From Comfortable Distances (50 page)

“I’d like to see the monk
kiss you like that,” he said already beyond her, en route to his car. He shook
his head and laughed wildly, before he opened the car door, slid into the
driver’s seat, and sped away.

Tess hadn’t been sure she
was going to the monastery in New Jersey until she arrived at the compound and
pulled into the graveled car path, inching her way to the church parking lot.
She had driven more or less in a trance, thinking and not thinking at the same
time, following the curves of the road, the drivers in front of her. The car
still idling, she searched her brain for what came next. 7:45 am. Did she turn
around and go back to Brooklyn? She could still make it in to the office by
9:00 am. Slowly, she turned the ignition off, took the keys out, and grabbed
her ivory pashmina from the seat beside her, wrapping it around her neck.
Morning services were at 6:30 am. She made her way out of her car and moved
toward the chapel, the brisk air hastening her steps—November air always
chilled her in a teeth chattering way, whereas by December her body had grown
accustomed to the cold and she braved it better. When she pulled the heavy
wooden door open, she let out a sigh of relief: there was no one there, just
the crackle of lingering candles. Making her way inside, the sharp scent of
incense overcame her—to her it smelled of rubbing alcohol and licorice. She
covered her nose until she acclimated to the intensity of the aroma. It seemed
to seep into her veins, her very core, so that she felt as if she were immersed
in it. She wondered how the smell affected Neal—if it was perhaps soothing to
him or if it unnerved him as well.

Her footsteps resounded
on the marbled floor. She hadn’t realized how high the ceiling was—over
12-feet, she estimated. She moved around the perimeter of the room examining
the stained glass windows: on each one there was a dramatic portrait of one of
the Apostles. So lifelike, so ordinary they all appeared with their taut,
defined frames, chiseled faces, and their expressions of pain and sorrow so
that Tess cringed, almost feeling their pain in her body. The hues of the
stained glass were earthy, yet somber—deep reds, mahogany, navy, emerald
greens. They made Tess feel heavy. She moved to the pews and began to weave
through them, row by row. She didn’t know what she was looking for, hoping for.
Perhaps she just needed to move. She made her way to the pews the monks sat in.
She wondered what it felt like day after day to sit in those pews. The thick,
dark mahogany wood of their frames was slick, cool to the touch. There was
seriousness to the pews, a stand-at- attention look and feel. Surely God wasn’t
such a disciplinarian that this type of formality was required, or was he? Or
perhaps it was the brothers who needed to create this setting to create order.
What lured these men here when there were so many other choices in the world,
innumerable choices? Did the brothers desire this life against all others? Did
they feel joyful that they had become monks? Did any of them wish for a
different life? Did they regret being monks? She knew that she was being
ridiculous—searching for answers that she wouldn’t find and more than that,
searching for things that in the larger sense of the world, didn’t matter, that
couldn’t affect Tess one way or the other—the monks, like her, were just living
their lives. This much she was sure of: no one, monk or otherwise, was
wondering about Tess’s life and why she did what she did.

“Oh!” she said. “I, I—”

The youngest monk was a
few feet from her, reaching for his bible, which rested on the pew an arm’s
reach from Tess.

“Please. Sit. You don’t
have to get up,” he said. His voice was low.

She hadn’t heard him come
in any more than she had realized that she had sat down in the pew.

“I’m sorry,” she said,
standing up and hurrying out of the row, in the opposite direction so that she
didn’t have to pass him. “I was just going.” She had made her way from the
monks’ pews so that she stood before the table that held the candles and the
Bible and a looming metal cross. The young monk moved to the table, standing
across from her. His robe looked too big for him, but those eyes, she remembered
those deep-set chestnut eyes from the first time she had visited the monastery.
They seemed to take in everything in one glance.

“Really, you don’t have
to go,” he said. He set his Bible down and from a drawer below the table, he
took out fresh candles, incense cones, a rag, and a cloth. He began to clean
out the incense holder with the weathered rag.

“You’re free to stay—the
chapel is open to all, always.” He worked as he spoke, focusing on his task at
hand. His voice was like a song to her. Low but full of melody.

“Your accent,” Tess said.
“Where are you from?”

“Canada. Ontario.”

 “I have a friend from
Canada,” she said.

He began to polish the
cross with the cloth. He moved vertically across it and then made his way
horizontally.

“It’s nice there,” he
said.

“But you came here. Why
didn’t you go to a monastery in Canada?”

He smiled.

“I’m sorry,” Tess said. “My
manners are terrible. You don’t have to answer me.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “My
family relocated here, to New Jersey, a few years back. One day, perhaps, I’ll
go to a monastery in Canada.”

“Have you been a monk for
long?” she said.

“I’ve been with the
brothers for four years now—I’m still in my temporary profession phase. It’s a
long process to brotherhood.”

“But a worthwhile one,”
Tess said. It was a question as much as a statement.

“Yes,” he said. “A
necessary one.”

She nodded. “Necessary
because it was your calling?” Tess asked.

He stifled a laugh in the
cup of his hand. There was a boyishness to him that in other contexts Tess
would have considered charming. Here, in the church, it made Tess feel sad. He
seemed so young to have renounced so much.

“I’m sorry. Really. I’ll
be going,” she said.

“Please,” he said,
stopping his work on the cross to focus on her. “Stay.”

His hair was closely
cropped and his skin was smooth and pale. He had a masculinity to his person, a
solidness. For a moment, she was able to envision him as a husband to some
young, beautiful woman. A father.

“A man becomes a monk for
many reasons,” he said, his eyes intent on hers.

She nodded again. She
wanted to ask him if he ever thought about changing his mind, about leaving,
starting a new life.

 He smiled and worked on
replacing the incense in the canister.

“You’re not a Catholic,”
he said.

“No,” she said.

 “You don’t seem
comfortable in here.”

“It’s just that—it’s new
to me. I was raised a Buddhist, but I’m not that either. I’m not sure what I
am. I believe in God,” Tess said.  Then, “Did you always want to be a monk?”

“I wanted to be many
things,” the boy said.

“I wanted to be many
things, too,” Tess said. “I used to think that once you made a choice, it was
forever, but now I feel differently.”

“Why’s that?” he said.

“I’ve realized that I can
change my mind and take a different route. I didn’t discover that until this
year. It’s all very empowering,” she said.

“I believe that my path
is to be a monk,” he said.

“I know a monk,” she
said.

“Is he your friend from
Canada?”

Tess nodded. “He’s
actually here now. Not here, but in New York. Brooklyn. Where I’m from. He’s a
very nice person,” Tess said.

She didn’t know where she
was going with this, but felt a thread between them. Her desire to speak was
mingled with what she believed was his need to know. But maybe he was just
being a man of God? Tess wasn’t sure. She studied the marble floor, a medley of
tan and white and wondered how many people had moved across this floor over the
years.

“He’s been a monk for 23
years,” she said, imagining how many hours in 23 years Neal had been in the
church in Canada. “So much time.”

“Time is relative,” the
young monk said, gently.

“Do you remember me from
a few months back?” Tess said.  “I was here one morning and I saw you. We
locked eyes and then I left.”

“There was something in
your eyes that made me feel unsettled,” the young monk said.

“I was sorry that you
were here, that this was your life,” Tess said. She caught her breath; she knew
she should stop talking, but couldn’t. “I felt sorry that one day you may not
want this life anymore and how complicated it may be to undo your vows.”

The monk moved closer to
her now, so that he stood almost before her. He was tall, over six feet, she
imagined, so that he looked down upon her. If she reached out her hand, it
would touch his chest. The intensity of his eyes on hers made her feel
light-headed. She could feel the breath seeping from her half-opened mouth, the
back of her throat becoming dry.

“Neither you nor I have
foresight into the future. All I can do is live each day as it arrives,” he
said.

“Have you ever regretted
your decision?” Tess said.

“I’m human,” the monk
said. “I still think and feel and imagine at times.”

His eyes were down cast
now, his chin sagging toward his chest as if he were caught in a lie. Before
she knew what she was doing, Tess reached for his hand and clasped it in her
own. She felt him resist for a moment before his hand grew limp.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I
have no right to question you.”

The monk didn’t pull his
hand back nor did he look up at Tess. He took a deep breath and Tess heard the
quiver in it as he exhaled.

“Your friend of 23 years,”
he said.  “Is he in town for a family emergency?”

Tess felt her heart
racing inside her chest. The candles on the table flickered and with a final
cackle, one of them was out, smoke seeping away from it in a thin, shadowy
line.

Tess released his hand,
their eyes searching one another now with an eagerness, as if they had
misplaced something between them. He seemed so young, younger than Tess had
imagined and she had an urge to take his face in her hands, to pull him to her
breast, to nurture him, protect him.

“Has he left the
monastery?” the boy said, a sense of quiet urgency in his voice, and Tess
nodded.

“He’s discerning his
vows,” she said.

The boy nodded.

“Do you think he’ll go
back?” he said.

“I don’t know,” Tess
said, although at that instant her heart was telling her that he would. That
entangled in his desire to live a secular life were roots deeper than she could
imagine, entwined in ways that were incomprehensible to her. Heaviness came
over her heart so that breathing was laborious and she held her hand to her
chest.

“Are you in love with
him?” the boy said.

“I want him to do what’s
right for him.”

“Do you love him?” the
boy said. There was a pleading in his eyes.

“Yes,” she said.

“Does he love you?”

“I don’t know,” Tess
said.

The boy nodded. “The Lord
will lead him in the right direction. Even if he loses the Lord, the Lord won’t
lose him.”

There was a preachy-ness
to his words, a feeling that he had checked out of the intimacy of their
conversation and was on auto-polite, and suddenly Tess felt cold. She wrapped
her pashmina tighter around her neck.

The young monk replaced
the candles now, lighting them, and Tess bowed her head to him. She moved
towards the wooden doors, her footsteps resounding on the marble floor. When
she reached the exit, she looked back at the boy one last time. He looked up at
her and they held a glance a few moments.

“Life is a mystery,” he
said, his voice echoing through the chapel, like an organ’s chords. “There is
no formula for living.”

Tess nodded. There was no
formula for living. Life was in fact, a mystery. The young monk nodded to her
before she pushed open the heavy door, making her way into the sunlight.

Tess finished whipping
the sweet potatoes, folded them into the evaporated milk, and whipped the
mixture some more before she poured it all into a cinnamon and nutmeg sprinkled
pie tin. She’d bake that for 40 minutes and then later, when her guests
arrived, she would add the freshly diced pineapple on top and sprinkle some
more cinnamon. She inhaled the sweet nutty flavors of the sweet potatoes and
cinnamon and smiled. Mmm. Tess loved Thanksgiving. Loved the smells of holiday
goodies baking and the variety of flavors and colors on the table—brown gravies
and pumpkin pudding and cranberry sauce and vegetable bread-crust stuffing, her
signature dish, along with her baked tofu stew and sides of steamed broccoli
and spinach. It was a shame she didn’t get to cook more—she seemed to forget
how much she enjoyed cooking until each year she put together a feast. In the
past, she had done so for each of her husband’s and their families. Some years
Prakash and a friend or two of his had joined, although more often over the
years she and Prakash had met up at her mother’s home a weekend or two prior to
Thanksgiving for their own private pre-holiday family event, during which time
she and her mother had shared in the cooking responsibilities. Her mother used
to make a spicy and sweet pumpkin porridge that Tess craved for months after
the holiday. Tess never was able to duplicate it just right when she made it
herself. She remembered her mother humming as they worked together in the
kitchen steaming and baking—her mother always seemed full of melody. 

Each year on Thanksgiving
Day, beginning when Tess was a little girl, her mother had led her followers on
pilgrimages to local towns to work in soup kitchens, feeding the less
fortunate. Through all of her resisting her mother, Tess had been fond of those
Thanksgiving missionary trips and as an adult, when she was busy preparing her
own Thanksgiving meals on Wednesday night and Thursday morning, Tess would
think of her mother and neighbors on the yellow school buses they rented, a
kirtan in motion as they made their way to various shifts at soup kitchens in
upstate New York.

She inhaled the sweet
potatoes and closed her eyes. It was hard at times for her to see her mother –
her eyes, her face. It was easy enough to call upon memories, but there were
moments, like now, when a desperation came over her, a panic that her mother
was fading from her grasp, that her memories were dissolving into countless other
things. With her eyes closed, she summoned herself to the morning she rested on
the grass with her mom; she could feel the skin of her mother’s face, hear her
mother’s gentle voice, see the wind rustle her mother’s hair. All of the
details were so vivid, so clear to her if she just focused; “Mother,” she said.
“I miss you.” The tears swelled up in her eyes. She could see the way her
mother looked at her – as if Tess was and always would be her little girl. How
simple it was for the two of them to co-exist, to be mother and daughter. It
was hard to imagine that over six months had passed. If her mother felt this
far away in six months, she feared how it would feel in a year, in two years.

The phone was ringing.
Tess opened her eyes and wiped her hands on the dishrag on the counter and
picked up on the third ring.

She cleared her throat. “Good
morning, Lyla,” she said.  It reminded her that her answering machine had gone
off twice earlier in the morning while she showered; she would need to check
the messages, but assumed they were from Lyla and Michael.

“You and Neal may come
over any time you’d like. No, nothing is wrong. I’m fine. Yes, 1:00 pm is
perfect. I’ll be here all day.”

When she had told Lyla
that she didn’t eat turkey, never had, Lyla had told her there was no such
thing as Thanksgiving without turkey. Tess had learned: when it came to topics
that were irrelevant to her heart or sanity, it wasn’t worth it to argue with
Lyla. Her mom would have been proud of Tess. “Never deny people of the simple things
that keep them happy,” she had told Tess more than once. If Lyla insisted on
turkey for Thanksgiving, then Tess was not going to deprive her. Lyla would
bring the turkey with her, and Michael would supply his famous spinach pie,
made this year with low-fat ricotta, and a low-fat graham cracker crust. He had
told Tess that he was on a new health-conscious mission to watch his weight and
his cholesterol. “Lower or watch?” Tess had asked him and he had given her his
very cute smirk in response and told her that not everyone could be naturally
thin and healthy like her.

Tess drained the red
beans and the black beans which had soaked through the night. They were ready
to be cooked. Next she took the tofu chunks she had been baking out of the
oven. She placed them into her casserole dish and added in the steamed carrots,
peas and corn with a touch of vegetable broth. Later, she would add in the
cooked beans and bake her stew.

She opened up the window
to let some fresh air in—the oven made the kitchen warm and the warmth made her
feel sleepy. The air that rushed in was damp and dewy so that she shivered. 
Perhaps later, after the guests had left, after the cleanup, she would take a
walk. Maybe Neal would join her. It had been some time since they walked
together. It would be the first time that she was to be in the presence of Neal
and his mother and the first time Michael would officially meet them. She was
past being nervous, past caring. If they clicked great, and if not, what could
she do? The phone rang again. Michael.

“How can I help you?” she
said. “Oh, Michael, please. Lyla is fine and Neal is a very sweet man. Don’t
give me that you can’t believe you’re dining with the freaks. Please behave
yourself today. Can you promise me that? You’ll behave? What time can I expect
you? 3:00 pm is perfect.”

She tried to remember the
two Thanksgivings with Michael when they were a couple—how could it be that she
couldn’t remember a few years back? Oh, right. Zihuatanejo, Mexico. That was
year one. And then the second year they had gone to Isla Mujeras, Mexico, only
there she had contracted a stomach virus on her first day and Michael caught
the bug on their second day so that most of that vacation consisted of them
tossing and turning in separate beds. She remembered walking along the beach
with him in Zihuatanejo, holding hands and looking out at the ocean. She had
been happy with him at that time, content, or maybe it was just the scenery,
the beautiful white sand beach and aqua water—she remembered it all being
fairytale like, miles of beach and the cliffs up above, like giant sculpted
look-out towers. That was when they were first getting used to being a married
couple versus friends and colleagues who slept together.

He had still been
Michael, only she had felt excited to be with him back then, as if maybe he was
the one she would work with and enjoy in her down time and grow old with. That
was before his neediness and attachment to her had grown tedious. They had gone
out to that quaint restaurant on the mountaintop on Thanksgiving night, their
close-to-the-floor table scattered with tea candles and a vase of vibrant
tropical flowers. Tess remembered that after that trip she had wanted to
redecorate her home with chunky wood furniture that sat low to the floor—a mix
of Aztec influence and her mother’s Tibetan Buddhist influence. But like other
things, she had never gotten to it, because life as always had intruded with
its pressing responsibilities, she supposed. That was how it all seemed to go
along—ideas, passion, romance. Urgent and exciting one moment until other
things came along and cancelled out the urgency, dulled the excitement. She
spoke in her heart to God, and thanked him for her life, for the joy he had brought
her, for the love he had allowed her to experience.

This time Tess picked up
on the third ring.

“Dale! No, no you didn’t
wake me. I was reminiscing and praying in no particular order,” Tess said. “Yes,
I’m cooking for hours already. His mother is making the turkey and Michael is
making a dish. Yes, she knows I don’t eat turkey, but it’s fine. If she wants
turkey, she can have it. I miss you, too. Oh, good! I’m glad that you’re
spending the holiday with Kyle. Dinner with your family—that sounds safe. Dessert
with his, perfect. Yes, I think it’s great. No expectations. Dale, whatever you
choose to do is the right thing. One day this will all seem silly. Yes, I
promise. I’m looking forward to yoga and brunch on Sunday, too. Yes, yes, I’ll
check in with Sara and Kim. Have fun today. Big kiss.  You enjoy too. Bye.”

Tess wondered if women
who didn’t work all week spent their days cooking and talking on the phone. She
checked on the beans—water wasn’t boiling yet. She was sure she’d enjoy it for
the first week or two, but the thought of being confined to the kitchen and
chatting day in and day out made her feel exhausted. She tried to remember how
it had been for her when she gave birth to Prakash. She was sure she’d taken
off some time, but then remembered that after he was a month old she was
already back at work. Her mother had come down from Woodstock and stayed with
her and Marc for a few months to help with the baby. Her mother hadn’t
questioned her choices, hadn’t thought Tess was a bad mother because she wanted
to be at work. It was one of the few times that her mother stayed in Tess’s
home for an extended period. Tess tried to remember what it was like with her
mother as a guest, but she couldn’t.  Whenever her mother had visited in Tess’s
twenties, it had never been for more than a few days and mainly to see her
grandchild. By the time Prakash was in grade school, her mother’s visits to
Brooklyn had stopped so that Tess instead drove up to Woodstock every other
month or so for a long weekend—how Prakash had loved those weekends in the old
house.

Her eyes were stuck on
the calendar inside the cupboard door she had opened in search of spices for
her stew. New Year’s was a little more than a month away. She intended to meet
Prakash up in Woodstock, as they had planned. She would drive up on the 26
^th
of December, her birthday, weather permitting. That would give her a few days
to prepare the house before the New Year. Prakash had mentioned flying in on
the eve of the 30
^th
. For the New Year she would honor her mother and
fill the house with fresh cooking and light the fire places and candles, and
perhaps she and Prakash would practice yoga and meditate and bring in the New
Year with peace and lightness and love. If some of the neighbors wanted to come
over and be with them, she would welcome that, too. The thought of it all made
her feel warm inside. And if she chose to stay on up in Woodstock for months,
even years, so be it. Michael would be able to handle it all. As for Neal, she
hadn’t gotten that far yet. Surely he would be invited. It was too far away to
worry about. First, she had to get through today.

Tess nestled herself into
the corner of the kitchen floor across from the table, where she had an
adjacent view of the stovetop where the beans cooked. She dialed Prakash’s
number and let her back sink into the crevice of the wall as the line rang.

 “I remember when you
were just a little boy and we made turkey cutouts by tracing your hand,” Tess
said.

“Good morning, Mom,”
Prakash said. 

“I wish you were here
with us,” Tess said.

“We’ve been through
this—you know how crazy the airports are on Thanksgiving. Flying into New York
this time of year—”

“I know, darling,” she
said. “I understand. It’s okay for me to miss you, though, isn’t it?”

“You’re becoming more and
more warm and fuzzy the older you get,” Prakash said.

“I’m sure that Michael
would firmly disagree with that statement,” Tess said.

“Are you done cooking?”
Prakash said.

“Almost,” she said. “I
made your favorite sweet potato pie. I’m still not able to visualize my guests
in one room, but I’m sure it will all be okay,” Tess said.

“If you’re asking me if I
think Michael will behave, the answer is yes. Remember he can be quite
charming,” Prakash said.

“Lyla Clay is not quite
the to-be-charmed type,” Tess said.

“But don’t you like her
now? Last I heard, the two of you were competing for the best walker in Mill
Basin title.”

“Very funny,” Tess said.

“It’s our first
Thanksgiving without Grandma,” Prakash said.

She pressed her free hand
palm down on the cool kitchen tiled floor as if she could lift off from it.

“Yes,” Tess said. Her
palm had left a faint print on the white kitchen floor. She was an orphan. It
was an unsettling feeling. It made her feel as if she was floating, until she
heard Prakash’s breath on the other end of the phone, which grounded her.

“I’m looking forward to
meeting up in Woodstock next month,” Prakash said.

“Me too.”

Prakash yawned and Tess
heard what sounded to be his sitting up.

“We’re you sleeping?” she
said. “Did I wake you?”

Prakash laughed. “I was
planning to wake up at 6:00 am on my day off Mom, no worries.”

“Go back to sleep. I’m
sorry, dear. I wasn’t thinking for a moment. Call me later if you want,” she
said. “Wait, Prakash, do you have plans today?

“I was invited over to a
girl friend’s house.”

“A girl friend, as in
someone you date?” Tess said.