Miss Buddha by Ulf Wolf Page A

State?”
    “Yes, just next door.”
    “The finger.”
    “Yes. The finger.”
    “I see,” she said again. Thought some more.
Looked out at the nicely manicured lawn and the several well-tended
flower beds, all in bloom. Yellows, reds, purples. Ananda wasn’t
very good with flower names. Colors he knew and appreciated. Then
delivered her verdict:
    “Yes,” she said. “Yes. Fine with me. I’d
enjoy that.” Then, “Do I need to sign anything?”
    “Yes. I’ll mail that to you.”
    “How many other mothers have you spoken
to?”
    “You’re the first.”
    “I’m not very far gone,” she said. “In fact,
I just found out for sure last Wednesday.”
    “I know,” lied Ananda. “The idea is to get
in on the ground floor, so to speak.”
    “Odd expression,” said Melissa. “In this
case.”
    “Yes, not the best,” said Ananda. “But you
know what I mean?”
    “Yes,” she said. “You want to cover the
whole event.”
    “Precisely.”
    “And that would include the birth?”
    “Yes.”
    “Will you be there?”
    “No, I don’t think so.”
    “Well, that wouldn’t be proper, would it?”
she said, almost reminding herself.
    “So I can call you weekly, or more often if
needed?”
    “I don’t see why not.” Then said, “Do you
have a card.”
    Yes, he did have a card, and he handed it to
her. Blue with white lettering.
    “Ananda Wolf,” she read. “Writer.”
    “That’s what I do.”
    “Yes, I gathered.” Then, suddenly the
hostess, “Well, where are my manners? Would you like something to
drink, tea? Coffee?
    “No, thanks. I’m fine,” he said.
    “Sure?”
    “Yes. Sure.”
    She smiled again, then rose and offered her
hand, as if to seal the deal.
    He rose, too, and took it—it was warm, and,
yes, friendly—shook it, and felt very good about things.
     
    Mission accomplished—he had made contact,
and had gotten along well with her—Ananda set out on his long
return trip.
    Melissa waited for the game to finish to
tell Charles (who by now had forgotten about the visit).

:: 16 :: (Pasadena)
     
    “I’m going to be in a book,” said Melissa
once she judged she could wrestle his attention away from the
television long enough to actually have a conversation.
    “What?” said Charles.
    “A book.”
    “What book?”
    “Mr. Wolf,” she said.
    Charles didn’t seem to understand, or
remember.
    “The man who came to see me,” she added.
    “Ah. Ananda Wolf,” he accurately remembered
and then declared, for he did meet the lawyer requirement of a good
and precise memory for names.
    “Yes,” she said.” That’s his name. A little
odd.”
    “A little weird,” said Charles. “I thought
he said Amanda.”
    “Yes, so did I,” said
Melissa. “But it’s Ananda,” stressing it: An -anda.
    “What did he want?” asked Charles, while
also now working the remote control, changing the set to display
the schedule of other college games.
    “He is writing a book about first-time
mothers.”
    Charles stopped fiddling with the remote to
look over at Melissa. All alert now. “How does he know you are
pregnant?”
    “Apparently, he knows Doctor Ross.”
    “What business is it of hers to speak to
writers about her patients?”
    “That I could not tell you.”
    “You should ask her.”
    She had thought of that. “I plan to.”
    When Charles didn’t answer, Melissa said,
“But I think it’s a great idea.”
    “What is?” Charles now back at working the
remote and checking scores on the screen.
    “The book, Charles. That’s what we’re
talking about. Could you please put that thing down for a
second?”
    “Sorry.” He flipped the channel again, then
said to the screen, “Is he paying you anything for it?”
    “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
    Which earned Melissa another husbandy
glance. “You didn’t ask?”
    “No. It didn’t cross my mind.”
    Charles shook his head in that
when-will-you-ever-grow-up way he deployed when frustrated or
confused.
    “Did you sign