Bee Season (29 page)

Aaron’s sleeping bag does little to cushion the floor beneath him. He cherishes the hardness beneath his hip, likes feeling the temple at bone level. Having never shared a room before, Aaron is struck by the profound sense of closeness he feels to those around him: their unguarded faces and resting limbs, the quiet rise and fall of their chests. He times his own breathing to coincide with his roommates’, imagines them as a single body.

Aaron is amused to discover that Chali snores.

He isn’t sure how much time passes contemplating oneness and impending adulthood, too excited to sleep. He considers exploring the temple by night. Ever since Chali confided that he once saw Kṛṣṇa’s arm move at the height of the
arati
chant, Aaron has felt a pressing urge to sneak behind the curtain that shields the deities between services. Alone with the deities, perhaps he can experience such a moment for himself.

Aaron doesn’t realize he is dreaming when he finds himself sitting motionless on the dais, Kṛṣṇa’s arm beckoning to him. As Aaron brushes the shoulder of the devotee asleep beside him, Kṛṣṇa  draws him close. Suddenly Kṛṣṇa’s lips begin to move:
Shema Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu Adonai Echad.
It is his father’s voice, emanating from the mouth of the god.

The first
arati
takes place at 4:30 A.M. Aaron stumbles into the temple. His dream gets tangled in the spokes of his waking brain as he stands before the dais, straining to hear his father’s voice. It is Chali who gently draws him toward the others. Aaron blushes. He had thought he was alone.

“It’s hard to get used to at first,” Chali whispers, “but after a while this schedule will feel natural.”

Aaron nods. Now awake, he realizes the dream was a message. Hearing the
Shema
from Kṛṣṇa’s mouth proves the truth of one of Chali’s earliest assertions. In becoming a devotee of Kṛṣṇa, he is not betraying Judaism; he is growing closer to God.

The next morning is the first Aaron is able to chant
japa
without fear of being overheard. He is so used to the stuffiness of his closet that chanting in the open room feels like removing a mask. When Aaron pictures the boy who hid among his shirts, he doesn’t recognize him. Aaron vows never to hide again. He chants loud enough to hear his voice bounce back at him from the walls, loud enough to feel the sound vibrating in his stomach.

The first disappointment comes at breakfast. Aaron longs for cereal and not
prasadam,
has his first pang of homesickness at the thought of Frosted Flakes with sliced banana. Saul once used a needle and thread to slice the banana inside its skin. When unpeeled, the perfectly cut slices fell into the bowl of a young and astonished Aaron. For a few minutes, Saul let him believe in a special breed of banana grown expressly for cereal bowls. Aaron wants to tell Chali, but talking is discouraged. It distracts from the holiness of the meal.

After that the day with its prayers and duties, classes and discussions sweeps Aaron up inside it. There is not a moment when he doesn’t have somewhere to be, something to do. At evening
arati,
Aaron realizes he hasn’t thought about the outside world since breakfast. It is difficult to accept that his house is half an hour and not half a planet away, that just beyond the temple door people are driving cars, watching television, and going shopping. The mundanity astounds him. He can’t believe how much time is wasted when here, at the
ISKCON
temple, not a moment is lost. The temple’s daily schedule appeals to him on the same base level as frozen TV dinners, each course in its own compartment. Aaron doesn’t notice that temple meals are actually served upon similarly apportioned dishes, unaware of the subconscious plea-sure this gives him. He ends the day more satisfied with himself than he can remember, certain he has spent the day working toward something important. He falls asleep in moments, too tired to dream.

Miriam startles awake to the sound of voices in the kitchen. She is so accustomed to being the first up that her initial thought is burglars. She turns to Saul’s side of the bed to rouse him. Then, remembering she sleeps alone now, she stumbles downstairs. She is still half asleep when she enters the kitchen.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Saul says. He can’t remember Miriam ever coming downstairs in a nightgown, hair unbrushed. It has been weeks since he saw his wife in anything but work clothes and even longer since he saw her so fresh from sleep. He gets a sudden flash of Miriam as a small girl, pictures perfectly what she must have looked like at Elly’s age, curls piled in a wild cumulus cloud about her head, small hands rubbing at sleep-fringed eyes. He isn’t sure whether to kiss the creature before him or to pull her protectively into his arms, realizes that either would mean more contact than he’s had with Miriam since he took to his study. Flush with love and regret, he moves toward her, deciding to begin with an embrace.

Miriam stands stiff in his arms. “Why didn’t you wake me?” she asks, her voice dull, her body unresponsive.

Saul backs away, suddenly furious. He is amazed at the speed of his anger, unsure whether Miriam’s words or physical impassivity flicked the switch.
Because I don’t know when you’re home anymore,
he wants to answer.
Because we don’t share a bed.
If he were alone with her he wouldn’t hesitate to speak his mind. He forces a smile. There’s Eliza to think of.

“Darling, you never sleep in. I assumed you needed the rest. Here” — he points to the table — “Eliza and I made French toast.”

Spurred by the falseness of her father’s voice, Eliza comes to the realization that her parents aren’t sleeping together anymore. Small things she thought she’d forgotten — occasional morning stubble on a normally clean-shaven cheek, the new elongated imprint on the study’s sofa, the recent appearance of dental floss on her father’s desk — come together to form an image that is as irrefutable as it is unexpected. She wishes Aaron were here to confirm this sudden truth, looks accusingly at his empty chair. Her brother has always hated camping. Eliza remembers his complaints about the mosquitoes and the burned food, the pranks that can be played with dirt and a sleeping bag. Elly returns to her French toast which, moments ago, she was gleefully drenching in syrup and realizes she’s no longer hungry.

Miriam isn’t sure why her head and tailbone ache. Finding a bump the size of a small egg just above her neck, she remembers. She pulls away her hand as if scalded.

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Miriam says more sharply than she intended, for a moment unmasking the anger in her husband’s eyes. Startled, she backs into the hallway, only turning when she is certain the back of her head won’t be seen. She runs up the stairs, cupping the back of her head with her hand in case Saul is following behind.

“Dad?” asks Eliza in a small voice once the footsteps have stopped and the house is too quiet. “What just happened?”

“It’ll be okay,” Saul answers, still looking down the hallway, both of them perfectly aware that he hasn’t answered her question.

Only specially trained initiates are permitted to prepare
prasadam,
but Aaron is allowed to help clean the kitchen and watch. The
ISKCON
kitchen is the cleanest room he has ever seen. Suddenly Aaron thinks of his mother. Everything sparkles and gleams. Aaron can see his reflection in every surface.

Aaron is used to the way Saul cooks, a blur of motion with breaks for tastings. The
ISKCON
cooks carry themselves with a solemnity Aaron has only seen in priests and nuns, a silent process of chopping and mixing, careful stirring and sautéing, with no tasting in between. Aaron closes his eyes to better appreciate the smell, a mix of spices that has never graced his father’s pots, a scent full of promise. Chali gently pulls him aside.

“As devotees of Kṛṣṇa, we don’t smell or taste while we’re cooking. Each meal has to be completely pure when it’s presented so it will be worthy of Kṛṣṇa’s presence. Only then can the food become
prasadam
and filled with Kṛṣṇa’s holy spirit.”

“But if they don’t taste it, how do they know it’s any good?” Aaron thinks of his father, the last-minute additions of pepper or oregano, salt or sherry.

“Some people are gifted cooks, others aren’t. Thinking of Kṛṣṇa  is supposed to help, but when I served in the kitchen the
prasadam
was terrible.” Chali laughs. “That’s why I write a newsletter and these people do the cooking. Everyone serves Kṛṣṇa  in their own way.”

“Do you think I could be a cook?” Aaron imagines himself above the steaming pots, likes the idea of resisting the urge to smell or taste.

“You can practice by cooking at home. Before you go back, I’ll give you a recipe book. Some devotees have their own altars in their homes so that they can offer food to Kṛṣṇa  and eat
prasadam
even when they’re away from the temple.”

With the word “home,” Aaron realizes the weekend is almost over. It seems impossible that he’ll soon be getting into his car. He doesn’t see how he can reinhabit a world of clothes and grades and television, where the air doesn’t smell of incense and the wood of the banyan tree.

“I want to live
here,
” Aaron says, his eyes tearing, wishing it was that easy.

When Chali grasps Aaron’s shoulder, Aaron realizes how rarely people in the temple touch each other.

“I’m glad to hear it. When some people come for their first weekend, it’s easy to tell their hearts aren’t ready. It’s a difficult transition that can take time. I tell them not to rush, that they will know when the time is right. But I can tell that you’re different.”

“When can I become a devotee?” Aaron whispers, Chali’s words almost too good to be true. He’s heard about the ceremony, the fire lit on a bed of sand, the special colors and dances.

“After six months in the temple, you’ll be allowed to undergo
Hare Nama Diksu.
Your guru will give you your spiritual name.”

“And that’s what I’ll be called?” Aaron remembers writing thank you notes after his bar mitzvah. It only took signing the first ten for his name to become a random arrangement of letters that had as little to do with him as the pen he was holding. He now realizes it was a sign. “Aaron” was only ever meant to be temporary.

“The moment I received the name Chali, I knew it was my true name. John was so common. I hated having to share my name with so many others. But I’ve never met another Chali, have you?” Chali grins. Aaron shakes his head in agreement. He silently vows to have a new name before his eighteenth birthday.

Miriam has the urge, once upstairs, to lock herself inside the bedroom. She has a few books here, enough to take her through the day. She has never viewed the bedroom as a place to spend time and realizes that the room reflects her disregard. The meager attempts at decoration — a Chagall poster and, above the bed, a nondescript print of Cupid and nymph — are Saul’s. The room could belong to anyone, after eighteen years of habitation still awaits a personality. Miriam remembers talk of new sheets and a new bedspread, a lamp to replace the overhead light. At his most ambitious, Saul had mentioned sculpture, something fluid and slightly erotic to be placed opposite the bed. She had said yes to it all, but neither had the time to go looking. Saul became caught up in his studies and she in her editorials. The wall decorations are Saul’s college leftovers. They were meant to be temporary. Now their presence only amplifies the room’s sterility.

Miriam closes the door but doesn’t lock it. She is embarrassed enough by her dramatics downstairs, doesn’t wish to add a locked door to the performance. Her memory of last night pains her as much as her bump, but neither is enough to deter her from planning her next venture. Her recent failure pales in comparison to the houses still waiting. Though she may be able to delay long enough for her bruises to fade and her bump to diminish, she can already feel the houses’ renewed pull, can sense the highway waiting.

She steps into the shower and blasts the hot, loving the sharpness of the water on her skin. Only in the shower has she ever felt comfortable with her body. The pursuit of cleanliness grants her time to examine her arms, legs, and breasts. As a newlywed she tried to accommodate Saul’s preference for shared showers but Saul’s body, sloughing off its dead skin and hair, was an invasion. Even as he soaped her back she would think about the bacteria carried by hands. She found herself staying in the shower long after he had left, making sure the drain and the soap bar were clear of all signs of him, and then starting over. Saul must have guessed her feelings. When he ceased to offer his company, she could not help but feel relieved.

His knock startles her.

“Miriam? Are you all right?”

She reaches to cover her breasts and begins looking for a towel. The gesture is as silly as it is earnest; she really doesn’t want him opening the bathroom door.

“I’m fine, Saul. I didn’t mean to startle you. I must have bumped into the night table when I was asleep. I’ve got a real goose egg on the back of my head.”

“Do you want me to bring you some ice?” The shower steam wafting up from under the door mocks his offer, but it is the only thing he could think to say to get him inside.

“That’s okay. It’s feeling better already. I’ll be downstairs soon.”

Saul knows he has been dismissed but he remains beside the door, listening to the changing sounds of the water as his wife steps in and out of the spray. He pictures her soaping an arm, a leg, scrubbing her body until her skin pinks. As if in a dream, he remembers the way the water relaxes her hair until it clings in loose, wet waves to her head. He does not even realize he is touching himself until he looks down and finds his hands at his crotch. He stops. He has become a married man masturbating to visions of his wife behind a closed door.

“Miriam?”

Her
“What?”
is too shrill. She had thought he was gone.

“I was hoping we could have dinner tonight. All four of us. To celebrate Aaron coming home.”

It sounds right, like something they should do.

“That sounds nice.”