Miss Buddha (19 page)

“It isn’t?”

His mother was about to offer another of her
opinions, but Dexter’s frown, followed by a wave of imperial hand,
checked it mid-thought.

“It isn’t, son. You need to strip those
rose-colored glasses from your nose and see the world for what it
is. Through pragmatic eyes.”

Although Charles obediently did remove those
glasses, he nonetheless went against his father’s wishes when it
came to Melissa. Perhaps it was his last stand for independence. He
could not put his finger on it, but knew that if he didn’t
insist—and he did have a right to insist, this he felt—he would
somehow lose his own say altogether. He had given in to his father
in all other matters. Football rather than tennis, law rather than
gardening, blue rather than white shirts, Rolex rather than Omega,
German car rather than Japanese, primavera rather than steak.

“You can’t deny him this,” his mother,
taking his side, insisted.

And so, in the end, washing his hands of the
deal, Dexter consented—though he never offered his blessings—and
Charles and Melissa married.

Melissa, who would much rather have seen him
a gardener—or landscape architect—than a lawyer, asked him again,
shortly after their wedding, “Are you sure you want to be a lawyer,
Charlie? Is it really your choice?”

He had lied then, told her that yes, of
course it was his choice.

She didn’t believe him, but she never
brought it up again.

But with that lie, something broke, and it
had yet to be repaired, if indeed it was healable at all these
days.

For that was the day Melissa saw the portion
of his heart that she liked, and had indeed married, begin to wane.
And that was the day that he asked her, by the way, please, to call
him Charles. Please, only Charles. That’s his name.

:

Dexter finished his primavera, fork and
spoon plied expertly. He now replaced them by the side of his empty
dish, took another sip of his five-dollar water, and said, “I would
keep a close eye on that girl if I were you. A very close eye.”

Charles used a piece of bread to mop up the
remains of his meal from his plate, nodding all the while. Yes,
Dad, I will.

“If something’s the matter with her, and it
sure seems so, she’s going to need treatment.”

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” promised
Charles—feeling better now, much better, for having gotten his
problem off his chest and out into the open.

::
42 :: (Pasadena)

Ananda had a dream that night. The stage was
medieval Europe somewhere, France perhaps, perhaps Spain, Germany
even (he could not identify the language spoken, but then again the
language of dreams rarely has a home port). Not that it mattered,
but on some level, throughout the dream, Ananda tried to establish
where, precisely, and when, precisely, this all took place—feeling,
somehow, that knowing would provide a lifeline, a safe way to
shore.

For what took place was that Melissa, the
Buddha Ruth’s mother, was being tried as a witch, and found guilty.
She would burn.

Ananda had been at the trial, horrified by
the accusations brought by a weak and vengeful clergy to solidify
their hold on souls weaker still. He had sat in the crowded hall
while the terrified group spirit, rising all around him, clamored
for flames: “Burn her! Burn her!”

And her crime? She had mentioned, in
confidence, to her neighbor-friend that her new baby was the Buddha
Gotama. This confidence, in order to curry favor with the priests,
was betrayed.

“Who is the Buddha Gotama?” the tribunal
wanted to know.

“He who leads us across the river,” she had
answered, facing them erect and unmoving not five steps from her
accuser, now seemingly contrite and examining the floor’s rough
planks.

“What river?” they wanted to know.

“The river of ignorance and death,” she
answered.

“What do you know of ignorance and
death?”

“I know much.”

“How can you possibly know anything about
such matters?”

“He has told me.”

“He?”

“The Buddha Gotama.”

“Your child? “

“Yes.”

“Your six months old child?”

“Yes.”

The tribunal shook its collective head at
such sacrilegious necromancy, and—to uproot all traces of
evil—decreed that the child, too, should burn.

Ananda woke into the Los Angeles pre-dawn,
heart racing.

Ruth spoke: “What is it, Ananda?”

“A dream,” he answered.

“Tell me,” she said.

Ananda did.

“How true?” asked his friend.

Ananda tested the aftermath of the trial and
the upcoming fires, one large, one small—clairvoyant fingers
probing the cloth of dream for threads of veracity. “Too true,” he
said.

“You must warn her,” said Ruth

“I will,” said Ananda.

:

Ananda waited—now pacing, now sitting, now
lying down, then some more pacing—until he heard from Ruth that
Charles had left for work. He then gathered his things, elevatored
himself to the ground floor, sprung Frugal to willing life, and
drove the short freeway distance from Glendale to Pasadena.

“She did not sleep well,” whispered Ruth, as
Ananda turned down Melissa’s street.

“This is a bad time?” asked Ananda.

“No,” answered Ruth. “It is as good a time
as any.”

Ananda parked his little car by the curb,
just so many inches from it, pointed her front wheels street-ward,
then stilled the engine. He sat for many breaths stilling his
worries, forming his thoughts, then stirred to face his task.

Melissa opened the door, then said, even as
Ananda entered, “She doesn’t answer.”

Her meaning was crystal clear to Ananda.
Melissa had tried to talk to Ruth, who—for reasons not apparent—had
not replied.

“She is not ready,” said Ruth.

“I don’t understand,” Ananda thought in
return.

“She still doubts,” said Ruth. “Although she
has heard, she doubts. More hearing will not help. Evidence will
not help. She knows, but does not dare to, or allow herself to,
know.”

Ananda nodded.

“Perhaps I’m doing it wrong,” said Melissa
as they entered the living room. “Or perhaps,” she continued, then
fell silent.

“Or perhaps, what?”

“Or perhaps I imagined the whole thing,” she
almost whispered.

“Did you?”

Melissa did not answer. Instead she sat
down, and for a while seemed to study the coarsely woven table
cloth that covered the center of the low glass table top with its
blues, and whites, and greens, and reds. Then said:

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, did you?”

That earned Ananda a searching glance. And a
question in return: “Can you ever be sure of anything?”

“Is there such a thing as certainty?” said
Ananda. “Is that what you’re asking?”

She considered his question, then nodded.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

“Yes,” he replied. “There is such a thing as
certainty.”

“About some things, yes.”

Ananda was about to answer, when Melissa
said, as if just then remembering, “Have you had breakfast?”

“No, not yet.”

“Come, I’ll fix you something vegan.”

“Fruit, if you have some, would do
well.”

“I have some.”

As Melissa was fixing a fruit salad, Ananda
said, “Are you certain that you are using a knife right now?”

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation, and
without halting her movements.

“Stop for a minute,” said Ananda.

She did.

“Are you certain that you used a knife a few
seconds ago?”

“Yes,” said Melissa.

“How can you be certain?”

“I just am.”

Ananda nodded. “Well, then.”

“But this is physical, I do this with my
hands. Thoughts are elusive.”

“But less real?”

“Well, not really.” She finished slicing the
banana. Then turned to face Ananda, and said:

“Are you certain, Ananda?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Why is that irrelevant?”

“My being certain does not make you
certain.”

“But I trust you.”

“Even so.”

“But I know that you’re telling the
truth.”

“You are saying that you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“Still, when you look at it closely, there
is always a certain amount of faith involved in believing.” Then
Ananda added, “There is no faith involved in knowing, in
certainty.”

She pondered that for a while. “You’re
right,” she said. “There is a difference.”

“Certainty is a constant seeing, an intimate
knowing,” said Ananda.

“Wow,” said Melissa. Then laughed. “Did you
come up with that?”

“No,” he answered. “A man much wiser than I
did.”

“Who?”

“Your daughter.”

“I can see her voice,” said Melissa. “If
that’s the right word.”

“As clearly as your knife?”

“As clearly as this knife,” she said and
held it up.

“Then you are certain,” he answered.

“Yes I am.”

:

Ananda had finished the delicious fruit
salad, and Melissa was now serving tea in the dining room.

“I doubt this needs saying,” said Ananda,
“but I will say it anyway, for it’s too important to leave
unsaid.”

Melissa looked at him and waited for
more.

“No one, Melissa. No one must know about
this, about Ruth, about the Buddha.”

She nodded.

“Not Charles, especially not Charles. Not
your mother. Not your father. None of your friends. Not Dexter or
your mother-in-law. No one, Melissa.”

Her nod slowed, but did not cease.

“Do you see why?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “If I have
trouble believing, or
knowing
,” she corrected herself. “If
I find it hard to know this, and this certainty swims in and out of
focus, to be honest, then anyone else would find it impossible,
would not believe, could not.”

Ananda’s turn to nod. “But more
importantly,” he said. “Anyone you tell would know, would be
absolutely certain that you have taken leave of your senses.”

“Would think me mad,” she suggested.

“Would think you mad,”
Ananda confirmed. “Would
know
you mad. And that would threaten
everything.”

“Everything?”

“Melissa,” began Ananda. Then, when she had
her full attention, “The Buddha Gotama has returned for a
reason.”

“The Buddha?”

“He always referred to himself as The Buddha
Gotama, or Gotama Buddha, and that’s how I think of him.”

“I think of him as Ruth,” she said.

“Yes, that too. He is Ruth. He is your
daughter. And Gotama Buddha is here, as Ruth, for a reason.”

“Will you tell me?”

“In due course.”

“As a savior?”

“Yes,” said Ananda. “As a savior. As a seer
and a teller. As a pointer of path.”

“It is hard to grasp.”

“I know.”

“It is true,” whispered Ruth within their
inner hearing.

“I know,” whispered Melissa in return. Then,
overwhelmed by certainty she either cried or laughed, Ananda wasn’t
quite sure which.

:

“I worry about Charles,” said Ruth as Ananda
drove back to his hotel. He is convinced Melissa has already turned
some delusional corner, and has talked to his father about it.”

“He has?”

“Yes.”

“Is she in danger, do you think? Right
now?”

“No,” said Ruth. “Not yet. But I am not
happy with the situation.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Stay in close touch with her, Ananda, and
as much as you can, keep an eye on Charles.”

“Yes,” he replied. “Yes, I will do
that.”

::
43 :: (Pasadena)

One thing about telepathy is that the word
itself is misleading, for the secret to the concept is that it
involves no distance.

Tele
, at heart, means
distant,
or
remote
.
Pathy
grew from
pathos
, and means
feeling
, so telepathy, as commonly
understood, is to feel (or communicate, mentally) across a
distance, which conjures the image of transmission and reception
between two points a distance apart. That is the misleading part,
for the key to telepathy is the utter lack of distance.

Some have described telepathy as the
spiritual sharing of the same room—an other-worldly, or un-worldly
room that everyone on some level occupy at all times, though few
are aware of this.

This room is impossibly vast—it has outgrown
space itself—and encompasses the Physical as well as any other
Universe you’d care to conceive; still, when two (or more) beings
commune in this sphere, it is as if only those are present. It is
then a co-existence of sorts, a co-being where thoughts are plainly
visible, where feelings are plainly feel-able, where all is wholly
shareable.

:

When Ruth entered this
sacred room and whispered Melissa’s name just before dawn, Melissa
visibly shivered with the sensation of presence, then answered, in
the same manner of just
being
the answer: “Yes.”

“You are still certain, then,” confirmed
Ruth.

“Yes.”

Melissa rose slowly and quietly, so as not
to wake Charles, still asleep beside her. She gathered her robe and
her slippers and tiptoed out of their bedroom and over to Ruth’s
little chamber, the better to hear her (was the notion that moved
her); that, and the wish to see, as well as hear, her daughter.

Entering Ruth’s room, she moved over to the
little crib where Ruth lay and looking down upon her met eyes
looking right back up at her: aware, sparklingly blue, intelligence
shimmering within, a profound presence beneath.