Whenever You Call (19 page)

        
I should be

        
would be

        
if could be

        
happy.

        
She reads now the words

        
I write and so

        
my privacy, small enough,

        
goes.

        
We will both have to learn to bear it.

I was able to read the first stanza, but I didn’t really understand it at the age of five. Yet, somehow, I must have. In fact, my sensitivity to language, the whole reason I became a writer, stemmed from knowing that my mother resented it when I learned to read.

Bummer.

When my brother and sister and I were in elementary school, we used to play Poetry Reading. Other kids would play War, or Zoo, or House. Not us. No, sir. It was Poetry Reading, complete with a microphone fashioned from one of my Dad’s discarded crutches and a spatula balanced in the armrest, chairs lined up in rows, ashtrays (those were the days when poets still smoked), bottles of booze and glasses displayed on every table surface, and my smallest brother, Jeffrey, strumming a ukulele and “singing.” Obviously, the best part was writing and reading our poems, which we believed—as per our mother—were brilliant. Maybe they even were. My youngest sister, Annie, told me recently that she’d saved all extant copies in a special, flame-resistant storage box. She suggested that at the next Christmas Eve, we should play Poetry Reading. I told her over my dead body.

Speaking of dead bodies, my mother’s funeral had been one giant Poetry Reading. Members of her department had taken turns reading her unpublished poems, analyzing them as if they were somehow worthy of such enlightened attention. They weren’t. Despite my father’s obvious and genuine grief, I saw more than one pained expression cross his face during the service. I kept expecting Jeffrey to start playing the ukulele and singing one of his inimitable tunes.

I was my mother’s least favorite child and I still didn’t know why. Naturally, in therapy, I had to try and figure it out. I came to the obvious conclusions: she was envious of my writing ability and publishing success; I was too needy; she hadn’t been well-loved as the oldest daughter when
she
was growing up; I was more interested in my father; I was a bossy-boots, and so was she, with the result that we clashed. Somehow, though, none of these entirely plausible explanations had much wearing power. I kept feeling as though I didn’t quite get it.

Though I did get why I hated Poets with a capitol P.

“Yes, shelter from the rain,” I said to Mr. Poet. “You, too?”

“My girlfriend is manager here—she had a doctor’s appointment and I offered to keep an eye on things.”

“You have a
girlfriend
?” I raised both eyebrows.

He shrugged and actually winked at me. “Can’t fault a guy for noticing a beautiful gal.”

A beautiful gal?

What a vomitous expression. I looked back out the window.

“Haven’t seen Isaac around—has he got a new wife to make him happy?”

I snorted. “Not even close.”

“Waddayamean?”

“He’s left Harvard on a sort of spiritual journey.”

“The India-thing is so retro.”

Remarkably, that man seemed incapable of saying anything I didn’t judge as ludicrous. Maybe I needed to read some of his poetry to counterbalance my displeasure, especially since I kept running into the jerk. If I was the type to question such things, I might even have asked
why
he reappeared in my life like some deranged homing pigeon.

But I
wasn’t
that kind of person and even the presence of Ralph the Angel wasn’t going to convince me to
become
that kind of person. Not without a fight, anyway. And I tended to avoid fights.

“I don’t think he went to India,” I said. In my head, I began a fervent little prayer.

Stop raining, stop raining, stop raining.
I even closed my eyes briefly.

The Poet said, “Hey, it’s letting up.”

I made an effort to pay no attention to the fact that my wish had been granted. None whatsoever. You might imagine that if your wishes were routinely ignored, as I felt many of mine were, you’d notice when one was so dramatically answered. But the truth was that we had habits in our lives, and we grew used to having things happen as they were apparently meant to. I wondered how many people, praying for love (just as an esoteric example) had looked right past it when it arrived, simply because they’d grown so used to it not being there. Flannery O’Connor’s book,
The Habit of Being
, was an autobiography that seemed to laude habits. As a young writer, I’d tried to emulate her method. Probably, I now saw, a big boo-boo.

First time ever, I said, “Thanks.” Though not out loud, of course. And, okay, my tone was somewhat facetious, grudging, and doubtful. I had zero faith that the rain had stopped because I’d asked it to. Still, just in case, never hurt to express gratitude. Or so I taught my kids.

I waved to Mr. Poet. “See you,” I said, though I hoped I wouldn’t. Then, inspired, I made another silent request.
May I never see him again.

Home finally, I dashed around, getting ready to take off for Isaac’s monastery, working up a lather of pointless anxiety, until I slipped on the stairs leading to the basement. I caught myself by a fast hand grabbing onto the bannister, though momentarily my stomach traveled down, as if unaware that the rest of me still stood poised at the top of the stairs. I took a deep breath and decided a hot soaking bath was a good idea. There was no need to be in a gigantic hurry.

To get myself in the mood, I put on a CD of monks chanting. The basement was cool and slightly damp from the earlier storm, and despite the sun having come out, it was mighty dark down there. Its basement qualities had never bothered me, and the shadows had been one of its attractions as a place to write and think, but that afternoon, I noticed it and, in the end, didn’t like it. I turned off the chanting monks, let the water out of the bath, and went to the second floor for a shower. Even though I was heading for a monastery, where I presumed my sexual charms would be irrelevant, I shampooed and conditioned my hair, shaved my legs and armpits, then applied copious amounts of body lotion.

Only at the last, when I had an overnight bag packed and had applied make-up that would be especially appealing to monks, not to mention my
outfit
((blue jeans and an Indian-inspired tunic that I assumed would add an inspirational element to my overall appearance), did I check my e-mail. I hadn’t heard from Rabbitfish since our provocative exchange late Saturday night (“You should be ashamed of yourself.” “I am.”) and despite having talked to Dr. Patel about him, he seemed far away.

But he wasn’t.

T
HE ABHAYAGIRI MONASTERY, BUILT of stone in an edgy contemporary style, was brightly lit, sleek in design, yet almost gossipy or garrulous with excess stuff. I took an instant dislike to it and knew why Isaac would have found it appealing. Of the many myriad ways Isaac and I had been a mismatch, one of the most disturbing (after his delight in fucking around) had been our incompatibility about interior design taste. Frankly, he
had
no taste. Isaac merely possessed a cacophony of objects scattered all over the place. Also, he was a slob. I, to be equally honest about myself, was an anal-compulsive type with such an overdeveloped sense of style that I couldn’t sleep in a room whose
feng shui
was off kilter.

It was five o’clock when I arrived. Despite a cluttered reception area, decorated with odd chairs and couches, nicked coffee tables piled with stapled-together xerox copies of articles, and empty, sticky cups scattered around, an unusual silence permeated the place. The two things didn’t go together, a quiet mess, and their contradiction made me even more uncomfortable. I turned in a full circle, looking for even a single person or a clue about where to go, what to do. Nothing. At the far end of the enormous room, a corridor peeled off. I headed towards it. Even though I knew I’d been invited and that the monks would be expecting me, I felt like a whore wandering into a cathedral.

“Where’s Ralph?”

The man’s voice exploded behind me. I leapt into the air like the launch of a rocket ship, letting out a shriek. When I’d whirled around, I saw a small monk. No other way to describe him. He was a
small
monk. Shaved/bald head and a deep brown colored robe tied at the waist with a rope.

“Ralph?” I said, still somewhat stupefied.

“Your special sidekick, Ralph?” He grinned and I saw that his teeth gleamed white, especially in contrast to the bald pate. I thought it strange that a monk would indulge in tooth-whitening techniques at a monastery, but maybe he’d undergone the procedure before entering. His skin, stretched over a rotund face, also gleamed, unwrinkled and pinkish. He was quite adorable, and he made me wish that Ralph had a little more of this guy’s sleek appearance.

I smiled back. “I don’t know where Ralph is.”

At that moment, just above the little monk’s head, the blue light twinkled.

My smile grew broader. “There.” I pointed.

He tilted his head back and looked up. “I don’t see anything.”

To my relief, he didn’t sound disapproving or dubious. Just matter-of-fact.

“Sometimes it’s just a blue light.”

He nodded, his eyes shining. “Rather fun, huh?”

I screwed up my face. “Maybe.”

He held out his hand. “I’m Brother Ralph.”

“No!”

“’Fraid so.”

When I put my hand out, he reached with both hands, circling mine with hot, dry warmth.

“The brothers are in meditation. Let me show you to your room, and then we’ll join everyone for dinner. After that, you may meet with Brother Isaac in this reception room.”

We headed back out the front door, to get my suitcase from the car.

“Meals are silent—I hope that will be okay for you?”

“Of course.”

Brother Ralph insisted on carrying my case, even though he practically had to drag it over the ground. We crunched along an outdoor path that wound around the main building to a second building, squat and unassuming.

As he left me at the door, telling me that I had the first room on the left and that there were no other people currently on retreat with them, he also added. “I should tell you that I am the Abbot here. It was somewhat fortuitous that I happened to answer the phone when you called earlier.”

I flushed, embarrassed to have the Abbot handling my baggage and showing me around. “Oh, God, thank you.”

“Perhaps, if you would like, we could talk about your experiences.” He made a charming shrug with one shoulder. “You know, Ralph, etc., I’d be interested.”

“If you’re sure that you’d have the time … ,”

“I am sure.” He smiled. “What about six a.m. tomorrow morning? There’s a beautiful pond with a bench for sitting. Ask Brother Isaac tonight for directions.”

Six o’clock in the morning seemed like a horrible time to meet, but I knew religious communities had a passion for early rising and if the Abbot was willing to talk to me, I wasn’t going to quibble. “I’ll be there.”

Despite the warm July weather, the inside of the guest quarters was cool, musty smelling, and dark. Kind of creeped me out. I opened the first door on the left to find a tiny room, with a single bed, a bright blue linoleum floor and a window with the blind pulled all the way down. I quickly snapped the blind up and turned on the overhead light fixture, which, judging from the quality of the light emitted, must have been outfitted with a forty watt bulb. I fiddled with the window, pounding with my fist here and there, until I managed to throw it open. Ooops, no screen. I closed it again. Mosquitoes could drive me more insane than an angel named Ralph.

Venturing out into the hallway, I found the bathroom with two toilets and a single shower stall made of rather cruddy stainless steel. I checked myself in the mirror, wondering whether I should brush my hair or teeth, but I decided it was unnecessary. I used the toilet, returned to my room, and unpacked. Even the addition of the book I was reading on the desk by the bed cheered the place up. I wish I’d brought along a small lamp to make things a little more attractive, and even a little oriental rug, and a white coverlet for the bed. I could hardly bear to contemplate even two nights in this room without fixing it up. I sat on the edge of the bed and checked my watch. Quarter-to-six. Although Brother Ralph hadn’t given an exact time for dinner, six o’clock was likely. I decided to leave my purse and keys in the room. If my things weren’t safe at a monastery, then I’d have to lose total faith and deal with it. I walked outside and followed the path back to the parking lot and towards the entrance of the main building again.

Nervousness returned.

When I walked into the reception room, it was jammed with men, all dressed in matching brown robes tied at the waist by a rope. My mouth dropped open as I looked around and slowly realized that the monks
weren’t
all men. Despite the shaved heads, some were nevertheless recognizable as
women
. Strangely enough, Isaac had never mentioned that women could be monks at a monastery. Or, maybe they were called nuns. I was astonished that men and women intermingled freely.

Of course, no one was talking. Momentarily, when I’d first entered the room, because of the crowd, I’d actually seemed to hear a cacophony of voices until I realized that there were only the sounds of robes rustling, feet slipping, coughs, bodies in movement. I stayed at the rim of the room and watched them. I started out feeling conspicuous, but within seconds I could tell that they weren’t paying any attention to me. I was all but invisible. They weren’t paying attention to each other, either, or, if they were, it wasn’t obvious. I ambled around the edge of the room, watching.

Then I saw Isaac. Without his long curly brown hair, he was ugly. His nose jutted out like the sculptor, fashioning his face, had been daydreaming. I felt a strange sort of panic. Who the heck was he? Certainly not the sensual, handsome man with whom I’d jumped into bed one night and then, just as precipitously, into marriage. He felt my gaze and turned to find me. His face lit up and he gave me a small, involuntary smile. I sent a smile back, but I’d started to feel like this whole trip might prove to be more confusing to me, rather than less. Perhaps I should have stuck with my therapist and trusted in my own ability to sort things out.

At that moment, I saw him. Mr. Rabbitfish. My stomach crashed to the floor and my entire body, balanced on trembling legs, came close to following. Or, let’s put it this way: I saw the bald man at the Harvest’s bar, who’d ordered a Tie Me to the Bedpost. He looked right at me, his eyes wide with delight. Pure delight. Though, I must say, he didn’t look surprised at all. I flashed to the last e-mail I’d received from Rabbitfish, just before I’d left.

We have to stop meeting like this.

Should I go speak to him? Then I realized that I
couldn’t
speak to him, not with this Rule of Silence. His wide mouth started to curve up into a smile, but he stopped it just in time, like a man kissing you in all the right places, who aimlessly begins to move to all the wrong places. Frustrating.

I stepped backwards and hit the wall. At that moment, everyone began to slide in the direction of two double doors that I now saw had been opened wide. It reminded me of an hourglass timer, where the sand dribbles down and through the funnel.

Rabbitfish winked at me, turned, and joined the crowd’s movement into the dining room. I stayed put, unsure whether I was capable of eating dinner.

Something irrevocable had happened. I knew it. I didn’t understand
what
exactly, and I most definitely didn’t understand
why
, but there was no mistaking the moment, nevertheless. I thought, well, I hesitate to say it, but I believed that perhaps, maybe, umm, I’d fallen in love. With a monk who might be a psychopath.

So, to summarize, I said to myself helpfully.

I’d seen a scruffy angel called Ralph.

And, I’d fallen in love with a monk who seemed to be capable of following me (or leading me?), reading my e-mail, and becoming, magically, attached to my peculiar life.

The whole thing couldn’t help but make me wonder. Okay, maybe I’d imagined seeing Rabbitfish as a monk. Maybe I’d imagined seeing Ralph. Maybe, despite Dr. Patel’s expertise, I was stark raving mad.

My eyes filled with tears, and I blinked quickly. To be honest, I wasn’t thrilled at recognizing my own insanity. It was a bitch. In my head, I spoke to the angel. “Okay, I dare you. Show yourself!”

I stared around the nearly empty room, searching for him. No angel and no dancing blue light. “Thanks a bunch,” I muttered.

I couldn’t keep standing where I was since it was drawing attention to myself, and I knew Isaac and Brother Ralph would be watching out for me. Not to mention the monk I’d conjured up. The monk who was not. Could not. Would not.

I reminded myself that I was a mature woman. I’d been through plenty of personal trauma in my life, and I’d always managed to persevere. I could do this, whatever
this
was. Although, short term,
this
was obviously to go into dinner.

The dining room had floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on an open terrace dotted with picnic tables, and beyond to a sloping green lawn that desperately needed to be mowed.

In the middle of the room, Isaac turned around and gestured to the empty chair next to him. I threaded my way through the tables and chairs, feeling self-conscious again, and then rapidly
not
self-conscious because I could’ve been invisible for all the stir I was making. Isaac touched my arm briefly, smiled deep into my eyes, then turned to take a serving bowl from his left-hand neighbor. When it was passed to me, I found it heaped with stewed tomatoes flecked with diced green peppers and onion. The steam blasted up into my face and my appetite kicked in. I took two huge spoonfuls and passed it on to my right. Next came a bright yellow curry rice, followed by a bowl of peas. Figuring that would be it, I loaded my plate, only to be surprised by a green salad, and a basket of sliced fresh bread. I’d prepared myself for the likelihood that all the meals would be vegetarian.

Everyone started eating, without preliminary prayers, bowed heads, or any other weird gesticulation like fingers of the left hand waving to fingers of the right hand, or linking arms and swaying in place. Most people kept their eyes cast down to the overloaded plates of food, and I regret to say that monks, when hungry, have the same tendency as the rest of the human race to heave their food into their wide-open mouths with very little finesse. It felt wrong to stare endlessly at my plate, so I looked around the room slowly. A few monks were also looking up instead of down, but their eyes were unfocussed and distant. Of course, I was checking for Mr. Rabbitfish. I didn’t want to be too obvious about it, but I needn’t have worried. There were only about half-dozen monks opposite me at our table, and it was difficult to see over the backs of the people at the next table, and beyond, to those facing in my direction.

It was silent insofar as there was no talking going on, but that didn’t mean it was
silent.
Forks and spoons clattered against the china as a background music or counterpoint to the downright deafening sounds of lips parting and smacking, jaws masticating, and throats swallowing. I wasn’t convinced that a quiet mealtime had much value when it was so damn noisy, which I found to be such an amusing thought that I was hard-pressed not to whisper it into Isaac’s ear. Instead, I controlled myself by concentrating on the food and adding, as much as I could, to the overall ambiance of cows chewing their cud.

Obviously, I still wasn’t a happy camper. Besides having seen an angel this week, and possibly Mr. Rabbitfish as a monk, among other things, I’d also had to miss a cocktail on the day of all days when a drink would’ve been welcome. More than welcome.
Essential.
I gulped down water and found it wanting. Isaac slid a look at me and, briefly, our eyes met. The water took a side trip into my lungs when I tried to swallow a gigantic giggle. I knew that he knew I’d been coveting a drink. I coughed violently, hoping to get rid of the water in my lungs with one big effort. However, as can happen from time to time, the first big cough just made it worse. I coughed a second time and felt Isaac’s solicitous hand on my shoulder, ready to start pounding. Unfortunately, the laughter burbled up and collided with the coughing to create a veritable tidal wave of effects in my chest, mouth, and nose.

All hell broke lose.

I coughed so violently that snot ran from my nose and tears down my cheeks. Other than being mortified, I was also still laughing too hard to stop. Isaac shoved his chair back, leapt to his feet, and wrapped both arms around me, preparing to do the Heimlich maneuver. I swatted at his hands, trying to signal that it was unnecessary. However, an overly solicitous nun across the table from me, who’d obviously yet to internalize the Buddhist ideas of peace and nonviolence, started screaming at Isaac.