Miss Buddha (9 page)

“But with no one to stir them, perhaps they
never will. Perhaps they will stay asleep.”

“There is no such thing as permanent
sleep.”

“But there is such a thing as deep and very
long sleep?”

“Yes, Ananda, there is.”

“Is it enough, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is the Dhamma, and passing it on down
dawning ages, sufficient? Will life recover?”

“What choice do we have?”

“I don’t know.” Again, Ananda’s voice
cracked with a compassion that bordered despair.

“We can only point, Ananda. Each drop has to
do its own seeing, its own walking, its own arriving.”

“But you stir so many with your words.”

“As do you.”

“But you grow older each day and Parinibbana
awaits you.”

The Buddha did not answer right away.
Instead he shifted, and looked up again at the darkening sky, stars
beginning to emerge. “I will return,” he said finally.

“But you are fully enlightened.”

“Yes.”

“There is no return from Parinibbana.”

“You know this for a fact?” said the
Buddha.

“I have heard it said.”

“I will return,” said the Buddha again.

“Then,” said Ananda after some silence, “so
will I.”

::
14 :: (On the road)

It took Ananda a few days to arrange
everything. To find someone to keep an eye on the cabin, not that
it needed much looking after. A full service of his car—best to be
safe, it was a long drive. Then packing for not quite sure how long
he would stay, not that he had many things to pack.

He set out early one morning in June,
heading south on the I-95.

Gotama had spoken no more, and there was a
small voice within that suggested—more like a suggestion of a
suggestion—that perhaps he had dreamed him. But a larger part of
him knew, as if by the timbre of Gotama’s voice-less voice, that
his friend and mentor, his Buddha, had found him and called upon
him again to help.

Towns marched past the road; some
small—barely a gathering of houses to his right, others large
enough to sport tall motel signs and arrows pointing to swift and
very unwholesome foods.

Another town—mainly to his left this time,
another motel—no, two—and three more gasoline stations. He checked
his fuel gauge just to make sure: plenty to go. His little car gave
him nearly forty miles for each gallon of gasoline, and on longer
trips, like this, even more. He liked his little car, had even
named it. Frugal, he called it, for obvious reasons. Happily,
Frugal. It had been a prudent purchase.

And then, it was just past a town called
Ontario, Gotama spoke again.

“You are on your way, then?”

“Yes.”

“How long before you arrive?”

“Two days.”

“This is good, Ananda.” Then his friend
said, “I have given this some thought.”

“About how we do this?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“You are a writer, Ananda.” Not really a
question.

“Yes.”

“Mainly fiction, but some non-fiction?”

“Yes.”

“Good. This book will be non-fiction. It is
about first-time mothers.”

Although Gotama said no more for a while,
Ananda didn’t answer, waiting for more.

So Gotama elaborated. “A book like this
requires research. You would need to follow, and chronicle, several
first-time mothers from the inception of their child to its birth.
Melissa is one of them.”

Ananda mulled this a little while, nodding
to himself as Ontario disappeared behind him, replaced by
undulating forest. Yes, that would work. As always when Gotama
spoke like this, not only did his words arrive, but with them the
full meaning, the full scenario of what he meant, as if the words
were only underpinnings to the full event, detailed and
complete.

“That will give me a good reason to stay in
touch with her,” said Ananda.

“Precisely.”

“Where are you now, Gotama?”

“I am still in Tusita.”

“The sweet light,” said Ananda,
remembering.

“Yes,” said the Buddha. Then, “Drive
carefully.”

“I always do,” said Ananda.

::
15 :: (Pasadena)

Ananda checked the address Gotama Buddha had
given him against the well-polished brass numbers beside the large
oak door, and satisfied that he indeed had the right house, he rang
the equally well-polished brass doorbell.

He could hear a gong sound deep within the
house. Then silence. Then more silence. He pressed the doorbell
again, and again heard the gong.

Steps approached. The latch unlocked. The
door swung open to reveal a tall, quite bulky man, like something
very well-packed with dark complexion and black, shiny hair,
slickly combed back.

“Yes?” He took Ananda in with not friendly
eyes; irritated would be the best description.

By the size of the man, Ananda had expected
a deeper voice, and one that didn’t seem to complain. He could hear
a television set broadcasting some sports event—most likely a
football game—from within the house, and now sounding as if someone
just scored. The tall man looked at Ananda for an answer, turned to
the inside of the house on hearing the commotion from the game,
then back to Ananda.

“My name is Ananda Wolf,” he said. “I am a
writer. I am working on a book about first time-mothers, and I
wonder if I could have a word with your wife?”

Something else just occurred in the football
broadcast, and the man turned again, anxious to get back to the
game. He looked back at Ananda.

“Amanda?” he asked. Trying to make things
add up.

“No, Ananda, with an
n
.”

“Wait here.”

The man thought of closing the door, but
didn’t. Then he vanished. Ananda could hear him call out: “Melissa.
Someone here to see you.” Then again, and louder this time,
“Melissa.”

Ananda heard fragments of a conversation in
among the replay of the recent game commotion, and then she came to
the door. Melissa Marten, Gotama Buddha’s mother-to-be.

Blond and pleasant, was Ananda’s first
impression. Quite tall—as women go, not thin, but not large either.
Very blue eyes, as blue as Ananda had ever seen. Startlingly so.
And not pregnant that he—or anyone else for that matter—could
tell.

Those startlingly blue eyes looked him over,
trying to place him among memories, but without success. With a
slight frown.

“How can I help you?” she said.

“My name is Ananda Wolf,”
he said again. Then smiled, and added, “That’s Ananda with
an
n
. I am a
writer.”

Those very blue eyes were taking this in,
intent on his reason for being there. Expecting more.

“I am writing a book about first-time
mothers,” he continued. “And part of my research is to interview,
and follow the progress of, so to speak, well, first-time
mothers.”

Listening to himself stumble over his less
than graceful introduction, Ananda swallowed, then drew breath to
re-phrase that. But he did not get the opportunity to.

“How do you know that I am pregnant?” she
said. Surprised. And there was an edge to that question.

Luckily, they had thought of this.

“You are, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am as a matter of
fact. But how do
you
know that?”

Something else of note happened in the game
her husband had now returned to, for he loudly commanded someone to
“Get with it, for Christ’s sake” and yelled at what must have been
the officials. Quite loudly, as if they could hear. Melissa
hesitated for a moment, then stepped out on the front porch,
pulling the door shut behind her, dampening the noise.

Ananda said, “Your obstetrician.”

“You know Doctor Ross?” Another surprise,
but with less of an edge.

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Ah. That explains it.”

“Yes,” agreed Ananda.

The silence that ensued filled with chirping
birds and a lawnmower not far away. A large Toyota van with many
children inside rolled by, as if looking for somewhere to deposit
its cargo. Melissa pointed to a pair of wicker chairs to their
right, a small—very clean—glass table between them. “Have a seat
Mister, Wolf, was it?”

“Yes, Wolf,” said Ananda. “Ananda Wolf.”

“With an
n
,” she said, and smiled
for the first time. “What sort of name is that?”

They both sat down. His wicker groaned a
little.

“It is an Indian name. Ananda was the first
cousin of the Buddha.”

“You are from
India
? I would not have
guessed.”

“No, no. I was born in Sweden.”

“And named Ananda?” Curious.

“No, I was named Ulf. Which, by the way,
means Wolf in archaic Swedish.”

“Wolf Wolf,” suggested Melissa.

“Precisely. I came across the name Ananda
studying Buddhism, and I liked it so much I eventually adopted
it.”

“Ananda Wolf,” she said.

“Yes.”

“People mistake that for Amanda, I bet.”

“As a rule.”

She smiled again. Then asked, “So, what kind
of book are you writing? Is it scholarly, or popular, or what? A
suspense novel?”

“I guess it’s more scholarly than anything
else. We’re doing a study of first-time pregnancies, first-time
mothers, which we’ll then compile into a book.”

“We?”

“Me and my publisher. It was really his
idea. He feels it will be a helpful book for young mothers.”

“Has it got a title?”

“Not as yet, I’m afraid.”

“I see.”

“Probably ‘Young Mothers’ or ‘First Time
Mothers.’ Something along those lines.”

“Neophyte Motherhood,” suggested
Melissa.

“Sorry?”

“Neophyte Motherhood.”

“Ah. Yes, I see. That’s not bad.”

“I take it there is interest in that.”

“According to my publisher, yes. Or at least
according to his guess, or hopes.”

“Well, it certainly is of
interest to
me
,”
said Melissa, with a glance down at her belly—though it still
concealed its secret well.

“I can imagine.” Then Ananda asked, “How far
along are you?”

“How many mothers will be part of this
book?” she said. “And will they be named?”

“Oh, four or five. And yes, if that’s okay,
we’d like to name you. Like a documentary on paper.”

She thought about that. Then said, “I’m not
so sure Charles would go along.”

“Your husband.”

“My football crazy husband.”

“He wouldn’t have to,” said Ananda.

Surprised again. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, I mean, of course, he should agree,
yes, of course, that would be best. What I meant is that, legally,
he doesn’t have to.”

She took that in as well. Mulled it. “I see.
So he doesn’t have to agree?”

“Not legally.”

“He’s a lawyer, you know.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“He is, yes.” She nodded her emphasis. “He’s
a second year associate. His father is a managing partner in his
firm. Has been for years.”

Ananda wasn’t sure what to answer, so he
said nothing.

Melissa said, “How would this work? Would
you visit regularly, or what?”

“Now and then, yes, I would visit,” said
Ananda. “But the day-to-day, or week-to-week more likely, we can do
over the phone.”

“I see.”

“I don’t live in California,” Ananda
added.

“Where do you live?”

“I live in Idaho.”

“Boise?”

“No, further north.”

“Up by Washington State?”

“Yes, just next door.”

“The finger.”

“Yes. The finger.”

“I see,” she said again. Thought some more.
Looked out at the nicely manicured lawn and the several well-tended
flower beds, all in bloom. Yellows, reds, purples. Ananda wasn’t
very good with flower names. Colors he knew and appreciated. Then
delivered her verdict:

“Yes,” she said. “Yes. Fine with me. I’d
enjoy that.” Then, “Do I need to sign anything?”

“Yes. I’ll mail that to you.”

“How many other mothers have you spoken
to?”

“You’re the first.”

“I’m not very far gone,” she said. “In fact,
I just found out for sure last Wednesday.”

“I know,” lied Ananda. “The idea is to get
in on the ground floor, so to speak.”

“Odd expression,” said Melissa. “In this
case.”

“Yes, not the best,” said Ananda. “But you
know what I mean?”

“Yes,” she said. “You want to cover the
whole event.”

“Precisely.”

“And that would include the birth?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be there?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, that wouldn’t be proper, would it?”
she said, almost reminding herself.

“So I can call you weekly, or more often if
needed?”

“I don’t see why not.” Then said, “Do you
have a card.”

Yes, he did have a card, and he handed it to
her. Blue with white lettering.

“Ananda Wolf,” she read. “Writer.”

“That’s what I do.”

“Yes, I gathered.” Then, suddenly the
hostess, “Well, where are my manners? Would you like something to
drink, tea? Coffee?

“No, thanks. I’m fine,” he said.

“Sure?”

“Yes. Sure.”

She smiled again, then rose and offered her
hand, as if to seal the deal.

He rose, too, and took it—it was warm, and,
yes, friendly—shook it, and felt very good about things.

Mission accomplished—he had made contact,
and had gotten along well with her—Ananda set out on his long
return trip.

Melissa waited for the game to finish to
tell Charles (who by now had forgotten about the visit).

::
16 :: (Pasadena)