Craving (17 page)

“Do you do it on purpose? Do you have to work at it, ignoring
it
, I mean?”

He looked down over the heads of the people below, remarkably, without confusion. “Never have I heard chastity discussed in such unproductive words.”

“Ha ha! Well, help me out here!” I laughed. “I’m a bumbling housewife. Supplement my vocabulary.”

He turned and leaned back, his elbows on the rail, his eyes staring up at the skylight. He looked like a child, innocent and mischievous all at once. “At the risk of sounding repetitive, desire is the cause of suffering, and suffering causes one to lose clarity.”

“That’s very important to you, clarity?”

He nodded slowly and found me again. “Right perception breeds right action.”

“So you
are
a Buddhist?”

He seemed to be smirking, but it could have been the light. “Definitions exclude information and that can lead to ignorance.”

I propped my head on my hand. “
Cryyyyyyptic
,” I protested.

“I try to keep my mind open to how the world truly functions and find value in all things that exist.”

“So, reincarnation or do you believe in heaven?” I asked without thinking, and before I knew what had happened, I heard her voice again on that night, asking me if I remembered what Dad had always said. I had to swallow before another breath could pass my lips.

He thought over my words for a while, and with a knowing glance, made me feel better. “To believe in an afterlife, you have to believe death is an end that precedes a beginning. To believe in reincarnation, you must accept the variety of the universe is finite and must recycle. I am not sure I believe in either, nor do I think that my beliefs would ever make a difference in how it actually takes place.”

“Then you don’t think it ends, but you don’t think it continues?”

He touched my face, turned it to his and stared directly into my eyes with sharp intent. “Can you conceive of a road that leads nowhere?”

I blinked. Of course I could.

“Who built it?” he whispered, but even over the noise, I could hear him clearly.

“Wha . . .?”

“How far does it go?”

“I . . .”

“Does it ever get there?”

I shook my head in a moment of dumbfounded perplexity.

“Then why can you imagine it?”

My vision blurred as I stared into space, trying to see the road that went nowhere, that seemed to exist, but could not. She had walked away from me. My parents had let go of my hands. They were all swallowed up by fog, wandering too far for me to follow, but we were never walking to begin with, and they would never be able to leave.

“Belief is irrelevant.”

His fingers slid from my face.

For a moment, it felt like she was just within my reach again, like I could pick up the phone and call her. It hurt, but in a way, it felt better. My shallow breathing slowed. I sorted foreground from background and looked into his eyes.

“I’m sort of glad you don’t date. The Zen thing is a definite mood-killer.”

He gestured at the shop. Reminded of our task, I let it swallow me up and belch with the dance beats of pop music. I went straight for the slacks and managed to find a black, long-sleeved top that looked as if it had been inspired by the Israeli Musad, but tailored to fit Tyra Banks. I watched him from the line, leaning against the banister, soaking up the sun like a happy plant, ogled conspicuously by every herbivore that happened to be stampeding by.

Some girls had taken up residence on nearby stone benches, and as I walked back out to meet Arthur, I noted with amusement that it was the same group that had passed us on the escalator. While they subtly tried to watch him, I tapped him on the shoulder and held up my ensemble.

“It’s very
ninja
,” he endorsed

I dropped my arms and shook my head. “You know ninja, but not the Great Karnak?”

He shrugged. “So now do we look for non-lethal shoes or try to find a utility belt that holds lipstick?”

“Shoes,” I confirmed. I pointed at the girls with a glance. “You have a fan club.”

Without looking, he forgave them with a smile.

“Should I tell them it won’t do any good to lust after you?” I was hinting, trying to get him to disagree with me, say something that would leave room for anything to grow between us. “I could tell them that bit about suffering.”

“Why embarrass them for finding a few moments of contentment?”

For an instant, I thought he was serious and the misunderstanding only made it easier to laugh. “You almost sounded arrogant.”

“I apologize,” he said playfully. “Don’t lose confidence in me. I try to be better every day.”

Shaking with silent mirth, I planted my elbow beside his arm and inclined close. “They just want to wait and see if you’ll kiss me. It’s a girl thing. They don’t know that sex is the root of evil.”

His expression of humorous disagreement said that he knew I was joking, but wanted to make sure there were no false impressions. “I never said that, Lilith.”

“I know. But obviously it has something to do with clouding your clarity, and I get it.”

His brows drew closer together and I immediately wanted to make him feel better about my faculties.

“When I was little, like six or so, I asked my mom about sex. You know what she told me?”

Arthur settled against the rail.

“She said that there were lots of types of love.” I leaned my head atop my arms and looked away from him. “She said that sex was what happened when two people loved each other so much that the only way they could express it was to try and become the same person. That’s poetic, right?”

He nodded in my periphery.

“I thought so too. It stuck with me. I saw my folks, the way they loved each other, knew that it could happen, and wanted the same thing for myself. I went through my whole young life thinking that, even when all that horrible stuff happened. I knew it had to be true. So when the first stable guy came along, I tried to find it with him. It was unfair of me, I realize now.” It was true, for even as the words left my mouth, they became real. I was forgiving Howard and instantly felt lighter. “I lay in his arms the first time and tried not to cry, because it didn’t feel the way it was supposed to. I never wanted it again and that’s why he tried to find that with someone else.”

I turned to see what my revelation had done to him and found his eyes closed.

“So I get it. Those kids, they still think it’s a fairy tale, but someday they’ll be able to see the truth.”

He prodded me on with a nod.

“I know desire is the cause of suffering.” I sighed. “But if I hadn’t suffered, I wouldn’t be here, talking to you.”

His eyes opened, unbelievably careful with the confession I had shoved out of myself, just to be unburdened.

“I was married once,” he divulged.

Stunned, I kept my eyes focused on the far side of the divide. “Was it that kind of marriage?”

His voice had gone blank. “It was something of a convenient arrangement.”

“No wonder you feel as you do.”

His head shook. “I cared for her, enough that I could not tie her down. There were other things, greater concerns than only her happiness.”

I knew we couldn’t talk about it anymore. It was something still too raw for me to cover over, even with the healing balm of his fondness. Flirting with him was a joy, but while exposing myself to him, I was learning how vulnerable I really was. It was unfair of me to make him the ear for all my problems and expect him to reciprocate, and it was unfair of me to expect him to invest his emotions in a broken soul.

I turned to give him an understanding smile, but was interrupted when his lips contacted my forehead. The shiver went from his mouth to my mid-back and returned again.

Slowly, he pulled away. “As poetic as were your mother’s words, they only spoke for her. Unconditional, blissful love can have as many forms of expression as there are people in this world to feel it.”

Without a sound, I took his hand and as casually, he wrapped mine around his arm. We walked to the nearest shoe store like a couple, the tender moment like a respite from the rapids of the mall. I separated from him unwillingly, but found a pair of rubber-soled ballet slippers that received his seal of approval in the form of a confused index finger pointed at the bow on the toe.

“An interesting contrast to your metal zipper pockets.”

Before he could ask me about the rack of neon, curly shoelaces that were not meant to tie, I herded him toward an accessory store, happier than I had ever been.

“Explain to me why you need an espionage
outfit
,” he murmured in my ear as I looked for the heaviest bracelets and rings I could find.

“To be fashionable while kicking ass.”

“We’re not going to vanquish Medusa, Lilith,” he rebuked. “You do not need a mirrored shield.”

I reached past a girl standing in front of one of the racks and snatched a silver bracelet covered in turquoise stones. She looked up at me, surprised. I gave her a friendly smile and turned back to him.

“I realize that, but there’s no reason I can’t be prepared.”

“Agreed,” he said, his eyes following the girl as she tried to escape our bizarre conversation. “My issue is the ‘fashionable’ aspect. What purpose does it serve?”

“It’s a disguise, Arthur,” I said and rolled my eyes.

“Then there were
many
ninja at the club?”

I laughed and put my items on the counter.

“No, but when you walk into Rome not wearing a toga, people tend to wonder.” The cashier was grinning, trying not to laugh as she made my change.

“I should think they would care more about the nudity than the choice of attire. Though it
was
Rome, and they didn’t really care about nudity.”

Harassed, I shook my head and led him to the door, where he halted and pointed out a bracelet of metal spikes. I was about to ask him why he was suddenly such a comedian, when his hand shot out. Without turning around, he took hold of the arm of the young girl we had bothered, as she tried to exit the store. There was no hint of an explanation as he walked her past me and toward the wall, and for some reason, she did not protest.

I was going to demand to know what he was doing, when he stopped and put his face directly in front of hers. Her eyes were wide and I could see the pulse in her neck thumping in fear. Her gaze flicked to me, but I had learned to trust her captor implicitly and could offer no camaraderie.

“What you did,” he whispered when she looked at him again, “was dishonest.”

She froze, every muscle alert and stiff, and suddenly I understood. The baggy sweater, the glance over her shoulder, the willingness to let him pull her aside; she had been shoplifting. Her face fell, but I knew what she was feeling. Trying to look away from his eyes was impossible if he did not allow it. She swallowed.

“It may not hurt the woman working there or the business itself, indeed, no one else might ever find out,” he asserted, his hand resting on her shoulder heavily, “but you would know. What is your name?”

“A . . . Anna,” she said between gasps that were dangerously close to sobs.

“Anna,” he repeated, making the name sound like a prayer. “Anna, as easy as it is to do, it is fifty times harder to undo.”

“Are . . . are you a cop?”

He shook his head and without a second thought, released her, turned around, and gently steered me away. I looked back. Like a boulder in a river, she stood, staring after Arthur as if her soul had stuck to his hand. I knew that feeling too; it was what he’d made me feel in the cemetery. As I took his hand, I tried to explain that to her with my eyes and a heartening smile.

“You didn’t eat your breakfast,” he said. “Do you want something now, while we have time?”

A traffic jam pressed him behind me and his fingers, laced with mine, sat on my shoulder. Without knowing why, I blushed.

Was I as bad off as that girl?

“Sure.”

We walked to the food court, the oasis of the commercial free-for-all, and while he positioned himself nonchalantly at a table, I waited in line at a sandwich shop. Plastic tray in hand, I juggled its contents, set it atop the condiments bar and tried to keep from upending it into my bags. A helpful hand deposited some napkins in front of me just as I reached for them. I looked up to thank the person and found her, still recovering from the shock of his compelling presence.

Sympathetic, I raised my eyebrows. “Anna?”

She couldn’t have been older than thirteen. Her hair was pulled back, her clothes had the unmistakable look of hand-me-downs, and her nail polish had been picked at as if she had been nervously chewing.

“Is he . . . is that man a priest?”

I smiled awkwardly. “Sort of, I guess. He has a way with people.”

“Do you think it’s okay if I talk to him?”

I hesitated, but when I looked toward him and found him watching me, I knew the answer. “Sure, sweetheart. Go pick his brain. It’s full of useful tidbits in tons of languages.”

She turned instantly and went to join him at the table. I took my time, selected more mustard and mayo than I needed, got a fork just in case, and settled on a few more napkins for my glove compartment before I meandered back.

She had pulled a wadded-up paper bag from a cargo pocket inside her jeans and had put it on the table in front of him. His hands were folded and he was looking at her face with that divine impartiality that amazed me. I had stolen a piece of candy once, and my mother had gone on like a harpy for almost two hours.

I set my tray down and took a seat quietly.

“That’s everything,” she said. “Should I give it back?”

“Will it erase what you did?”

She was ashamed and completely confused as to why she should be. Without his guidance, she would get frustrated and forget he had ever touched her. Anxiously, I tried to nudge him with my eyes, but he would not look anywhere but her face.

“No. So . . . do I keep it?”

“Will it make you feel worse, or better, do you think?”

She shrugged, but it was obvious she knew they would only be reminders of her crime.