Miss Buddha by Ulf Wolf

else of note happened in the game
her husband had now returned to, for he loudly commanded someone to
“Get with it, for Christ’s sake” and yelled at what must have been
the officials. Quite loudly, as if they could hear. Melissa
hesitated for a moment, then stepped out on the front porch,
pulling the door shut behind her, dampening the noise.
    Ananda said, “Your obstetrician.”
    “You know Doctor Ross?” Another surprise,
but with less of an edge.
    “In a manner of speaking, yes.”
    “Ah. That explains it.”
    “Yes,” agreed Ananda.
    The silence that ensued filled with chirping
birds and a lawnmower not far away. A large Toyota van with many
children inside rolled by, as if looking for somewhere to deposit
its cargo. Melissa pointed to a pair of wicker chairs to their
right, a small—very clean—glass table between them. “Have a seat
Mister, Wolf, was it?”
    “Yes, Wolf,” said Ananda. “Ananda Wolf.”
    “With an n ,” she said, and smiled
for the first time. “What sort of name is that?”
    They both sat down. His wicker groaned a
little.
    “It is an Indian name. Ananda was the first
cousin of the Buddha.”
    “You are from India ? I would not have
guessed.”
    “No, no. I was born in Sweden.”
    “And named Ananda?” Curious.
    “No, I was named Ulf. Which, by the way,
means Wolf in archaic Swedish.”
    “Wolf Wolf,” suggested Melissa.
    “Precisely. I came across the name Ananda
studying Buddhism, and I liked it so much I eventually adopted
it.”
    “Ananda Wolf,” she said.
    “Yes.”
    “People mistake that for Amanda, I bet.”
    “As a rule.”
    She smiled again. Then asked, “So, what kind
of book are you writing? Is it scholarly, or popular, or what? A
suspense novel?”
    “I guess it’s more scholarly than anything
else. We’re doing a study of first-time pregnancies, first-time
mothers, which we’ll then compile into a book.”
    “We?”
    “Me and my publisher. It was really his
idea. He feels it will be a helpful book for young mothers.”
    “Has it got a title?”
    “Not as yet, I’m afraid.”
    “I see.”
    “Probably ‘Young Mothers’ or ‘First Time
Mothers.’ Something along those lines.”
    “Neophyte Motherhood,” suggested
Melissa.
    “Sorry?”
    “Neophyte Motherhood.”
    “Ah. Yes, I see. That’s not bad.”
    “I take it there is interest in that.”
    “According to my publisher, yes. Or at least
according to his guess, or hopes.”
    “Well, it certainly is of
interest to me ,”
said Melissa, with a glance down at her belly—though it still
concealed its secret well.
    “I can imagine.” Then Ananda asked, “How far
along are you?”
    “How many mothers will be part of this
book?” she said. “And will they be named?”
    “Oh, four or five. And yes, if that’s okay,
we’d like to name you. Like a documentary on paper.”
    She thought about that. Then said, “I’m not
so sure Charles would go along.”
    “Your husband.”
    “My football crazy husband.”
    “He wouldn’t have to,” said Ananda.
    Surprised again. “What do you mean?”
    “Oh, I mean, of course, he should agree,
yes, of course, that would be best. What I meant is that, legally,
he doesn’t have to.”
    She took that in as well. Mulled it. “I see.
So he doesn’t have to agree?”
    “Not legally.”
    “He’s a lawyer, you know.”
    “I didn’t know that.”
    “He is, yes.” She nodded her emphasis. “He’s
a second year associate. His father is a managing partner in his
firm. Has been for years.”
    Ananda wasn’t sure what to answer, so he
said nothing.
    Melissa said, “How would this work? Would
you visit regularly, or what?”
    “Now and then, yes, I would visit,” said
Ananda. “But the day-to-day, or week-to-week more likely, we can do
over the phone.”
    “I see.”
    “I don’t live in California,” Ananda
added.
    “Where do you live?”
    “I live in Idaho.”
    “Boise?”
    “No, further north.”
    “Up by Washington