I sat very still and quiet, untroubled for once. My thoughts and concerns existed, but they were like threads on a beach, that small. After a few moments of this quietness I began to sense some gathering expectation, some huge new truth filling the room as though lightly scented air were being pumped in beneath the door. A little farther into the meditation—ten minutes, half an hour, who could say?—and in this you will simply have to trust that I am not a liar or a flake, that I was not drugged by denial of food or the long weight of mourning—some time into the meditation, as clearly as if she were sitting across from me in that room, I had the absolute sense of my wife’s presence. It was as though I could feel her breathing, as if we were in bed together again, one of us asleep, bare skin touching. I fixed my mind on this sense of her. I went completely quiet inside; nothing on the beach now, sand, two dozen stones. A stretch of interior silence, vast and perfect, and then, I tell you, I heard Jeannie say this: “Otto, I’m okay.”
Three words, the stillness otherwise undisturbed. I felt a quickening pulse of excitement but forced myself not to follow it. For that moment I sensed her in a thousand ways that seemed to combine into one, as if all those years and all those memories—her voice, her body, her face, her touch, her way of being in the world—all of it had been distilled into one drop of pure essence. The name “Jeannie” could no longer wrap itself around that essence, but it was uniquely her all the same. I knew that. I knew her.
And then, as if she were a satellite passing out of the gravitational pull of my own essence, I felt her moving away. I reached and reached then, tried to speak to her in the same wordless language, tried to hold on to her, but in another little while I was alone.
It was not the terrible aloneness I’d been living with for the past seven months, not that cold carcass of feeling, but simply a solitariness. I took a breath. It seemed that some new, unexpected comfort had been granted me. I opened my eyes and the first thing I did—and I did this by reflex, without analysis—was to send a prayer of thanks out to my sister and Rinpoche. Surely now it was obvious that they knew something I didn’t know. They had access to a precinct of reality that could not be properly spoken about. There was a feeling then—too rare, in my case—of the utmost humility.
What did I do with that feeling? Odd man that I am, I walked over to the refrigerator, took out my last Mounds bar, poured myself a glass of cold water and stood at the sink, chewing and drinking and staring out the window at the golden fields of that property. Cottony clouds went on a slow march across a pale blue background. A meadowlark perched on a wooden post there—monument to an abandoned fence—and through the screen I could hear it singing as happily as if it had just been released from a cage. To say the sound seemed miraculous to me in that moment would be to diminish it, to cast it into the realm of magic. It seemed new, only that. Just made. Just invented. Without precedent.
Somewhere in the background of all this I heard a low grumbling, then a heavy clunk like a transmission makes when the clutch is let out too fast. And then two toots of a horn. I went and opened the door and saw Uma there on the dirt road, a small cloud of dust settling around her. In the driver’s seat, one elbow out through the open window, sat a friend of mine. He studied me for a moment and then a pleased expression bloomed on his square, rough face, and I saw a satisfied smile there, as if he were on the welcoming committee of a club, and I’d just been admitted as a junior member. The gold trim of his robe was especially striking in the last light of that day, almost shining. He said, “How was it been, man?”
42
To celebrate my accomplishment—if that’s what it was (survival might be a better word)—and to mark our last night together, we decided to go into Dickinson for dinner, all five of us. I drove the old Subaru, and Celia chose a family-owned place called The Country Kitchen that had a framed photo of the pope in the entranceway and that offered, among other options, a roast turkey dinner I very much enjoyed.
It goes without saying that I missed my son and missed Jeannie, but there was a delicious feeling of togetherness around our table on that night. Shelsa said a made-up grace (“The land gave us pwezents. Thank you, land!”) and nuzzled up against her cousin in a way that made Natasha’s face light up. Celia and Rinpoche sat close, like lovers on a date. And I was basking in a kind of afterglow, holding the moment of Jeannie’s presence like a cherished secret. My flight left the following afternoon—that was the only stain on those hours.
Instead of having dessert there, we decided to drive down to the Dairy Barn and sample their soft-serve ice cream. Not the healthiest of treats, probably, but Shelsa loved the sundaes, and I have to say it brought back some nice old memories to stand in the parking lot sipping a root beer float on a summer night and watching the traffic on Villard Street.
I’d grown so untethered from the digital universe—what a fine feeling—that it was actually a surprise when Rinpoche reached into his robe, took out my sleek new telephone, and handed it over. Another minute and I was hooked all over again, thumbing through a list of e-mails and ignoring the real world against my skin. There were twenty-seven new messages. Besides a quick “I’m okay” from Anthony, one in particular caught my eye. It was from my boss, Frank Denig, and it had been sent on Friday morning, not long after I started my retreat. It was titled “Difficult Decision,” and the first part of it went like this:
Dear Otto: You’ll forgive me using this format, but this is such a difficult message to deliver. You’ve been a good and loyal friend all these years, and an important cog in the machinery of Stanley and Byrnes. But, as I surely don’t need to tell you, the publishing business has undergone a sea change of late. In order to survive, we’ve decided to make some strategic adjustments. We’ve brought in a whiz-kid just out of Columbia to bring us up to speed in the digital marketplace. And, in an effort to keep Gilligan in our stable, we’ve offered him his own imprint: Neufaren Books. First title will appear on the winter list, 2014.
I’m sorry to say, however, that at this point in time we really need to remain lean and mean and stay competitive, and so we’ve had to make some other moves, too, and these were more challenging. And that, it pains me to say, is where you come in—
Just then, just as I was feeling a most bitter tsunami of anger about to overtake me, Natasha stepped away from her uncle and aunt and cousin. She was licking the last of the ice cream from her spoon—strawberry, as always—and she came and stood in front of me, a creature of light. Looking at her wide-set eyes and the spray of freckles across the middle of her nose, I suddenly had the strange sense that I could see all of her there—Tasha the slick-haired infant, just born, lying on Jeannie’s belly and having her first meal; Tasha the toddler, the schoolgirl, the teenager gasping in pain after a fall on the soccer field. Natasha, just awakened from sleep at 3:00 a.m., coming downstairs to wrap herself around her mother’s body, hot skin against cool, soaking Jeannie’s face with tears. I felt I could see beyond that, too, into her middle and old age. Husband, home, children, bodily struggles, her eventual passing on. What was it all about, this passage in a breathing, pulsing bundle of flesh from womb to ashes? What was the point? And how could it possibly be true that a bond like ours would simply disappear at death, that it would turn out to have been merely the dip of an eyelid in the vast stretch of time? Could a benevolent Creator really have gone to all this trouble, fashioning such complex souls and letting them find and love each other, only to snuff them out for all eternity?
She saw that I’d been checking my phone, and she said, in a hopeful way, “Good news, Dad?”
I ducked under the big wave. I tried to keep myself in Rinpoche’s blessed now and not worry overly much about what lay ahead for my daughter, my niece, and me. We had our destinies to work out—decision by decision and hour by hour—traumas to live through and joys to embrace. It did not matter, as the master in the maroon robe had taught me, what our theories might be about the universe and its Creator. What mattered was that we t
ried and kept trying, picking up one smooth stone after the next, row by row, until we’d shed all pretense and protection, peeled away every label, and come to inhabit our truest self.
And so, wondering what else I might learn from her, I looked into my daughter’s expectant face, hesitated one beat, and said, “Yes.”
THE END
Seattle, Washington, July 17, 2012
Danbury, Connecticut, October 10, 2012
Dairy Barn
Dickinson, North Dakota
Gratitude
As far as I know, I don’t have any Jewish blood. But I do have a lot of Jewish friends and I do have a particular affection for the Yiddish expressions I hear from them. Oy! is one of my favorites because, to my ear at least, it expresses the heavy cargo life sometimes places on our shoulders, but it does so with the wry humor for which the Jewish culture is famous. Shining the light of humor into the dark places is something I’ve tried to do for Otto in this novel, and try to do—with varying amounts of success—in my own life. There’s nothing dark or heavy about my feeling of gratitude for all the people who’ve helped with this book; it’s just that the task of adequately thanking all of you is an impossible one. So I have to begin by saying Oy!
As some of you know, Lunch with Buddha has had an unusual publishing history: I turned down a healthy offer from a large, established house in order to bring out the novel with a small publisher, PFP/AJAR, owned by a good friend. That decision has meant both a deep satisfaction and a huge amount of work. Without the help of the people mentioned here it never could have happened, so I’m determined to thank every one of you by name and express my gratitude in this public way.
First, as ever, my thanks to Amanda for enduring the travails of the writing life—long stretches with no money coming in, long conversations about difficult moments with agents and editors, periods of my complete distraction while I’m buried in my made-up world. She is a steady light in the dark hours. I’m eternally grateful to our magnificent daughters, Alexandra and Juliana, who are perfect travel companions, active participants in discussions about plot and design, and whose presence on this earth is more precious to me than anything. All of us made the Seattle-to-Dickinson road trip together this past summer and that was pure joy.
My gratitude to Peter Sarno, my publisher, editor, and friend, for a superhuman amount of work, excellent advice, his business and literary acumen, and for bringing my backlist into print and caring about my books during a period when no one else in the publishing universe seemed to. Thanks also to Nanette Sarno for her efforts on behalf of my books and for being a loving force to buoy Peter in the rough waters. Being the spouse of a publisher is as challenging as being the spouse of a writer and both she and Amanda meet that challenge with great dignity.
A special thanks to those friends who took the time to read the manuscript and offer invaluable suggestions. It’s a huge favor to ask someone to do this, and they all agreed without hesitation and on short notice. Amanda is my first reader, and her advice is indispensable to me. Dr. Peter Grudin’s suggestions were particularly helpful, and our phone conversation about a couple of problem areas in the book saved me from trouble. Our twenty-five-year friendship has been a wonderful part of my life. Matthew Quick, of The Silver Linings Playbook fame, a fine writer and fine man, agreed to read the manuscript and conduct the interview you see here, and he did this with such grace, generosity, and skill that I’ll be long in his debt. Jessica Lipnack, another superb writer and good friend, went through the pages with a fine-tooth comb and found things I would have completely missed.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t extend a special hand of thanks to my wife’s family: Bob and Martha Patrick for their great generosity and unflagging support; Anne and Gary Pardun for giving our Kickstarter program its biggest push; Sarah Stearns and Jackie Hudak for Kickstarter help and longstanding enthusiasm; and Tom and Jen Mottur for their help both with Kickstarter and introductions to other fine folk. Amanda’s cousin Winky Stearns Hussey was gracious enough to have all of us to her home on Whidbey Island and offer suggestions about things we might see in that area.
In order to publish this book in a fully professional way, Peter Sarno and I came up with the idea of making a sort of Initial Public Offering as a way of raising funds for publicity and printing. This was an area where, as a small house, PFP could have been at a real disadvantage. But the response to our IPO surprised both of us. Thirteen people invested substantial amounts, and their generosity enabled us to do design, printing, and promotional work of the highest quality. Thank you to the following friends for believing in the book and for taking this chance; I can’t wait to pay you back with interest: Bob and Martha Patrick, Rob Phipps, Randy and Bonnie DiTrinis, Mary Remmel Wohlleb, Kathy Sherbrooke, Peggy Moss, Wendy Barlow, John DiNatale, Jen Chiappella, Dan and Erin Davies, Russ Aborn, Lisa Wenner, and Carl Carlsen.
Those funds helped us hire a world-class designer, Hans Teensma, and a world-class copyeditor, Chris Jerome. Their contributions put a wonderful shine to this project. I should note here that any errors in the manuscript are my own responsibility, not Chris’s or any of the others who provided information or advice.
My longtime friend Dr. Arlo Kahn gave expert advice on medical issues, as he has done for many of my novels, and also offered travel suggestions including, but not limited to, our visit to Yellowstone’s Boiling River. He is Arlo the Arkansan and he and his wife, Theresa, have supported my career from the 1990s.
Joel Thomas Adams and his brother Dwight Thomas were most helpful in guiding us through the wilds of Montana. Both of them know the state well, and they led us to, among other gems, Bernice’s Bakery in Missoula—a place I wished was closer by.
Anita and Dan Schoen kindly put up an entire family on the basis of one brief meeting and an old Revere connection, and Dan generously took time out of his work schedule to act as our personal river guide on the Little Bighorn.
My friend, confidant, and fellow novelist, Craig Nova, has given me so much good advice, empathy, and encouragement over the years that his name should be on the cover of this novel. His expertise, wisdom, and friendship are greatly appreciated, as were his Montana recommendations.
I’d like to thank Bonnie and all the folks at The Wagon Wheel in Gill, MA, my unofficial “office” in the cold months, and a place, unlike our home here in Conway, that actually has high-speed internet service. Both my home and the Wheel have good food.
Tony Pelusi was an early and avid supporter of this project, and is a man of deep wisdom. My thanks to him for his friendship.
For helping me with information about the great state of North Dakota, my thanks to Tammy Weiler, Terri Thiel and Debb Weninger. And for setting me straight about the elk and geysers in Yellowstone, thank you to a fellow former Bostonian, Jim Sweeney.
Some people help in intangible ways, with a word or a kind of friendship that makes the writing of books feel like a worthwhile endeavor. My mother Eileen Merullo taught me to read and love books and has always supported and encouraged my love of writing. I’d like to acknowledge also my brothers, Steve and Ken Merullo, cousins Joe and Susan Merullo, Linda and Joey Merullo, John Aucella, Bob and Ann Mulligan, Lois Holbrook, my aunt Cynthia Goodyear, my mentor Michael Miller, friend and fellow author Sterling Watson, Bill McGee, Dean Crawford, Cecelia Galante, Art and Pat Spencer, Margie Dunphy, John Recco, Bonnie Smith, Vivian Leskes and Frank Ward, Lee Hope Betcher, Bill Betcher, Tom Alden, Russ Hammer, Bob Baker, Renee Gold, Peter Howe, Wick Sloane, Suzanne Strempek Shea and Tommy Shea, and my friend and editor at Golf World, Tim Murphy, Nadya Shokhen and Vladimir Tokarev, Betsy Woods, Diana Miladin, Deborah Schifter, Dana Wilson, Chiemi Karasawa, Konrad Czynski, Shaye Areheart, Rob Phipps and Lou Certuse—all these people offered good words at key moments and I’m grateful for their friendship and support.
Someone, some angelic soul who must wish to remain nameless, sent me a large check in the mail one June day—no note, no return address. This money came at
a time of real difficulty for us and we used it to fund the Lunch with Buddha road trip, the start of everything you see here. Whoever you are: a very large and heartfelt thank you.
Finally, to the fine people who contributed to the Kickstarter program, essentially giving me money so I could do what I love do to, and so Peter and I could publish and publicize this novel, my humble gratitude:
Anne and Gary Pardun, Rick Mahoney, Tony Pelusi, Bobbin Young, Mo Hanley, Agnes Sarno, Alice Sarno, Lisa Wenner, David Anthony, Joe Dimino, Anne Gilbert,
Jessica Lipnack, Tamsen Merrill, Lianne Moccia, Doreen Lloyd Quick, Bonnie Smith,
Ellen Stathis, Sarah Stearns, Mel and Peg Williams, Annie Chappell, Marjie Devlin, Charlotte Dietz, Richard DiPerna, Jennifer Eremeeva, Jeff Foltz, Peter Grudin, Joan Cusack, Handler, Beth Harrington, Daniel Harrop, Peter Howe, Tom Mellor, Askold Melnyczuk, Linda Merullo, Tom Mottur, Mary DeMarco OKeefe, Matthew Quick,
Linda Sarno, Kate Barber Schultz, Elizabeth Searle, Suzanne Strempek Shea, Michael Slaff and Ruth Urell, Susan Smith, Frank Ward and Vivian Leskes, Wendy Wetzel,
Julia Zagachin, Laura Proctor, Paul Sarno, Kate Barvainis, Kathy Bahamonde, Sue and Rich Calrendon, Harris Berman and Ruth Nemzoff, Jane Carlson, Sarah Christiansen, Henry Ben Clarendon, Jeremy Deason, John Dimino, Scott Evans, Brigitte Kahnert, Margaret Knight, Lois Holbrook, Radha Marcum, Tom Nickel, Bette Nockles, Matthew Phillion, Shawna Rand, Nanette Sarno, Don Tingle, Ken Williams, John Zussman, Roberta Kuonen, Susie Mosher, Mary Anne Antonellis, Neal and Sara Anderson, Jana Black, Duke Corliss, Renee Gold, Alex Gonzalez-Mir, Priscilla Herrington, Bobby Keniston, Jen Laskey, Douglas Smith, Ellen Doyle, Helen Graves, Russ Hammer, Deb Penta, Bob Baker.
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