Miss Buddha

by Ulf Wolf

Evans didn’t reply.

  “Thanks, David,” said Dexter. “Thanks for your help, and sorry for the trouble.”

  “Not at all.”

  Dexter stabbed at the intercom button. Hit it on the second try. “Get me Charles,” he said.

  “Will do,” said Rachel.

  :

  Charles was sweating. He hated that, he really hated that. He would have given almost anything to appear cool and calm, to not have this carpet of beads sprout on his forehead to then gather and course down, some onto his nose, others onto cheeks.

  He pulled a paper napkin out of his drawer and dabbed his forehead with it. Then his cheeks. Tossed it, reached for another, and again wished for his nerves to settle down. They didn’t even listen. He was on his own, seemed to be their message.

  “Now,” Rachel had said. He wants to see you now. It really was embarrassing, treated like this, like a five-year old. “Now.” She had seemed a little embarrassed at telling him, but not much.

  And a Dexter-Now meant precisely that: Now. He had to comply. No choice in the matter.

  He dabbed his forehead again, rose, straightened his back and then his tie.

  Made his way. Knocked. Entered. Closed the heavy door behind him.

  “Sit. Son.”

  Sat.

  “You’ve made me look a bloody fool.”

  Charles did not track. Just knew something bad was coming, and he repressed the urge to shield his head with his arms and hands. Said nothing. Waiting for more.

  “Like an utter idiot.”

  And for more.

  His father picked up a pencil and looked at it, studied it, spoke to it: “An absolute fool.”

  “What, Dad?”

  “What?”

  “Yes.”

  “Melissa.”

  “What about her?”

  “Evans just called me.”

  Charles didn’t answer.

  “He thinks you’re bloody delusional.”

  “What?”

  “Perhaps not in so many words, but reading between the lines.”

  A bead on his nose tickled. He dried his palms on his trousers. “I heard her,” he said.

  “So you keep telling me.”

  “I know what I heard.”

  “Apparently.”

  “I know what I heard, Dad.”

  “So you say.”

  “I am not crazy.”

  “I sure as hell hope not.”

  “Dad. What are you saying?”

  “Evans gives your wife a clean bill of mental health. Nothing wrong at all. Not in the least. He did, however, suggest having a chat with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?”

  “I am not crazy, Dad. I know what I heard.”

  “Well, that story doesn’t seem to fly. I don’t know. No, I really don’t know what the hell you heard her say. But you’ve made a mess of it. She could sue you for this, you know.”

  “She wouldn’t.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  He dried his palms again. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Precisely.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The whole thing, you included.”

  “I know what I heard, Dad.” Sticking to his guns.

  “If I were you, I’d apologize. To her. And you’d better make it sound good. And to Evans, for wasting his time.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “But you were the one,” he began.

  “I know what happened, Charles. I’m not the idiot.”

  “You called him.”

  “I know I called him.”

  “So?”

  “So, apologize to your wife and Doctor Evans, and get on with it.”

  His father took a closer look at the pencil he had yet to let go of. Then swiveled his chair to face the windows. Audience over.

  Charles rose. Left. Hated.

  Wasn’t about to apologize to anyone.

  :: 54 :: (Pasadena)

  Melissa startled a little at the key in the front door. She heard him enter the house. He was home early. She glanced at the kitchen clock. Very early.

  She listened for—was in some way hoping for—the normal I’m home, but it never came. Instead the front door shut softly and he entered the kitchen without a greeting.

  She turned to face him, but he didn’t seem to notice. Instead he went to the refrigerator, took a long look inside as if looking for some answer, or something he had lost, then closed it again without helping himself to anything. Finally, he looked at Melissa. A dark, unfriendly look which seemed to not quite recognize her, as if trying to place her face among a host of unremembered ones of his past.

  “Charles,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “No,” he said after a moment. “I don’t think I am.”

  She was going to ask why, but he did not stay. Instead, he left the kitchen and after many slow steps Melissa heard him close the bedroom door behind him.

  :

  That night was the first time in their marriage that, while both at home, they slept in separate beds. Charles emerged from their bedroom toward evening, and went straight to the garage, where he unearthed a camping bed, which he brought to the den. Moments later he closed the den door behind him and did not come out again until morning—before Melissa was awake.

  Strained days and evenings turned into strained weeks, as Charles grew increasingly sullen. He rarely spoke. Some nights he did not come home. Other nights Melissa could smell alcohol in his wake.

  She tried to approach him several times, but each time he faced her with dark, unfriendly silence. There was nothing to talk about, it said. Sometimes he said this aloud.

  Several times she was about to tell him—though, tell him what, precisely, she asked herself. Tell him that he had not been mistaken, had indeed heard her address Ruth as an adult, she answered. But she never did. Not that Ruth—nor Ananda, for that matter—ever told her not to, but she knew that telling him would, or at least could, endanger much. And so she lived with her lie, while Charles settled deeper into his gloomy silence.

  :: 55 :: (Los Angeles)

  Sarah Gray owned the Los Angeles apartment she lived in. The correct word would be condominium. Three years back, with money garnered and saved over several frugal years, she had bought it outright at an estates auction and had since renovated it to her precise, and well-documented image of good living. It was now worth three times what she had paid for it, and this fact lit up many of her long days.

  She was a fourth-year associate at Nesbit, Kuugler, and Stroan, heading up her own team of hospital law specialists, and rumored to be on the fast track for partnership. The firm—recognizing talent—had recruited her at a UCLA campus event during her final year in law school, which she graduated summa cum laude.

  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 head
s, 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 i
t 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.