Miss Buddha (25 page)

“Charles,” she said, which startled him in
turn.

“Where have you been?” she said.

“I,” he said, but managed no more. Voice
abandoning its task.

“Where have you been?” she said again.

“Out,” he said, finally.

“Where, out? You’ve been gone three days,
Charles. Not a word?”

“At Mom and Dad’s.”

“I know that is not true.”

Then Charles finally moved, and made for
their bedroom.

“I have something to tell you,” said
Melissa.

He froze for a moment, then set out again
down the hall. Melissa heard him use the bathroom, then rummage
through his closet. He came out into the living room carrying a
couple of shirts and suits.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

He carefully draped the clothes over the
back of an armchair. Didn’t answer.

“Sit down,” said Melissa. “I have something
to tell you.”

After some brief internal conference, her
husband did as she asked. Melissa got a closer look at him. He
badly needed a shave, and a shower.

“What?” he said.

“I want to tell you this,” she said,
“because you are my husband, and you deserve to know. But this is
for you, so that you know. Only for you.”

“What is it?” he asked, sitting very
still.

“You were right,” she said. “I did speak to
Ruth. Talked to her as I’m talking to you. You did not imagine
that.”

He looked at her, then past her, then at her
again for so long that she wondered whether he had heard her.
“Yes,” he said in the end.

“I want you to know that you are not crazy,
not delusional.”

“Yes,” he said again. Then he said, as if
the thought had just struck him, and with some force, “What does
that make you?”

“That’s neither here nor there,” she
said.

“Only for me?” he said. “What do you mean by
that?”

“I mean that you are the only one who will
hear me say that.”

This took some work for Charles to digest.
“So, if I told Dad, or Doctor Evans?”

“I would deny it,” Melissa confirmed.

He didn’t understand. “So then, why tell
me?”

“To let you know that you’re hearing is just
fine. And to let you know that you’re not crazy. I owe you
that.”

“And that you are?” he said.

“No, Charles. No, I’m not.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“But you must be. Talking to a baby as if
you’re having an argument, or expect answers. That’s it, you
expected her to answer.”

“Not always,” she said.

“Not always what?”

“That is not always crazy.”

He rummaged around for other pieces like it,
to make them fit together, found none. Then he shook his head and
looked at hear again. “What are you saying, Melissa? I don’t get
it.”

“I am saying that you are not crazy. And I’m
saying that I am not crazy. Let’s leave it at that.”

Her husband, finding some ground that did
not give way, said, “You’ve changed. What’s wrong with you?”

Melissa ignored the question, and instead
asked one of her own. “How’s Sarah?”

Few things could have stunned Charles Marten
with more precision and impact. Finally, he answered, “Fine.” Then,
after a thought or two, “How do you know?”

“I just do.”

The glance her husband gave Melissa now held
both uncertainty and fear. “But you couldn’t possibly.”

“If you say so, Charles.”

“But you do?”

“Yes, I do.”

After another silence he asked, seemingly of
the coffee table, “Are you a witch or something?”

The question hit a mark, for it rang in
spaces she hadn’t known where there. Then it settled down. Then she
answered, “No, Charles. I am not a witch.”

“Well, you must be something.”

“I am your wife. I think. I am the mother of
your child.”

“How can you know about Sarah?”

“So it is true, then?”

Another hesitation. Then, “Yes.”

“That’s where you’ve been?” Though more like
a statement.

“Yes.”

“And that’s where you’re going?” She glanced
at the shirts and suits.

“Yes.”

“Give her my best,” she said.

“How did you know?” he said again.

Melissa did not answer. Instead she rose,
leaving Charles to leave on his own.

“That went well,” said Ruth.

“Shut up,” said Melissa.

::
58 :: (Los Angeles)

“It’s Charles,” he said into the entranceway
intercom.

Sarah didn’t answer, but he could hear her
take a breath, then expel it. The door sprang to life, buzzed
open.

“Charles,” she said as she opened her
apartment door. She didn’t step aside, as if protecting the
interior. “What are you doing here?”

“She knows,” he said.

“Who knows what?”

“Melissa. She knows about us.”

“That’s impossible.”

“She knows.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, Sarah. I am not kidding.”

“But that’s impossible.” Again.

“Can I come in?”

“You planning to stay?” she said as she
stepped aside, indicating the suits and shirts he had brought along
with a tote bag. Not necessarily happy about it.

“Can I?” he asked.

She hesitated long enough for him to notice.
“Sure,” she said.

“Unless,” he said.

“Oh, no. It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Something’s wrong
with her.”

“Hang them in here,” she said, opening a
hallway closet, then handing him a hanger or two. He took them and
began arranging his clothes.

“What happened?” she asked after watching
him for a while.

Charles smoothed out the last shirt. It had
to hang just so, no creasing. “Two things happened,” he said. Then,
as if something had just occurred to him, he ran his hands over his
cheeks. “Boy, I really need to shave.”

“And shower,” she added without hesitation.
Then:

“What happened, Charles?”

When he didn’t answer, “What is the matter
with her?”

He didn’t answer that either, but he did
follow her as she turned and left for the kitchen. He sat down at
her kitchen table. “Coffee?” she asked.

“No, thanks. No.”

She put things back, then sat down opposite
him. “What happened, Charles? Tell me.”

“Two things. Two things happened. First she
told me that I was not delusional. That I was not crazy. That my
hearing was just fine. Then she told me to give you her best.”

“Okay. Please make some sense.”

“She told me, God knows why, that actually,
that actually I had heard what I heard. When she spoke to
Ruth.”

Sarah nodded, she remembered.

“She told me that I had heard her correctly,
that I was not delusional. That I was not crazy.”

“So she lied.”

“She lied to Doctor Evans, yes. But she also
said that she would deny telling me that. What she just told me.
That was only for my benefit, she said.”

“For your benefit? I don’t understand.”

“That’s what she said. So I wouldn’t think I
was crazy. Was hearing things.”

Sarah digested that for a breath or two.
“She still loves you,” she said.

“Oh, I doubt that.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Not sure, but I doubt it.”

“Why did she tell you then? For your
benefit.”

“I’m not sure about that either.”

“And what else did she say? About giving me
her best. I hardly know her.”

“That’s not really the point, is it? She
knew, Sarah. That’s the point. She knew that I had been here. How
could she possibly have known? Nobody but you and I knew that I was
here.”

This time it finally reached all the way
home with her, widening her eyes. “Jesus,” she said.

“Precisely.”

::
59 :: (Pasadena)

Melissa had known Richard Schuster since high
school. He had sat behind her in Biology and in English Literature.
Had probably had a crush on her, at least that’s what she had
suspected, if not precisely hoped, at the time.

Not anymore though. Happily married, he
said. Two kids. And yes, doing quite well as a divorce lawyer now.
Seems like there will always be a call for us, he joked, then
helped himself to another biscuit.

“So you can help me?”

“He’s moved in with her?”

“Yes, from what I can tell, he has.”

“How often does he come to the house?”

“Twice, in the last couple of weeks. To pick
up clothes and personal stuff.”

“And when did he leave you?”

“About a month ago.”

“Even so,” he said, “any judge would ask
that you first try to reconcile. Now that you have a new baby.”

“Not a chance,” said Melissa.

“Why?”

“Richard, Charles has been—is being, for
Christ’s sake—unfaithful. He is cheating on his wife. He is an
adulterer. I can forgive as well as the next girl, but here’s where
I draw the line.”

He nodded, and made a note.

“I want the house and sole custody.”

He made another note.

“Would there be a problem with that?” she
asked.

“Under the circumstances, I don’t think so,”
he answered. Then asked, “Visitation rights?”

“None, if possible. And no shared custody,”
she stressed.

“That’s going to be a problem.”

“You said there wasn’t going to be a
problem.”

“What I mean is that no judge is going to
prevent a father from seeing his child, unless he’s outright
criminal.”

“I see.”

“As for shared custody, I don’t think he has
a leg to stand on. Legally, he’s abandoned his child, so I think
you’re pretty safe there.”

“Good.”

“When do you want to file?”

“Right away.”

Richard Schuster made another note.

:

She watched her lawyer drive away, her life
in tow. Seeing his car turn the corner and vanish, she felt like
everything up to this point was doing the same. Stepping away from
the window, she faced the empty house.

“Perhaps Ananda could come,” said Ruth.

“What do you mean?”

“Perhaps Ananda could come and stay.”

“To live here?”

“Why not?”

Why not indeed, thought Melissa. It was, in
fact, a good idea. He would not only keep her company; he would
keep her grounded. And, too, he would be closer to the Buddha
Gotama. To her miraculous little daughter.

“Thanks,” said Ruth. “Glad you agree. I’ll
ask him.”

::
60 :: (Pasadena)

Ananda, too, agreed: yes, it would be a good
idea for him to move to Melissa’s house, but not right away. Given
the circumstances, it would not seem right, he pointed out, and
both Ruth and Melissa saw his point.

So it was not until Ruth’s first birthday
that Ananda finally loaded up his little car, twice, and drove his
fifteen minutes from Glendale to Pasadena, unloaded, unpacked, and
settled into Melissa’s guest room.

Life, after that, settled into a pleasant
routine. Ananda wrote articles and fiction to generate income (for
he insisted on paying for his room and board). Melissa, after the
divorce came through in April of that year, decided to return to
school, and planned to major in Philosophy and Religion—encouraged
and supported by both Ananda and Ruth.

Melissa’s parents, after first suggesting
that Melissa sell the house and find somewhere less expensive to
live—something she outright refused to do—agreed to “lend” her the
cost of maintaining the house; she would repay them once she was
had finished her studies and secured herself a job.

“We’ll see about that,” her father said,
meaning not to worry about that too much.

Ruth grew to healthy toddler, then to
precocious little girl, all the while promising both Ananda and
Melissa that she would not “begin anything” (as Ananda put it), not
until she could do so without calling undue attention to
herself.

So passed nine uneventful years.

::

Part Two — Youth

::
61 :: (Pasadena)

Imagine this: An ocean in a small flask. A
vast day encased unable to unfold. A universe with cheekbones.

An impatient genie.

Yet, I have learned patience. As Bruno
awaiting sentence for nearly a decade in that cold, infested cell,
watching each day claw its way across the sometimes slippery,
sometimes frosty floor and back into darkness.

As Natha in the Tusita Heaven, returned from
Earth, willing my just planted seeds to grow, hoping they would
spread, reseed, grow, spread, reseed, grow, to eventually cover the
Earth, knowing they had to do this on their own, by the impetus of
my teaching, for I cannot guide each and every spirit individually.
There are far, far too many. I do not have hands enough, nor
fingers enough to point.

And in this here and now, I am learning
patience all over: this time as Ruth, the little flask for me the
ocean. It never gets easier.

Learning, too, how to maneuver this flask.
On wobbly legs at first, too feeble to support much of anything,
then growing less so, then growing stable, then working balance
from chance to fact, into the first step, and then the second, and
so walking soon, muscles agreeing now and all pulling in the same
direction.

Finding voice and shaping it into words sung
out across air, mainly to Melissa and Ananda. But sometimes to
others. To Doctor Fairfield, my pediatrician; amazed, she says each
time we meet, how well I have developed, how so very healthy I
am—for it is true, this bottle does not get sick.

Amazed, she says each time we meet, how
quickly I am learning how to talk, how precisely (is the word she
uses, each time) I pronounce each word, and so clearly. She said
once it was as if I had been born in Inverness, Scotland, where, so
she said—and she had been there to hear it for herself, she
informed us, each time—they speak the clearest English in the
world. Well, I don’t know about that, but it is a fact that I enjoy
a clear voice, clear enunciation; the voice of the unambiguous, the
translucent, the distinct, the fine. Nectar for the tongue and
palate. Luminous song. Amazing, says my pediatrician, again, and
wonders if we’ve ever been to Inverness.