The Other Hand Clapping Page 4

  4

  It was an afternoon of perfect stillness. The perfume of earth and flowers made the air heavy and even the droning of insects and flap of birds were absorbed into the timeless stretch of the day. Larry sat unmoving. He might have been a tree stump or a rock. Only the deep, regular rising and falling of his belly indicated that he was alive. His breath entered and left his body silently. His brain was quiet. Small animals and even a family of deer passed by, within feet of where he sat, and took no fright.

  He'd awakened that morning at complete peace with himself. He and Eleanor had finished their game the night before, then gone out to look at the stars. They stood for a long time without speaking, his arm around her shoulder, her arm around his waist. And when they went inside and kissed goodnight, he came very close to going into her room with her, taking the evening to its logical conclusion. But he hesitated, and she did not make the suggestion, so they slept apart once more. At breakfast, she was playful and even cuddly and when she left for her class at eleven Larry was feeling that it might be possible after all to have the best of both worlds.

  It was Sunday, the day that Larry did his sitting outdoors on a small meditation platform he'd built a few hundred feet from the house. Many zen teachers had warned against sitting in too pleasant an environment, arguing that beautiful scenery or the vitality of nature could prove a distraction from one-pointed concentration, but he enjoyed the change, discovering on most days that being among the trees even sharpened his focus.

  By his fifth session of the day he'd entered a state of pure awareness, in which his body was not distinct from the consciousness and spirit of the forest itself, and he experienced no difference between inside and outside. The far murmur of the stream, the heat of the sun and the snapping of twigs as animals went on their rounds became one with the beating of his heart, the circulation of his blood and the voluptuous rush of breath in and out of his lungs.

  It was for him the perfect ideal of sitting, the fulfillment of the vision he'd seen when he first visited the East Side zendo, a converted town house where some two hundred people gathered one night a week for meditation. At one end of the long narrow hall sat the master, as firm as a stake driven deep into the ground. At the other end were the attendant monks, in charge of keeping the incense lit, hitting the huge temple gong at the proper moments, and directing traffic during the periods of ritual walking. By then he'd read a dozen books on zen and tried sitting on his own for a few months, and was still at the point where the posture produced cramps in his legs and sudden fits of anxiety in which he seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. But by the third hour of sitting at the zendo all difficulties fell away. The sheer brute force of so many people's gathering together in such fierce concentration flushed out his nervous system.

  He was also intrigued by the unusual quality of intimacy the practice inspired. Sitting for several hours with so many people in stillness and silence made anonymity a form of closeness. The strangers on either side of him remained strangers in the technical sense, and yet when he left the hall he felt surprisingly connected to them. He knew they had gone through exactly the same experience he had, and the idiosyncratic forms of their personalities, attitudes, thoughts and feelings were irrelevant to the fact that they were all sharing a profound view of reality. They were all dedicated to the belief that sitting in zen is the expression of life in its purest form.

  After that night he went once a week for six months and then joined the group formally. At that point he was allowed to go to dawn meditations and on several evenings on which the general public was not allowed. Eleanor had encouraged him then, glad that he'd found some "outside interest" to match her own involvement in theatre. And so he was drawn in, unconsciously at first and then with growing awareness that nothing in the world, not even Eleanor's embrace, quite matched those moments when the huge hall resounded with the deep, throbbing chants of the sangha, and the great gong sounded its reverberating call, and the incense lifted the spirit, while mind and body sank like a stone into wordless understanding.

  It had been a straight path from those early experiences to this moment of sitting alone in the woods. Through it all he'd had to manage the details of daily life, the business and the social scene, taxes and emotional traumas, and above all, Eleanor. His friends had at first kidded him about his involvement in zen, and when he'd shaved his head had smiled indulgently, commenting that if Larry had to go round the religious bend zen was certainly the cleanest of all trips to take. His transformation had been so steady that he hadn't realized how committed he'd become until it became obvious that even his marriage was being called into question.

  Now, deep in his meditation, he felt disconnected from all the identities of his conventional life, and from all the manifestations of the human world, and so it took a few seconds for him to register that the sound invading the woods was that of a car coming toward the house. It entered his mind like a pin working through the cloth of a shirt and sticking into the skin, and when he recognized the familiar pitch of the engine, a thought formed: "Eleanor must be home early."

  The image of her appearing in the emptiness was like a rock thrown into a pond, creating concentric circles of association, and his brain filled with a disconnected jumble of perceptions and memories, trees and wives, buddhas and playmates from childhood, physical sensations and lines from scripture. And just as he was integrating all that, melting it down in the crucible of his posture, the bell on the timer rang, indicating that the present period of sitting was finished. He blinked once, then bent forward touching his forehead to the ground, swayed from side to side, stretched, and stood up.

  He was now supposed to walk for ten minutes, with a slow and measured pace, hands folded on his chest. But when he turned he saw Eleanor standing at the edge of the small clearing where he'd built the meditation platform. She was looking at him diffidently, obviously wanting to talk to him but not wanting to intrude. He was struck by her appearance. She wore a pair of very short white trunks, so brief that some of her pubic hair curled out around the crotch. On top she had on a white halter which was unequal to the task of containing her breasts. The impact of such cultured sensuality on his unprepared eyes rocked his balance. She walked slowly toward him.

  "Hi," she said.

  "This is a surprise."

  "I missed you."

  "Was I supposed to be someplace?"

  "No, silly. I mean I suddenly wanted to be with you. We were taking a break between classes and I missed you. So I took a chance that you wouldn't mind my coming home early."

  They stood facing one another, a foot apart, both a bit awkward, until Larry reached out and put his arms around her. She fell against him and he held her tightly. He was feeling so strong and so clear, and she looked so appealing and vulnerable, that he was swept into the embrace and beyond it, caught up not only by the immediacy of her softness and solidity but by the memory of all the times they had clung to one another over the years. He recalled the night he was suffering from a dose of LSD that was playing havoc with his neurons and was standing at the window of their apartment wondering, with a mixture of sobriety and drunkenness, whether it might not be best after all to put an end to the miserable creature he was convinced he really was. Eleanor had come up to him and simply put her arms around him. His first reaction was to draw back but she held him close. He stiffened and tried to squirm away, and then succumbed all at once, putting his chin on her shoulder and letting himself sag against her. He felt not only the love of a wife then, but the warmth and protection of a mother, the comfort of footsteps approaching the cradle in the night when the infant's nightmares had awakened it. In that instant he experienced Eleanor as succor and omniscience as well as passion and tenderness. He'd swayed and rocked and she had held him, for almost a quarter of an hour, until her breathing had entered his and driven out the sense of worthlessness. Later that night, when they made love, he vowed silently to himself that he would never forget that moment of her
saving him.

  But he had, and now, as they embraced in the forest, he became aware of just how far they had drifted apart, and wondered whether they could ever find that connection again. He was grateful that they could at least still have moments like this, when it seemed that the promise of their union had not died.

  They parted finally, and held hands.

  "Want to walk?" she asked, smiling.

  "I was just going to," he told her. "But we can do it together."

  "Do I have to put my hands on my chest," she asked, teasing, "Or can I just stroll along?"

  "Come on," he replied, slipping one arm around her waist.

  They walked to the swimming hole, a bend in the nearby stream that someone had dammed up to form a pool. Right behind it a huge grey slab of rock jutted up, large and smooth enough for several people to lie down on it. For three hours in the early afternoon the rock got direct sunlight and was a perfect place for tanning.

  They climbed the rock and stood at the top. They made a peculiar pair, she in her provocative shorts and halter and he in his brown robe and shaved head. It was obvious to him that Eleanor wanted to make love, and he was more than half inclined to get into the mood himself. But they were in such delicate balance that he was afraid that sex would inject a dangerous intensity, a skew of channeled electricity.

  They sat down side by side and for a few minutes said nothing, letting the stream do the talking for them. Still filled with the calm of the sitting he'd been doing alone on his pillow, he opened to the excitement of sitting on the rock with Eleanor. There was no doubt that this was pleasant and engaging, but it had the feel of being a pastime, an idleness. And if it were to lead to sex, that too would be only an experience. Whereas zazen was a practice, the core of a worldview. It would be wonderful to have both, but if he had to make a choice at that instant, the decision would probably be in the direction of meditation.

  "How about a swim?" she said.

  "Sun's gone," he replied. "And we don't have any towels."

  "Fuddy-duddy," she said. "I'm going in."

  She slid down the rock on her buttocks and took her clothes off. It was the first time Larry had even seen her naked in well over a month and he stared at her as though she were a stranger. She stuck a toe in the water, shivered dramatically at its coldness, and then plunged in, letting out a loud scream. He watched as she thrashed around, then swam in circles for a few minutes, and finally climbed back onto the bank. Her whole body was covered in goose bumps.

  "You're going to turn into an icicle," he said, standing up and walking down the incline of the rock to her, putting his arms around her and holding her until her trembling stopped. When her body heat returned, she disengaged and reached down to pick up her shorts. She slipped a hand into one of the pockets and pulled out the locket and key.

  "You found it!" he exclaimed.

  "Of course. And I want you to put it on for me like you did the first time. And I promise never to take it off again."

  "Not even for a massage?"

  "Not for anything."

  He took it from her and stepped behind her. He slipped it around her throat and fastened it at her neck, locking it with the key. She turned to face him, took the key from him, and abruptly tossed it into the water.

  "Hey!" he shouted.

  "That's to make sure," she said.

  "That wasn't necessary."

  "No, but it was fun."

  "I don't know what to say."

  "Don't say anything. Kiss me you fool."

  He smiled, bent forward, and kissed her on the mouth, then the cheek, then the ear, and finally nuzzled her throat. But when he pulled back he noted something that made him catch his breath. On the left side of her throat, just below the jaw, there was a pale reddish bruise, squarish in shape, and mottled. Larry didn't indicate by any sound or movement that he'd seen anything, but the perception startled him. The mark was faint, but unmistakable. It was what used to be called a hickey, or love bite, back in the days when teenagers still restricted themselves to necking.

  "Don't go off the deep end," he said to himself. "It could just be a rash or an infected insect bite." But even as he consoled himself, he couldn't shake the feeling of certainty that a man had put it there, perhaps even that afternoon. And if that were the case, then Eleanor's returning early and being sexy and chummy would perfectly fit the pattern of an unfaithful wife suddenly overcome with guilt and wanting to keep her marital flank covered.

  "You O.K.?" she asked.

  "Huh? Oh, I'm fine," he replied.

  "You worry me sometimes. Like last night. You suddenly stared into space and your face got drawn and white."

  "It's just my mayko acting up," he said airily.

  "Mak—what?"

  "It's a technical term for hallucinations. Comes from all that intense concentration."

  "Like what kind of hallucinations?" she asked, frowning.

  He stepped back. "Oh, I sometimes see naked women in the woods," he said, his tone light. But Eleanor's response was serious. "I'm real," she said angrily. "Maybe you're confused about that but ..."

  "But what?" he asked, sure she was about to finish with, "There are other men who aren't."

  "Nothing," she said. Then reaching down for her shorts and halter and getting dressed she added, "Now your hallucination has clothes on."

  "I'm sorry," he said, "I was just making a joke. I didn't mean to make you angry."

  "I'm not angry. Just sad. I thought we might have fun this afternoon."

  "You mean sex?"

  "Is that a no-no for you zen boys?"

  "Well you're the one who suggested we lay off for the summer."

  "It was just an idea, not an iron-clad contract."

  "I'm sorry," he repeated.

  "Don't you have any desire for me at all?"

  "I did, a little, a few minutes ago. But I thought it might be better if we stuck to our plan."

  "I don't know much about zen," she said, "But I thought it was supposed to free you up, make you more spontaneous. Instead it's making you more rigid."

  "That's just this phase of it. It's something I have to get through."

  "And how long does this phase last?"

  "I don't know."

  "Longer than a summer?"

  "Probably."

  "I see."

  He felt her withdrawing inside herself, the open and playful mood turning sour, and a chill got into his muscles that was colder than the water of the mountain stream. He wanted to reach out to her for comfort, but his yearning was matched by resentment. He felt it unfair that to the pressure of his practice he must also deal with pressure from Eleanor.

  "Do we have to get into this now?" he said.

  "No, of course not. I guess I'm a little randy and it's making me irritable. I didn't mean to lay anything on you."

  He smiled. "Friends?" he said.

  "Always," she replied, "No matter what else happens."

  "Ready to go back?"

  "Sure."

  As they walked toward the house, though, he couldn't resist making one probe to find out just how far in right field he might be. "Have you been scratching that mosquito bite?" he asked.

  "Which bite?"

  "The one on your throat. There." He pointed to the discoloration under her jaw.

  She put her hand on the spot. "There's nothing there," she said.

  "It looks like a bruise."

  He expected her to reply casually and was stunned when he saw a look of terror come into her eyes. She stared at him for several seconds and her face fell apart, like a thief's who is surprised at a safe by the sudden glare of a policeman's flashlight. Then, with an effort that he recognized as drawing on all her training and resources as an actress, she quenched the expression in her eyes and took control of her facial mask. What was most uncanny about the entire performance, however, was his startling certainty that not only her recovery, but her initial reaction was all staged.

  "Oh, I was doing a
scene this morning where my partner was supposed to be strangling me. I guess he pressed harder than I thought."

  He continued looking at her. "What's the matter," she asked, "Don't you believe me?"

  "Of course," he said. "I know how you thespians get carried away."

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. "You're a fine one to talk, with your ... hallucinations."

  As they entered the house Eleanor was relaxed and cheerful once more, but Larry felt jammed up inside himself. He realized that while from the perspective of his zen work he was progressing into the thicket of illusion and was glad about that, from the viewpoint of ordinary daily life, which was supposed to be the essence of zen, he was turning into a suspicious husband, and one who didn't know whether his suspicions were grounded in actuality or the products of his seemingly runaway imagination.

  5

  The next morning Larry and Eleanor were courteous to one another over breakfast, but when Larry began his sitting he knew it was going to be a bad day for meditation. Theoretically, when the mind was most in upheaval, one could do the best work, but the buzzing in Larry's brain was too much for him to overcome and he found himself drifting in thoughts about Eleanor's possible affair and being skewered by recurrent stabs of jealousy. He simply could not maintain his calm and even began fidgeting on the pillow. He struggled with it until lunchtime and then decided to make his run into town early. He'd skipped two days and he needed to pick up a few things anyway.

  He put on slacks and a t-shirt and rolled out the motorcycle he used as their second car. It was a hot day and by the time he had kicked the big Yamaha into life there were perspiration stains at the small of his back. The engine started easily, and its roar cracked the silence of the woods. He threw the throbbing metal beast into gear and took off down the back roads until he came to the Glasco Turnpike, a two-lane winding road that had originally been used to haul material to and from the glass factory that was a major industry in the area during the previous century.