Free Miss Buddha by Ulf Wolf Page B

said no more for a while,
Ananda didn’t answer, waiting for more.
    So Gotama elaborated. “A book like this
requires research. You would need to follow, and chronicle, several
first-time mothers from the inception of their child to its birth.
Melissa is one of them.”
    Ananda mulled this a little while, nodding
to himself as Ontario disappeared behind him, replaced by
undulating forest. Yes, that would work. As always when Gotama
spoke like this, not only did his words arrive, but with them the
full meaning, the full scenario of what he meant, as if the words
were only underpinnings to the full event, detailed and
complete.
    “That will give me a good reason to stay in
touch with her,” said Ananda.
    “Precisely.”
    “Where are you now, Gotama?”
    “I am still in Tusita.”
    “The sweet light,” said Ananda,
remembering.
    “Yes,” said the Buddha. Then, “Drive
carefully.”
    “I always do,” said Ananda.

:: 15 :: (Pasadena)
     
    Ananda checked the address Gotama Buddha had
given him against the well-polished brass numbers beside the large
oak door, and satisfied that he indeed had the right house, he rang
the equally well-polished brass doorbell.
    He could hear a gong sound deep within the
house. Then silence. Then more silence. He pressed the doorbell
again, and again heard the gong.
    Steps approached. The latch unlocked. The
door swung open to reveal a tall, quite bulky man, like something
very well-packed with dark complexion and black, shiny hair,
slickly combed back.
    “Yes?” He took Ananda in with not friendly
eyes; irritated would be the best description.
    By the size of the man, Ananda had expected
a deeper voice, and one that didn’t seem to complain. He could hear
a television set broadcasting some sports event—most likely a
football game—from within the house, and now sounding as if someone
just scored. The tall man looked at Ananda for an answer, turned to
the inside of the house on hearing the commotion from the game,
then back to Ananda.
    “My name is Ananda Wolf,” he said. “I am a
writer. I am working on a book about first time-mothers, and I
wonder if I could have a word with your wife?”
    Something else just occurred in the football
broadcast, and the man turned again, anxious to get back to the
game. He looked back at Ananda.
    “Amanda?” he asked. Trying to make things
add up.
    “No, Ananda, with an n .”
    “Wait here.”
    The man thought of closing the door, but
didn’t. Then he vanished. Ananda could hear him call out: “Melissa.
Someone here to see you.” Then again, and louder this time,
“Melissa.”
    Ananda heard fragments of a conversation in
among the replay of the recent game commotion, and then she came to
the door. Melissa Marten, Gotama Buddha’s mother-to-be.
    Blond and pleasant, was Ananda’s first
impression. Quite tall—as women go, not thin, but not large either.
Very blue eyes, as blue as Ananda had ever seen. Startlingly so.
And not pregnant that he—or anyone else for that matter—could
tell.
    Those startlingly blue eyes looked him over,
trying to place him among memories, but without success. With a
slight frown.
    “How can I help you?” she said.
    “My name is Ananda Wolf,”
he said again. Then smiled, and added, “That’s Ananda with
an n . I am a
writer.”
    Those very blue eyes were taking this in,
intent on his reason for being there. Expecting more.
    “I am writing a book about first-time
mothers,” he continued. “And part of my research is to interview,
and follow the progress of, so to speak, well, first-time
mothers.”
    Listening to himself stumble over his less
than graceful introduction, Ananda swallowed, then drew breath to
re-phrase that. But he did not get the opportunity to.
    “How do you know that I am pregnant?” she
said. Surprised. And there was an edge to that question.
    Luckily, they had thought of this.
    “You are, aren’t you?”
    “Yes, I am as a matter of
fact. But how do you know that?”
    Something