zen center was.
I am indebted to Scharffen Berger Chocolate Maker for its very fine factory tour, which I took twice. (Life is hard.)
And to my friend Dolly Gattozzi for her wise and gracious suggestions and her knowledge of Zen Buddhism.
A special thanks to my superb agent, Dominick Abel.
