Bodhisattva of Orchard Court1st Place in the Fiction Writing Contest
|
Issue 17
|
|
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. |
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.
|