by Ulf Wolf
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.
“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 a
m 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 e
very 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.
Ears to hear words slung back across air from other lungs, other tongues. Language. This jumble of many strains that calls itself English.
To be honest, I prefer Pali, where by long and deep agreement words rise out of and mean things more essential to life. It was (and to some extent still is) a language where nuances were spiritual and aesthetic rather than material and economic.
Still, English is a bountiful garden, replete, wild and untamed, and often profound enough to serve quite well. And if individual words do not burrow as deeply as those of Pali, they easily and nimbly, and willingly—I have come to discover—combine to metaphor to take you deeper, as deep even as Pali, and sometimes even deeper still, as the target image forms just beyond their borders.