Miss Buddha (24 page)

Whether you thought her unremarkable or
attractive—and opinions varied—all agreed she was a model of
efficiency, relentlessly, sometimes ruthlessly, headed for great
things. A perfect lawyer: intelligent, attentive, professional,
practical.

Perfect, but for her one
blind spot: she had a crush on Charles Marten. This was just
an
animal thing
,
she had told herself that many times, just a physical magnetism
thing, and of course impractical as all hell, not her at all. Good
thing she had the sense to keep it where it belonged, down there
among other impossibilities. The man was married, for Christ’s
sake, and he was the boss’ son to boot. Not only impossible but
dangerous, that one. And none too bright either, that one, though
not exactly dumb.

She did put her infatuation to good use,
however; wrapped it around herself as a shield to fend off other
approaches like the mosquito-like nuisances they were. It actually
kept her on keel, nicely balanced in fact. It was a fantasy to only
be let out in the privacy of her own perfect apartment, and not
very often at that.

Perhaps she did carry an extraneous pound or
two, and perhaps her face did not as a rule turn heads, but as a
package—she told herself often enough, especially to the bathroom
mirror—she added up nicely. Would have been a great match for the
boss’ son, great match. Yes, sir.

Would have.

Then, late July—a Friday, and a fateful one
at that—Charles Marten was assigned to work a case that she
managed. What she had asked for was paralegal assistance, too much
paperwork, too many affidavits to digest. What she got—much to her
amazement and mixed feelings—was Charles Marten.

:

Late that Friday, he knocked on her
partially open door. She was trying to get out of there, was busy
packing things up to bring home with her to review after dinner.
She looked up at the sound. And there he stood, looking a little
lost was her impression.

“Sarah,” he said.

“Yes.”

“You need some help with Saint Mary’s.”
Question or fact? She couldn’t tell.

“Yes.” Part question.

“I’m it. Apparently.”

“I asked for paralegal assistance.”

“I know. None to spare right now.” And
again, “Apparently.”

Two very conflicting emotions rose hand in
hand. One congratulating her on outlandish luck, the other carrying
warning signs, large and vocal.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Ignoring the signs, she smiled and said,
“Welcome to the team.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“That.” She pointed at two boxes by the
window. “Affidavits. Fourteen of them, and all rather long. Reams,
actually. I need them summarized. By the end of next week. Here,”
she leafed through the content of a folder on her desk, and handed
him a sheet, “are the criteria. Anything to do with the highlighted
points. Well, you know the drill.”

“I know the drill.” Not exhilarated.

“Welcome to the team,” she said again as he
bent down to pick up the first box.

“I’ll be right back for that one,” he said,
nodding toward the remaining one.

“Great.”

The boss’ son disappeared with half of his
assignment as she sat down, shaking a little, humming just
off-center.

He was soon back for the second box, which
he again lifted quite effortlessly, strong boy that he was.

“I’ll see you Monday,” he said, turning just
as he left.

“Great,” she said again.

:

Things would probably have turned out well,
had she not—from years of habit: you always check paralegal
summaries—made a quick spot-check, though not really necessary, was
it, for Charles was not a paralegal, was he now? Still, years of
making sure won out and she scanned the first summary against the
affidavit itself.

Yes, things would have turned out well,
considering, had she not soon discovered that his work was far from
flawless. Unpardonably shoddy, as a matter of fact. She would have
to confront him with this.

And that’s how it started.

A week later, just after seven in the
evening, early August now, she called him and asked him to come see
her.

Again, he knocked, but entered before she
had a chance to respond. He closed the door behind him.

“Charles,” she said. “Please sit.”

He picked one of her two visitor’s chairs
and eased himself into it. Did not look comfortable. Sensing
trouble, perhaps.

She remained standing. “I’ll get right to
the point,” she said. “We’re going to have to re-summarize the
affidavits. And now we’re in panic mode.”

“Why?” he asked, but not with conviction,
and in a voice that seemed to have trouble handling that single
syllable.

“Because,” she said. And here she had a
whole display of word choices, from the bluntest truth to the
softest euphemism. She normally took the blunt route and in the end
settled for the same here. “You fucked up.”

She had expected any of several reactions
from the boss’ son, but not the one she got.

He broke down in tears. All two hundred odd
pounds of him.

Next, some
instincts—bordering on the motherly—that she had not even suspected
she owned, rose along with a wave of that
animal thing
, as she rounded her
desk, pulled the second visitor’s chair close to Charles’s, and
said, “What on earth?” Kindly.

Some sort of floodgate was in tatters, no
stopping him. She looked up and around him through the glass walls
between her office and the outside corridor, was anyone looking?
No.

She rose and pulled the drapes to make sure
no one would. Returned to the troubled boy’s side.

“What’s going on, Charles?” Again,
kindly.

It took five more minutes for the hacking
and sniveling to cease, and another twenty minutes for the whole
story to come out, somewhere during which she actually hugged
him.

“I just don’t know what to do,” he said in
the end. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“What I think you need is a good meal,” said
a cheerful part of her that knew nothing of caution. “A good meal,
some wine perhaps, and a kind ear.”

He looked at her, not understanding.

“Come,” she said.

She only lived a ten-minute walk away from
the office. They made it there in twenty-five, picking up Chinese
takeout on the way. “I have some great wine to go with that,” she
joked.

He smiled her a not-so-sure smile.

As he picked his way through his kung pao
shrimp he said again, calmer now, but still upset, “I just don’t
know what to do.”

“Have you asked her about it?” she
asked.

“How can I? I don’t trust her. It wouldn’t
matter if I did.”

“Have you told your father that you think
she lied?”

“Yes,” he said. Then shook his head. “He
doesn’t give a damn.”

“Your mom?”

“No.”

“You
did
hear her,” she said after a
while, confirming that she did believe him.

“Yes, I know I did,” he said.

“I know you did,” she said, and he would
probably have started to cry again, had she not leaned across to
him and kissed him on the mouth.

And so began her ill-advised romance with
the boss’ son.

::
56 :: (Pasadena)

Melissa served him tea in silence.

Ruth was sleeping in her chamber, while
Ananda watched Melissa perform what almost seemed to him a
ceremony: pouring the steaming light-green liquid from the little
pot into earless glass cups, smaller still.

Then she said, pot still in hand and without
looking up, “He didn’t come home all weekend. I haven’t seen him
since last Friday morning.”

Before Ananda had a chance to answer, or
even think of one, she said, “He really isn’t that bad of a
person.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” said
Ananda.

She paused, then replaced the small glass
pot on its bamboo coaster. She leaned back and looked right at
Ananda. “Well, that’s just the thing,” she said. “I have.”

They had been over this
ground before. She
had
been careless, she
had
spoken to Ruth, and Charles had both heard and
seen. Denying that, for whatever greater good—and she never really
questioned or disputed that—was still a lie, in her
view.

Ananda loved her for that.

And she was right, of course. She had lied,
and was in a sense, by her silence, lying still. And, yes, Charles
had suffered as a result, and he still suffered. But any
alternative, which he had pointed out as often as needed, would
have been, or would be far grimmer. Was in fact inconceivable.
Would perhaps see her incarcerated, certainly treated for her
delusions, and worse still—and this was the critical point—she
might, if things went all wrong, jeopardize her relation with Ruth,
perhaps even lose custody if things went really astray. That was
the inconceivable part. The must not part, the whatever had to be
done, whatever lie told, must not happen part.

“Not in a wider view,” he said, looking
right at her.

“A lie is a lie, no matter the view.”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes it is.”

“So how, then, is this right? Charles is not
a bad person. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“I know that, too.”

“So how, then, is this right?”

“Ruth must not be endangered.”

“Yes, yes I know that.”

“Were you to lose custody, she would be
imperiled.”

She considered that, again. Looked at
Ananda, then out the window at the California summer, sweltering
beyond the soft hum of conditioned air.

When, after a while, she had said nothing,
Ananda went on. “She would not have the freedom to do what needs
doing.”

“And what needs doing, Ananda?” Her eyes
left the outside sky and returned to his.

“A world needs waking up.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“That does not make it less true.”

“And how will she do this?”

“I don’t know, Melissa. She has not told
me.”

She sipped her tea, and Ananda his.

“If you must,” said Ruth into their shared
silence, clearly meant for Melissa. “You should tell him.”

When Melissa did not respond, Ananda did,
“Tell what? Tell whom?”

“She should tell her husband the truth.”

“Would that be wise, Gotama?”

“Wise or not,” said Ruth, “the integrity at
stake is Melissa’s. Without that, what does she have? With it
sundered she might as well be incarcerated.”

“Do you really mean that?” said Melissa.

“Yes.”

“What would he do if you told him?” said
Ananda.

“Probably tell Dexter, and Doctor
Evans.”

“And what might Doctor Evans do?”

“I don’t know.”

“What might Dexter do?”

“I don’t know.” Then added, “He’d probably
call Doctor Evans.”

Ananda was well aware of this ethical
dilemma, he had faced it, or its close relatives, in the past, as
had Buddha Gotama, many times, in many guises, almost always
involving a truth versus a greater good.

By experience, the truth won out, but
never—or hardly ever—in the short run, perhaps not until many
lifetimes later.

They did not have many lifetimes.

“It is up to you,” said Ananda.

“What is happening to him?” said Melissa.
“Where is he? Do you know?”

Ruth answered. “He is distracted and he is
distraught. He’s seeking solace.”

“Seeking solace? What do you mean?”

“And finding.”

“What do you mean? Where is he?”

“Visiting a colleague.”

“A woman?”

“Yes.”

“Which woman?”

Ruth told her.

Ananda could feel the turmoil within her
rise again as a warring began. “Did I cause this?” she asked.

“No,” said Ruth. “Had he loved you true, he
would have sought to understand, even if you did what to him was
incomprehensible. He would have sought to understand and to help,
and not to have you committed.”

“I believe his father is more the one.”

“Even so,” said Ruth. “Love does not
imprison, or seek to imprison.”

“He was afraid of me. You said so Ananda,”
looked over at him.

“Frightened, yes. But even so, I think Ruth
is correct, he should have sought understanding, with you, with
love, rather than telling his father.”

Melissa said nothing. Neither did Ruth, nor
Ananda. Melissa took another sip of her tea, regarded the little
glass cup as if perhaps it held the answer. Ananda said, aloud,
“Closeness is a curious thing, Melissa. Easy and plain at times, at
others, territory to fight for.”

She looked up at him, expecting more.

“Your strangeness should not have repelled
him,” said Ananda. “The oddness of it should have craved further
closeness, should have attracted. Affinity attracts, it does not
repel.”

“Are you saying he doesn’t, that he didn’t,
love me.”

“I am saying that love should have sought to
understand, rather than reject and report.”

“I agree,” said Ruth.

“Still, I lied,” said Melissa.

“Still, you lied,” said Ruth.

Ananda readied to say something, but Ruth
held up an invisible hand. This was up to Melissa, and up to her
alone.

::
57 :: (Pasadena)

Charles came home late that evening. Melissa
was waiting up for him.

The house was all quiet—as seemed the whole
world. The front door key into lock startled her. She heard the key
turn and the door swing open, letting a different texture of
silence into the house.

Melissa sat on the living room couch, very
still. The door was eased shut, and then, disheveled and furtive,
her husband appeared.