Miss Buddha

by Ulf Wolf

  Impressed with the accomplished young man, a newly formed Los Angeles firm—Nesbit, Kuugler, and Stroan, then specializing in labor law—accepted him as an associate that very summer.

  Now, almost forty years later, he was a managing partner and fixture at the same firm, now grown to eighty some attorneys and focusing more on medical litigation than labor law—though they still retained a well-regarded labor department. He had served on the managing committee for the last eight years straight, an unprecedented record. There was even talk of changing the firm’s name to Nesbit, Kuugler, and Marten—Mr. Stroan now deceased and Dexter Marten now the senior partner as to ownership. No official resolutions yet, but plenty of talk—much of it gendered by Dexter himself.

  With Dexter, then, as father, Charles’s career was less a matter of paternal suggestion than edict: the law, naturally.

  And as naturally, Charles complied.

  :

  To say that Charles was afraid of his father would perhaps be to overstate things; to say that he had an unhealthy respect for Dexter was pretty much on the money.

  That is why it took him a good two weeks to work up the courage to confess his worries about Melissa to his father.

  :

  Charles dialed Rachel, Dexter’s secretary. “Is he busy right now?” he asked, with as much weight as he could muster. Being Dexter’s son was definitely a two-edged sword in the firm. Charles was neither brilliant nor quick, and many a tongue wagged in the direction of fatherly influence when he had been taken on the year before.

  “He’s got a ten-thirty,” she said.

  Checking his watch, Charles saw a ten-minute window, all that he would need, really.

  “I only need ten minutes,” he said.

  “I’ll let him know.”

  Although he found it demeaning to knock, he nonetheless did—everyone knocked before entering Dexter Marten’s office, whether son or secretary, partner or client. “Enter,” said his father with practiced impatience.

  Charles did, and took a seat. Uncomfortable as always in his father’s presence, and more so in this office.

  “What’s up, son?” Dexter asked.

  “I think I have a problem, Dad.”

  “Dad?” said Dexter. “So, it’s personal, is it?”

  “It’s Melissa.”

  His dad, almost frowning even when smiling, now truly frowned. Dexter was not fond of Melissa, never had been, and Charles was painfully aware of that. “What is it?”

  Charles looked at his watch, eight minutes to go. At which point the intercom buzzed, “You’re ten-thirty is here, Mister Marten.”

  Dexter picked up the receiver, “Thanks, Rachel, I’ll only be a couple.” Then to Charles, “What’s the problem?”

  Charles again looked at his watch, seven minutes. Well, better just say it. “I think she’s going mad,” he said.

  Dexter looked at his son through silence. “What do you mean, mad?” he finally asked.

  “Delusional,” said Charles. “I think she’s delusional.”

  “Delusional,” repeated Dexter, for some reason stressing the lu in delusional. It was more a statement than question, but it did call for a response, and Charles supplied it.

  “Yes, I think so,” he said, again looking at his watch. This was not going to work. Then added, “Possibly.”

  “Look,” said his father, checking his own watch, “let’s talk about this later. How about lunch?”

  “Yes,” nodded Charles. “That would be great.” Relieved about both the reprieve, and that his father had suggested the lunch.

  The waiter scurried away with their order, and Dexter took a sip of his standing order designer water that appeared the moment they had sat down, something that always impressed Charles. What clout.

  Now he put the glass down, regarded it for a second and then looked up at Charles. “So, tell me, Son,” he said.

  Charles did. First, he touched on the problem with Ruth not crying which had Melissa all upset and worried and unable to sleep; and then, the real trouble, Ruth disappearing, as Melissa had put it, and the ambulance she had forgot to mention.

  “And there is nothing wrong with the child?” asked Dexter, helping himself to some bread and olive oil.

  “No. Nothing.”

  “You’ve checked?”

  “I, no, not personally. But Melissa brought her to Doctor Fairfield, she said. And everything was fine.”

  Dexter chewed carefully, then took another sip of water.

  “She thought Ruth was dead?” he asked.

  “At one point, yes. That’s what she said.”

  “Has it happened again?”

  “No. Well, not to my knowledge.”

  “Would she tell you if it did?”

  A fair question. Charles wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know.” But then he remembered something else: “And once—this was before she thought that she was, that Ruth was, dead—she asked me if I could tell when someone was looking at me from behind.”

  “What?”

  “She asked me,” began Charles.

  “I heard what you said,” interrupted Dexter. “Why did she ask you that?”

  “She didn’t say, but I’m sure she had a reason. Maybe she thinks people are looking at her from behind. I don’t know, Dad. It’s weird.”

  Dexter looked up as the waiter approached with their meals. Made some room for his plate. Didn’t thank or even acknowledge the waiter, but said to Charles, “The best primavera in town.”

  Charles, not a fan of angel-hair pasta, nor any pasta for that matter, nodded in agreement. He had ordered the same thing as his father, just to be sure.

  “Of course,” said Charles after a while, as if to placate his father (or as if to reassure himself) “she’s always been a bit odd.”

  “And you’re only realizing this now?” said his father, fork midair, loaded with spun pasta and dripping with spiced sauce.

  :

  If truth be told, they probably would not have married had his father not been dead set against it.

  What had started out as a more or less blind date had led to several sequels. It was all Tom Chester’s fault of course, for Melissa was his new girlfriend Mandy’s best friend, and it was Tom—or Mandy, he never did manage to sort that out—who had suggested the double date; though it was definitely Tom who had said, “You’ll love her, Charlie. She’s real smart, and good looking, too.”

  And Tom was right, she was real smart, and not bad looking at all. And Charles liked the way she talked, and wondered about things that had nothing to do with law. Once, a few months after they started dating, she had asked him outright, “Are you sure you want to be a lawyer, Charlie? Is it really your choice?”

  He was not good at facing home truths, and this particular one said the choice was not really his, in fact, there was no choosing involved, it was a given. His father was a prominent lawyer, as his father had been before him. There was never any question, nothing to deliberate.

  His answer, however, was equivocal. “It seems the best way,” is what he said, and she did not challenge him, though she gave him a long, searching glance.

  Given a choice, however, Charles would not have chosen law, he would much rather have been a gardener—or a landscape architect. Somewhere in his heart lingered the memories of being truly happy helping his mother planting new flowers, bushes, small trees, and then tending them and watching them grow. Something in them spoke to him, the colors perhaps, or the actual growing, which on some level seemed to him a bit miraculous.

  Gardening, however—and especially in California—is not for men, his father would imply as often as say outright, “Unless, of course, your last name is Sanchez,” he’d add.

  One day Melissa pointed out, apropos of spring, “Isn’t it amazing how things actually grow? From a seed, or an acorn. From such a small thing to such a big oaky thing.” That was the day Charles told her of his secret love for gardening—which made Melissa like him all the better. And,
having shared such a deeply personal thing, with nothing but understanding in return, Charles knew he wanted to marry her.

  “What does she do?” Dexter wanted to know when Charles brought up the possibility of proposing to Melissa.

  “Do? She doesn’t really do anything, Dad. She’s a student.”

  “So, what does she plan to do?”

  “She hasn’t made up her mind yet. Perhaps something with children, or with animals, or with trees.”

  “Trees?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “It sounds to me that she will not make a good wife.”

  “Don’t say that, Dexter,” offered his mother, hovering at the edge of their conversation. “She’s a nice girl. I know her mother quite well.”

  “She’s not a lawyer’s wife,” said his father.

  “I really like her, Dad.”

  “That,” said Dexter, in what was a revelation to Charles, “is neither here nor there.”

  “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, tha
t’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.