Bodhisattva of Orchard Court1st Place in the Fiction Writing Contest
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Issue 17
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Joan lay back in Charlie’s old recliner, contemplating the seasonal decorations she’d just navigated at Windfall Square in order to obtain miso and noodles for a soup later on. The worst had been balloon blow-ups of Santa and all eight reindeer: a desecration in a place where apple orchards had thrived early last century.
Illusions, she had counseled herself. Penetrate them, silence them, let them go. And everyone gazing down at their phones. She couldn’t believe how completely the new had overwhelmed the old. Computers, cell phones and now something called artificial intelligence—an oxymoron if she ever heard one. Her land line was her only phone and it remained on silent, checked for messages only when the light was blinking, otherwise ignored. No computer, no TV. Lots of silence, books, candles, a radio. The shopping center was within easy walking distance, and, since the pandemic, Kroger even delivered. What young people saw as isolated and disconnected, Joan saw as serene and convenient. Classical music stations supplemented meditation and prayer here in her church for one. No, not a church. Not anymore. Lifting the mug of jasmine tea to her lips she pondered her religious upbringing. Upon entering her seventh decade, Catholicism no longer worked for her. Buddhism was a lot closer to what she needed. Her adoption of a meditation practice had made transitioning away from her parents’, then husband’s, religion possible. Every evening, she lit two candles, one for Charlie, an impossibly good man, and one for Jesus, made of the same blood and bone as her wonderful husband. She wondered if he’d be appalled to find her swapping western for eastern religion? Probably not, since she’d taken her intro meditation course at the Dharma House a year before he passed. He’d known where she was headed. Clutching her mug in still-chilly fingers, she let her mind roam outside. Orchard Court Apartments had changed so much since she’d moved in seven years ago, following Charlie’s death. Within six months, she’d sold the house where their marriage flourished for 55 years. Now, at 79, Joan was content to live in the relatively quiet anonymity of an aging complex built in 1965. She’d been 23 then; it pleased her she’d come of age at the birth of Orchard Court, formerly a paradise of fruit-bearing trees but now six brick buildings surrounded by useful stores (or suburban sprawl, depending on her state of equanimity). Joan placed her favorite mug carefully on the sunflower coaster. She was considering a late afternoon nap here in the recliner, when she heard a soft, shy knock. She tensed. She could ignore it—she’d ordered nothing, all her friends were dead or moved south and she wasn’t up for Jehovah’s Witnesses today. The recliner eased her forward and she stood, padded to the door and peeked through the peephole. On the stoop stood a man wearing a floppy-eared cap, whom she’d seen shoveling snow across the street yesterday. He’d waved and grinned. Around 35, she guessed. He’d looked harmless, comical even, so she’d returned his wave. After releasing both locks, she cracked the door. Before she could speak, he thrust something at her. “Merry Christmas! I made banana bread—I’m no baker, by any generous extension of the label, but, well, it’s the holidays. After seeing you yesterday, I decided I should introduce myself. I’ve lived here since last October. I’m Samuel Blatz.” Opening the door wider, she accepted the foil-wrapped package, still warm, and extended her other hand. “Thank you, Mr. Blatz. I’m Joan Pembroke.” “I know.” Smiling, he bowed with his upper body, looking dignified, despite his silly cap. Joan felt somehow complimented but quickly dismissed the feeling as ego-driven, therefore worthless. “Pardon me for disturbing you on Christmas Eve.” She’d forgotten, despite all the hoopla, that tonight was the night—her new life had let her forget an event almost everyone else in the country was currently focused on. Her freedom made her feel charitable. “Come inside, Mr. Blatz. It’s freezing out there.” Once he was seated before her on the couch, Joan back in the recliner, her visitor grew solemn. “I’ve got a confession, Joan. I’ve watched and admired you for some time. Don’t worry. I’m not a stalker but actually a financial consultant; I can provide references if—” He caught himself. “Oh dear, it’s hard to step outside a role.” He must not be very successful if he’s living here, Joan thought before mentally chastising herself. None of her business. “Mr. Blatz, what do you want?” Charity was one thing, patience another. Her visitor removed his hat, revealing a gorgeous head of midnight-black hair. Studying the rug, he sighed, then looked back up. “I need your help with my nine-year-old niece. Poor child lost her mother on Christmas Eve last year. My brother David—well, in his condition, he’s not much of a father. All he does is work and drink. I have an errand that will require me to be away for an hour this evening at 7:30 and—” “You want me to baby-sit this bereaved child? Mr. Blatz, why in the world would you think I’d be up for such an undertaking?” Unfazed, he spread his now-ungloved hands. “It’s partly because you’re a Buddhist.” So he knew what the prayer flags above her door signified. She’d figured no one in this place would know she was attempting to attract peace, compassion, strength and wisdom to Orchard Court. Maybe also an unconscious desire for public recognition? Would ego never relent? “You’ve misunderstood, Mr. Blatz. While I do have Buddhist leanings, I—” “And you care deeply about children.” This flummoxed her worse than his labeling her a Buddhist. He must’ve read her face. “Your petition that got us the playground?” He pointed toward the end of the court. “You’re a legend, Joan! Everybody here lights up when your name’s mentioned.” Now she was blushing. How could she tell him the playground had been the least of her concern? After the new owner threatened a 27% rent increase, she’d taken her petition door to door until every resident signed. She’d written that the landlord’s demand was three times the rate of inflation, that the utility increases he stated as fact were proposed but never granted and that a long-promised kids’ play area never materialized. While the tyrant went ahead with the rate increase, the playground was built before year’s end. “Mr. Blatz, that was three years ago.” “Well, I figure that at—well, your age—and with your Buddhist leanings, you’ll be able to relate to a grieving young girl.” He was wringing his hands. He was desperate. At his age, she hadn’t known spit about life, either. Still, she shook her head slowly, side to side, lips tight. Now he spoke softly: “Suffer the little children, you know?” Welcome, it meant. She found herself transposing the phrase into the little children suffer. Damn the man. He’d touched the bodhisattva she secretly (guiltily) aspired to be, the being who wouldn’t relax into her old recliner of semi-enlightenment (some days she felt it, others she didn’t) until everyone else got enlightened, too. Surely that included children. Plus, the man had the late Elvis Presley’s hair. “One hour, Mr. Blatz. Bring her at 7:30 and don’t be late. Before that I’m meditating. Any later, I’m in prayer.” He opened his hands. “Of course. May I say that—” “You may not. I’ll suffer--welcome--the child for one hour.” Repeating the phrase rattled her—she, Joan Pembroke, septuagenarian, aspiring bodhisattva, the best reference librarian Midwest State University had ever employed (or so Mr. Smithson had said upon her retirement). “All right, Joan,” the man said, standing at last, fingering his cap. “I’ll have Jocelyn here right on time.” Why did the girl’s name make something clench in her chest? Had she heard it before? She didn’t think so. Another minute or two and she finally ushered her visitor out the door. There was soup to prepare, candles to be lit. By the time Joan gave up and left the meditation room, Christmas Eve had been underway for a couple of hours. She was exhausted and frustrated. Long-time practitioner that she was, she was well-acquainted with Monkey Mind: the rapid-fire thoughts and feelings she’d trained herself not to fight but simply witness. But the monkeys must’ve become super-charged by Mr. Blatz’ visit. And now the prospect of an even more difficult visit lay ahead. Catching herself, she winced. Lose the judgmental language, Joan. Accept the inevitable without expectation or illusion. During the ninety minutes she’d remained on the cushion, she’d wrestled all sorts of illusory scenarios. Mostly she’d been suppressing the image that had arisen from the depths when she recalled Mr. Blatz’s niece’s name. Jocelyn: another name for joy. Joy Scanlon had been her and Charlie’s only attempt at child-raising. For ten years, they’d remained childless, Joan’s scarlet fever at eleven rendering her infertile. She’d been fine with that. Until she wasn’t. For his part, Charlie wanted whatever she wanted—a copout, though she didn’t hold it against him, blessed man. They decided to try fostering before adopting. Joan wished she’d listened better to the social worker’s warnings about Joy’s mother’s hard life, but she’d been deafened by the voice pleading from her depths to mother, nurture, suffer this child. A blonde, blue-eyed thirteen-year-old, Joy was sulky but compliant. Until she wasn’t. Her destructiveness escalated, from breaking a treasured vase, to torturing Patches the cat, to self-abuse. (Oh, the bloody tissues, tee-shirts and sheets.) The image Joan had kept at bay for an hour and a half while on the cushion now materialized on her mental screen. Late September, Saturday morning. Joy had just started seventh grade. Joan thought she was still asleep in her room. But, entering her and Charlie’s bedroom, she found the girl sitting cross-legged on the bed in a pool of sunshine, steel glinting in her hand. Joan’s vision blurred until she realized Joy held not a knife but scissors. Surrounded by books, was she cutting up the schoolbooks she hated and hadn’t touched? As her gaze unclouded, Joan saw with horror the “books” were her own two wedding albums. Tiny hacked-up pieces lay strewn on the coverlet, a wild collage of faces and body parts. The girl looked up expectantly and grinned. Joan covered her face with her hands and wept. After a minute, she felt the girl standing beside her. Would Joy stab her now with those scissors? The girl mouth-breathed beside her foster mother for a while. Then: “I’ll go pack.” When Charlie came home, he took one look at his wife’s face and knew. He made the call and within an hour, the social worker came and took Joy away. They never spoke of her again, although whenever someone showed wedding photos, they allowed themselves to share one quick grieving gaze. Joan’s meditation today had allowed her to hold the image of her foster child at bay for an hour and a half on the cushion—amazing (a miracle, she might’ve said if she’d still been a Christian). But now, with the temple-apartment grown chilly and darkness pressing ever nearer the glass, she faced the fact that she’d said yes to allowing another orphan into her life in—she glanced at the kitchen clock—five minutes. The knock came at exactly the prescribed time. She sighed. Sometimes trying to become a bodhisattva was a pain in the butt. Opening the door, she found Mr. Blatz dressed in suit, tie and open dress coat. Atop his head a fedora made him look like a 20s gangster. He urged the child forward and into the living room. Her attire, too, was impressive: deep wine wool coat with fur collar; white tights above shiny patent leather Mary Janes. She had a pale, narrow face curtained by straight reddish-brown hair commingling with the collar’s fur. Though her mouth was slack, her eyes were wide open. “Welcome, Jocelyn. Please come in,” Joan instructed, feeling the return of authority she’d lost since the monkeys had made a mockery of her meditation. Barely inside, Samuel Blatz whispered above her head. “I’ll be back at exactly 8:30.” He pulled the door closed and was gone. Off to the bar? Quickie with a girlfriend? Dropping off last-minute gifts from General Dollar to an ex-wife and his own forsaken urchins? Such judgment was neither skillful nor compassionate and always led to suffering. Instead, Joan imagined uncle and niece had come from a candlelight service like the midnight masses she’d attended as a child with her parents. She’d never been allowed to actually hold a candle herself, though she longed to lift one aloft, help Christ keep Satan at bay. The girl’s clothes emitted a slightly evergreen scent. Like it or not, Christmas had entered the temple. Once inside, Jocelyn began to show interest as she absorbed the room’s old-fashioned furnishings, tapestries and wall hangings. After unbuttoning her coat, she let it drop to the floor. Above the tights she wore a glittery pink tee-shirt with butterflies. Stay present, Joan reminded herself. She dropped into her lounger and addressed the girl. “I am Joan Melinda Pembroke. I live here alone and avoid most people. Your uncle insinuated himself into my house and asked if I’d entertain you for a little while.” Joan half-expected a reaction—sneer, fright, scorn?—about that word entertain. But the girl’s open expression held steady. What next? Oh yes, she’d almost forgotten. “Do you like art?” Jocelyn just stared. But she didn’t say no. Taking her warm hand in her chilly one, Joan led the child to the table where she’d assembled materials from a soul card collage workshop she’d taken five years ago. The idea, according to the leader, was to clip interesting images from books and magazines, and then, letting “spirit” guide you, cut, arrange and glue them onto a 4” x 8” card. The results, Joan had discovered, could be both astonishing and unnerving. After Blatz’ visit, when she’d gone looking for something she and the child could actually do together, she’d imagined a kid-friendly version that would produce something at least pretty if not profound. First things first: hot chocolate. What providence had told her to purchase mini-marshmallows at Windfall today? Letting the child pop them into her mug brought the first smile. Soon as she finished the drink, Joan explained the process. “Just choose whatever images speak to you.” When Jocelyn looked almost frightened, Joan smiled. “I mean, appeals to you, pleases you in some way.” The girl vigorously nodded, giving Joan hope. Maybe a sign this hurt girl wanted to be pleased rather than sad tonight? They went to work. Still struggling with monkey mind, Joan found it tedious if not excruciating. Plus, the teenagers who lived across the street and their loud friends, probably drunk, were scream-singing Christmas carols, the sort of noise Joan had learned not to block but absorb into her meditation. Easier said than done. But, striving to be a good hostess, she wouldn’t make the girl work alone. Sneaking peeks, she found herself marveling at the girl’s dexterity, as if her fingers knew exactly what to do. Within twenty minutes, she’d inserted her card into its plastic sleeve. Then she bowed her head. Tempted to tell her to simply start another—obviously she knew what she was doing—Joan hesitated. Something about the serious expression on her face while she’d worked. “May I see?” Joan asked, striving for a light tone. Jocelyn nodded without lifting her head. The card was full of darkness and snow—she recalled the magazine image of skaters on a frozen pond—but there were no human figures in her rendering, only black, shadowy ice. In the center, the girl had placed a big gold star, half submerged. Fallen Star Headed for Icy Depths? Joan kept looking. Above a strip of ominous sunset, the girl had glued a blue sky with swirling birds. Star Rising from Depths to Grace Another Day? She glanced at the girl no doubt awaiting her reaction. A grieving girl, a hurt girl. Joan, too, waited. Meditation had taught her to let thoughts drift by—as angry or awful as they wanted or needed to be—and just label them thinking. They meant nothing. But it was as if she were looking at the girl’s dream: beautiful, terrible, real. What to say to her? How does this make you feel? Come on, Joan, it was right there, the star both ascending and descending, stuck between dark and dawn, cold and warm, suffering and sorrowing. Happy, sad: same thing. But she wasn’t going to say this to the girl. She handed it back. “Bring it with you. I want to show you something.” Joan led Jocelyn down the long, dark hallway toward wavering light. At the threshold to the meditation room, she halted and let the child walk forward alone. Joan had purposely left two candles burning in ceramic bowls, though normally she would’ve extinguished them before leaving. After gazing around for a while, Jocelyn stared at the golden statues of Buddha and Kwan Yin on their high teakwood stand. “Your gods,” the girl said and glanced back. “Something like that,” Joan replied softly. The girl had probably heard of Buddha. For a moment, she considered telling her guest about the female deity who had for centuries heard with compassion the cries of the world. But no—let her feel her way, just as she had with her collage. They stood for a while as the candles’ flickering flames made shadows dance. She wondered if Jocelyn could feel in this room the same mingling of suffering and serenity that she, Joan, did. Was she at least feeling safe? The child clutched her collage with both hands. Joan’s mind drifted. What if she’d gotten on the bed with Joy that September Saturday and held her? It wouldn’t have mattered if the girl had shrugged her off. Like now, she could’ve waited to see what the moment brought. But Joan had been so willing to suffer, to make others suffer. Outside, the singers bellowed, giving no indication of stopping anytime soon. Maybe the singing helped Jocelyn decide. She approached the altar and leaned her card against the goddess. When she turned, her cheeks were flushed crimson, mouth open, breath coming fast as if from great exertion. Joan spoke: “It’s almost time for your uncle. I think we should go back into—” Three steps and the child encircled Joan’s waist with her short arms, head pressed against chest, as if she might burrow inside. Her voice, when it came, was one word, muffled but clear. “Mama.” Joan lightly stroked the girl’s shoulders. In this moment, was she confusing Joan with the woman who’d given her life? Didn’t matter. What mattered was the wavering, liquid light and the fruity scent of shampoo filling Joan’s head, letting her imagine Jocelyn’s mom massaging the curls. Joan saw her own tiny self, sitting in the claw-footed tub with a breeze riffling the curtains while her mother hum-sang hymns. While Mom had gently kneaded, patted and pulled, Joanie June-Bug closed her eyes and hoped the hands and water would never stop. As Jocelyn gripped harder, Joan held on tight. Joy Scanlon’s shoulders had been narrow, too; she’d been tiny for her age. Now, with the room so crowded with mothers, daughters, god and goddess, Joan shut her eyes. Outside the drunken carolers roared: Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting light . . . How long they stood locked together, Joan had no clue. When the knock finally came, she’d forgotten it was coming. She let her hands slowly fall. Soon Jocelyn released and stepped away, taking her warmth with her. And Joan sensed that enlightenment, if it ever arrived, might look like a star struggling from dark water toward blue sky. Taking the child’s hand, she led the child back down the dark hallway toward the light. |
Ed Davis has immersed himself in writing since retiring from college teaching. His novel The Psalms of Israel Jones (West Virginia University Press 2014) won the Hackney Award for an unpublished novel in 2010. Many of his stories, essays and poems have appeared in anthologies and journals such as Write Launch, The Plenitudes, Slippery Elm, Hawaii Pacific Review, and Bacopa Literary Review. A West Virginia native, he lives with his wife in the village of Yellow Springs, Ohio. His collection of linked stories, Here Where We Stand: The Shawnee Springs Stories, will be released by Main Street Rag Press in spring of 2026. It can be pre-purchased at https://mainstreetragbookstore.com/product/here-where-we-stand-ed-davis/
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