Whenever You Call

by Anna King

  “No, I guess not.”

  This whole conversation was beginning to seem a little silly. We had a lot of ground to cover. Suddenly, as if a rain cloud had burst directly overhead, I smelled baked potato. It had taken all this time for Isaac’s quintessential odor to reach me. I must have been more traumatized than I knew.

  I sniffed dramatically. He stopped talking and tried really hard not to look annoyed at the interruption.

  Isaac said, “Baked potato, right?”

  I nodded, grinning.

  He grinned back. “This is what I mean about you. I don’t really smell like baked potato. But you imagine I smell like baked potato, which is an unusual way for any man to smell, right?”

  “But you do smell like baked potato.”

  “Nope, you’re wrong. I’ve done independent tests since we got divorced. The results are in: I do not smell like baked potato.”

  I sniffed experimentally. Not only was there a strong odor of baked potato, but I could even make out the secondary odor of melted butter and sour cream.

  “Isaac?” I managed to say before bursting into tears.

  I thought he’d pull me into his lap for a cuddle, which was what I desperately wanted. But he patted my knee and handed me a crumpled up napkin he dug out of one of those voluminous monk pockets.

  “What?” he said kindly.

  “I’m certifiably nuts.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I think you smell like baked potato with melting butter and sour cream, plus I’ve seen a ridiculous angel and—,” I gulped for breath. Then I told him all about Mr. Rabbitfish, including my most recent sighting.

  Isaac nodded his head from time to time. When I’d finished, he said, “Now describe the angel.”

  So I talked about every encounter, including the very beginning when I’d seen the blue light gyrating around, and that I’d somehow been “given” the name Ralph. “Isn’t it a coincidence that your Abbot is named Ralph?”

  “You think it’s a coincidence?”

  “Oh, and right after I got the name Ralph, I walked to the back of the store and sat down in one of the chairs, you know way in the back?”

  “Yeah?”

  “There was a book on the table called Raphael.” I looked at him meaningfully. “As in the Archangel Raphael. Which sounds awful close to Ralph.”

  “Do you think your angel Ralph is the Archangel Raphael?”

  “Do I think so? What, are you nuts, too?”

  “Just tell me what you believe.”

  “I think my angel Ralph is the Archangel Raphael, yes.” I looked down at my lap and noticed that my hands were loose, not tight and clenched the way you might expect. “I saw Dr. Patel this morning. He doesn’t believe I’m crazy.”

  “Nope, you’re not crazy.”

  “How do you know that? This is absolutely insane talk. You do realize that, don’t you? Because maybe you and Dr. Patel are nuts and I’m the sane one, after all, simply because I recognize that I’m actually insane.”

  There might have been a bit of twisted logic in that statement, but I wasn’t sure.

  “Remember when we made love, the night I came here?” Isaac said.

  “And it was sort of weird. Yeah, I remember.”

  “I’m wondering whether your angel, Ralph, could have been responsible, somehow.”

  “Didn’t you just hear what I said? You and Dr. Patel must have soft spot about angels and you’re failing to admit that I’m off my rocker!”

  “That’s why I mentioned our making love that night—this isn’t just about you.” Isaac’s expression mirrored the passionate man I used to love, not this current incarnation as a monk.

  It made me realize that I didn’t really believe Isaac would succeed as a monk, though that’s not to imply that I disapproved of what he was doing. It was clear he was forcing himself to stretch in new directions, directions which I hoped would include fidelity.

  He continued, “Nothing is ever just about you.”

  As a mother of three children, and the former spouse of three men, I was keenly aware that my life was never just about me. Being best friends with Jen, stuck in a wheelchair for so many years, had also created unselfish demands for me, keeping me out of the central position of my own life. In fact, if anything, from my brilliant mother resenting my intrusions on her privacy, to my father’s disability making me feel somehow responsible, to my kids and husbands and bar patrons, and even the books I’d written, along with those clamoring to be written, it had always been not about me.

  In a loud voice, I said, “Ralph is MY angel.”

  Isaac burst out laughing and, simultaneously, the blue light appeared about five feet in front of me. It jumped around so frantically that it reminded me of a contestant on one of those nationally televised talent shows, a contestant, I am sad to say, who stood no chance of getting picked to move into the next round of the competition.

  I pointed. “He’s there.”

  Isaac looked.

  “Just the blue light,” I added.

  The light had slowed and now simply hung in space, like a tiny blue star.

  “How big is it?” Isaac asked.

  I curled my fingers together and held them up, showing a space the size of a single green pea.

  “Pretty small.”

  I could hear the disappointment in his voice. I asked, “You can’t see anything?” Much as I wanted Ralph to be my angel, I also craved outside verification of what I was seeing.

  “I did notice a scattering light a few seconds ago,” he said, “but it’s stopped now, and it was more of a white light than a blue.”

  “He was jumping around a little, and now he’s quiet. Maybe you saw him for a second.”

  “Have you talked to each other?”

  “Couple of times. He sort of responded while making it clear he couldn’t actually talk back to me.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes. The baked potato smell still wafted over from Isaac’s body, but it was a little less intense. I ignored the blue light and looked beyond it. About a dozen nuns and monks sat around the room, talking in low voices to one another. I heard the tinkling sound of a bell.

  “Evening meditation is about to begin,” Isaac said. “Would you like to try it?”

  “I don’t know about that—,”

  Isaac interrupted. “To be honest, I think it might be helpful.”

  I reached over and picked up the skirt of Isaac’s robe. “I won’t disturb everyone else by not being in the same outfit?”

  “We have visitors all the time. It’s unusual that you’re the only one here tonight.”

  “Okay.” I comforted myself by remembering the meditations I’d done in my gargantuan bathtub. Maybe I wouldn’t embarrass myself. Maybe.

  I followed Isaac across the room and down the corridor I’d noticed earlier. It spilled us through a large opening and into a surprisingly small space, given how many people were milling around and searching for a spot. Without my approval, Isaac nudged his way forward and then collapsed to the floor, very near the front. When I’d settled next to him, I whispered, ”Thanks a bunch.”

  “Isaac knows best,” he whispered back.

  Man, that isn’t true, I thought. But, in fact, he did know best. Brother Ralph appeared at the front of the room and sat down on a cushion, facing the rest of us. The crowd sank to the mats that covered the floors. Two seconds later, the tinkling bell sounded. I stared at the Abbot, whose own eyes were closed. The blue light, my own Ralph, danced above his head.

  I kept my eyes open as long as I could, but fairly soon the eyelids were slowly falling and rising, falling and rising. It was a pleasant sensation, as if I was experiencing the act of sleeping while wide awake. When the eyelids finally closed and didn’t open again, I tuned into the sounds around me. There was a soft whistle of breaths coming and going, more rising and falling, surrounding me so totally that I could imagine the entire room was the lung of some huge beast. Our breat
hs powered the lung to open and close with its own breathing. And so on and on and on.

  I blanked out for a moment. When I came to, I was staring at the darkness behind my eyes. Then, as if some unseen hand had grasped a black marker in my head, a definitive line appeared. Just a single straight black line, running horizontally across the space. It looked handmade, drawn without a ruler, slightly crooked, with thinning at places. And what I thought was: A line has been drawn … what are you going to do about it?

  6

  I PULLED ON JEANS and an oversized white t-shirt. No socks, no shoes. In the dank bathroom, I braided my hair so that it fell straight down my back, then scrubbed my face and left it without make-up. I’d had a bad night of dreams or nightmares, although I’d already forgotten them. Didn’t matter. The residual feelings of fear and unhappiness still floated around me. It seemed odd that I’d be grumpy and out-of-sorts when a monastery was supposed to make you feel peaceful and content.

  Showed how little I knew about the road to enlightenment.

  Brother Ralph had arrived before me. His profile, in the early morning light, looked enviably calm.

  I whispered, “Good morning.”

  He turned to look at me and patted the seat on the bench next to him. His crazy round face, with the cheerful eyes and bald head, banished all the gloom I’d been feeling. Just like that, my mood leapt.

  “How did the evening meditation feel to you?” he asked.

  “It was great.”

  The corner of his lips twitched. “Why?”

  “I saw something.”

  I expected him to be full of curiosity. In fact, I suppose I was beginning to think I was a hotshot. I saw angels and visions. Didn’t that mean I was special? Well, either that or insane, and I abruptly decided that I preferred the idea of special.

  Brother Ralph didn’t say anything.

  So I elaborated. “It wasn’t much. Just a black line across the space horizontally, kind of crooked, like a person had drawn it without using a ruler. Freehand, you know?”

  “Umm,” he said.

  Feeling foolish, I said, “It was interesting.”

  “Why?”

  “It made me think that a line had been drawn, and now I had to decide whether to cross the line.”

  “Have you decided?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

  He poked me in the side with his elbow, a very un-abbotlike gesture, in my admittedly narrow experience. “You’ve decided,” he said, a giggle in his voice.

  “If I’ve decided, then why did a line appear?”

  “I’m deeply puzzled by that.” Amusement still rippled in his voice.

  I squinted my eyes, staring across an open meadow which, like the view from the dining room window, showed an overgrowth in need of trimming. “You think I should laugh at all this.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Is that what I think?”

  “Lighten up?”

  “Hey.” Another elbow poke. “Enlighten … get it?”

  “Okay, I get it, but what I don’t get is why I’m supposed to find the humor in this. I thought seeing angels and stuff was serious.”

  “If you say so.”

  I grumbled, “You’re worse than my therapist.”

  “That’s not an original comment—I’ve heard it many times before.”

  Brother Ralph stood up, took two steps, bent forward at the waist, and touched his toes. This provided me with a truly grand view of his enrobed rear end. “Shall we walk?” He spoke over his shoulder.

  I jumped to my feet, then realized I hadn’t worn shoes. On the other hand, the whole reason I hadn’t worn them was because I liked being barefoot outside.

  We took off across the lawn, but at a leisurely pace. The soles of my feet were tender from a rigorous pedicure the week before and the heavy dew soaked them. Brother Ralph’s arms were clasped behind his back and he leaned forward slightly, staring mostly at the ground. I heard the coo of a morning dove, and then another’s answering call. A strange, peaceful melancholy crept up from my bare feet. I couldn’t seem to laugh at what was happening.

  I started to say, “I can’t—,” when the Abbot broke into an awkward run, then threw himself into a terrible cartwheel. His robe fell all the way to his chubby white thighs and he stumbled as he righted himself, staggering like a drunk. He whirled around and shouted, “Your turn!”

  So I ran towards him, took a little hop, and did a cartwheel, landing with grace, in my opinion.

  He pointed to a tree that stood at a distance of about a football field away. “Let’s have a cartwheel race to the tree. Whoever gets there first is the winner.”

  I burst out laughing. “You know I’m going to beat you.”

  He yelled, “Not if I get a head start!”

  Then he threw himself into a cartwheel. I watched, dumbfounded, until it occurred to me that I really wanted to win. We careened across the grass, falling and rolling, then leaping to our feet, and pin wheeling again. At about the midway point, the low-level giggles exploded into guffaws and the dizziness from whirling upside down made me not only dizzy, but somewhat crazed. I felt like I was flying, around and around and around, and then falling, falling, falling, and the whole damn thing was hilarious. When I got to the end, having passed Brother Ralph at the three-quarters point, I staggered over to the tree, wrapped my arms around its rotund shape (quite like I could imagine Brother Ralph’s body would feel), held on for dear life, and laughed so hard and long that I honestly expected to crack a rib. I glanced over my shoulder and watched as the Abbot did one last cartwheel, mostly consisting of a twist of the body while still on the ground, his feet in black running shoes kicking up for mere seconds.

  He sat on the ground, roaring with laughter, his robe all twisted and his round face shining with sweat.

  “You win,” I howled, “it’s all funny.”

  Still gasping for breath between the howls of laughter, his head nodded up-and-down vigorously. Finally, he shouted, “I win!”

  We were so mutually out of control that it felt like we were engaged in some kind of deeply naughty sex act. And even that was such a a funny thing to think about—Rose having sex with Brother Ralph—that I promptly lost all control.

  I peed in my pants. Not too much, just a dampening, but it was what it was. “Stop it, I’m losing all control.”

  He rolled onto his back. “Me, too!”

  We were off, howling as hard as ever. The only reason we managed to finally quit was because I saw the figure of another monk standing at the bench were we’d started our competition. He shaded his eyes and studied us.

  I fluttered a desperate hand at Brother Ralph, to get his attention.

  “What?” he gasped.

  I let go of the tree. “There’s a monk watching us and he’s possibly thinking that you’ve had a heart attack.”

  Brother Ralph sat up straighter, turned around, and waved at the curious monk, who quickly signaled back with his own tentative wave.

  Since neither of us seemed in any hurry, I sat down on the ground and leaned against the tree.

  The Abbot scooched around on his butt, so that he was once again facing me. Then he said three words, framed into a question. “Who are you?”

  “Who am I?” I echoed back.

  “I’m curious.”

  “About who I am?”

  “Yeah.” He grinned.

  “I’m—,”I hesitated. I thought of my name, my profession as a writer or bartender, my role as a mother.

  He prompted, “Yes?”

  “I am—,” I said, still trying to buy time. “I’m not sure.”

  “Do you know what I AM signifies?”

  “No.”

  “In the Old Testament, God identifies itself by saying, ‘I Am that I Am.”

  “Nice, but I was just trying to answer your question. If someone says to you, ‘Who are you?’ your reply is going to begin with the words ‘I am—’ whatever.”

  “Most pe
ople to whom I direct that question answer right away, usually with their name, but sometimes with a more symbolic marker, like ‘I am a monk, or a woman of peace.’”

  “None of those types of things really say who I am.” I leaned my head back against the tree and stared up through the leaves and branches to the sky. It was still so early in the morning that its color was dim and pale.

  “You might want to pay some attention to that.”

  I pointed an accusing finger at him. “Now you’re being serious.”

  “Thinking about something doesn’t have to be serious,” he said in a mock British accent.

  “I’ve never contemplated something without gravitas.” I reached for one bare foot and began picking off bits of grass and tiny twigs. An ant crawled out from the crevice between two toes.

  “It can take some practice, but for me, it’s been worthwhile.” He cocked his head at me. “Ask yourself a question, then tell yourself that the answer doesn’t matter.”

  “But monks are into emptying their minds of all thoughts, aren’t they?”

  “That’s what we say, yeah.” He smiled like a mischievous two-year-old.”

  “I’ve been trying for ages not to think while I’m meditating and now you’re suggesting it’s been pointless.”

  He shrugged. “Nothing really matters.”

  “If nothing really matters, then we’re all fucked big-time.”

  “Here’s an example,” he said. “Were you a person who gave a lot of thought to angels, God, and other such spiritual issues?”

  “Absolutely not,” I said. “Bull-shit stuff I had no interest in.”

  “Exactly.” He lifted and rearranged his robe, then stared at me with a beatific expression.

  I waited. When he didn’t answer, I lifted both hands into the air, open palms pointing up. “Yeah?”

  “Why on earth would you, of all people, see an angel?” He began pulling out tufts of grass and tossing them over his left shoulder. “Do you have any idea how many monks and nuns, not to mention all the ministers and priests, from every faith, are busy praying to see an angel?”

  “I know—it’s stupid.”

  “What else?”

  “Illogical.”