K Stewart: A Devil in the Details

We were still enjoying that blissful week of true spring as I sat meditating in my garden. It wasn’t a large garden, or elaborate. It took up one corner of the backyard, leaving plenty of grassy space open for whatever. Around the small pond, a stone “river” flowed through the landscaping, white pebbles interspersed with cream and black. I had finished moving my bonsai trees, my pride and joy, back out from their winter shelter just a few days prior, and already I could see the rich green of the leaves taking hold in the bright sunlight.

The cheerful trickle of water into the shallow pond (no koi, sadly; we have raccoons) seemed to provide background music for the early-spring birds in the tree branches above me. I toyed with a pair of white river pebbles, turning the smooth stones over and over between my fingers. The soft clicking sound was soothing. Three yards over, I heard a lawn mower start up. It was a comfortable addition to the ambient sounds of the neighborhood. It was the perfect kind of peace, suitable for meditation.

I sat cross-legged in the sun, wearing my favorite pair of sweatpants and no shirt. The sweats, hanging low on my hips, were baggier on me than they had been; I was still regaining the mass I’d lost in my three-week ICU stint. Hospital food sucks, and the weight drops off fast. Building it back up took time, and I was never what you would call bulky to begin with. Some would call me scrawny. I prefer wiry.

The sunlight glowed a cheery red through my closed eyelids, and I smiled to feel it on my face. The mornings were a bit chilly still, and it was interesting to feel the sun chase the cooler shadows across my skin. The hint of warmth was soothing on my aching muscles. They didn’t hurt nearly as much after two months of recovery. I’d even been doing the physical therapy for my leg, like the good doctor told me, in addition to my usual katas and workouts. All right, she didn’t tell me to do it in addition to, but… what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

I had chosen the works of Tsunetomo Yamamoto for my meditation of the day. In his written works, called Hagakure, he lists four vows that a samurai should recite every day. The fourth of those is “to manifest great compassion and act for the sake of man.” That was what I focused on for the day, turning it over in my mind as I examined all possible meanings and oppositions. I like to think such mental exercises keep me keen.

Behind me, I heard the sliding glass door open. “Jesse, the phone’s ringing.” Ah, the dulcet voice of the love of my life, my wife, Mira.

Without opening my eyes, I answered, “Can you please take a message?”

I don’t know if I’m the only husband with this talent, but I can actually tell when my wife is gritting her teeth just from the tone of her voice. “The other phone is ringing, Jess.” Oops. Mira did not follow the bushido, so I doubted I’d get great compassion for the sake of man from her at this moment. In fact, she was more likely to throw something at me.

“Coming.” I opened my eyes and bowed from the waist to the little Buddha statue in my garden. No, I’m not Buddhist. He just seemed to belong there, and I hated to leave without at least acknowledging him. Courtesy, you know.

The remnants of morning dew soaked my bare feet and the cuffs of my sweats as I crossed the yard. Stepping up on the brick patio, I grabbed my discarded T-shirt off the lawn furniture and slung it over my shoulder. It gave me a chance to eye the beginnings of a tan. I’m out at night a lot. Add that to the pale blond hair and blue eyes, and I am the poster boy for white and pasty. I was more likely to burn than tan, but every spring I hoped for the best.

The only thing that wouldn’t tan would be the scars, starting just below my left armpit and disappearing beneath the waistband of my sweats. These particular ones were a lingering souvenir from a Skin demon. It had been a hulking white- furred creature, with long grasping arms and talons the length of my forearm. Towering a good four feet over my own six- foot height, it reminded me of a prehistoric sloth. There had been nothing slow about it, however, and even though I won that fight, I most certainly had not walked away from it. When I had nightmares, it was what came at me out of the dark with silver claws and glowing red eyes, killing me night after night.

In my mind, I still called it the Yeti, because the weak attempt at humor was all that kept me from going screaming mad in terror.

My other scars, peppered over my shoulders and arms, were inconspicuous next to the Yeti’s spectacular marks. I could name most of them. The small spattered burns on my forearms belonged to an explosive Snot from two years ago. The horseshoe marks on my shoulders, the size of fifty-cent pieces, were left behind by something leechlike nine months back. I was never sure whether it counted as a Snot or a Scuttle. The tiny scar at the right corner of my mouth, mostly hidden by my goatee, was my own doing. I had cut myself shaving in my youth.

Sure, I had more than my fair share for a man my age, but if anyone noticed that my scars had strange shapes and occurred in odd places, they never said. They pretended to believe they were knife wounds, and I pretended I believed they believed that. It worked out well for all concerned.

Mira was bent over, her head stuck in the dishwasher. She wore a pair of short cut-off jeans and a tank top, her thick mane of sable curls temporarily confined in some kind of twisty clip that probably had a name known only to women. All right, I’m a pig, I admit it, but I stopped to let my eyes wander up the slender column of her legs, over her nicely rounded behind, across the curve of her back… to find her green eyes staring at me over her shoulder. She raised one brow, and I shrugged with a sheepish grin. “You can’t blame a guy for looking.”

“Go answer the phone!” She hit me in the chest with a damp dish towel. At the same moment, a hard object collided with something lower down and much more precious to me. No combat training in the world can prepare you for the toddler-head-in-the-junk attack.

“Oof!” I looked down to find the culprit grinning up at me, all red pigtails and blue-eyed innocence.

“Daddy, your phone is ringing,” she informed me in all her five-year-old seriousness.

“I know, button. Lemme go so I can get it, ’kay?”

“Annabelle, go pick your toys up out of the living room, please.” At the sound of her mother’s voice, she was gone, her bare feet thundering down the hallway like a small herd of buffalo. It was amazing how much noise one small child could make.

The phone- that phone, anyway-never brought good news, so I took my time sauntering down the hallway, smelling the faint incense Mira had burning. Our house was nothing spectacular. I think the real estate agent called it a single- level ranch, three bedrooms, one and a half baths. I called it mundane suburban. Pale yellow vinyl siding and an unfenced yard completed the picture. The house was light and airy, and the maple hardwood floors almost glowed when the sun crept in through the tall windows. We’ve lived here six years already. I guess that means we’re going to stay.

I could hear Annabelle in her room as I passed, giggling fitfully as she tried to hide under her huge stuffed rabbit. We simply could not convince her that snickering madly was not a good way to stay hidden. “You’d better get moving before your mom finds you, kiddo.”

In my den-a walk-in closet, in a former life-the shrill chirp of my cell phone ceased just long enough for the person on the other end to hit REDIAL, then started up again. I closed the door behind me, encasing myself in my own personal haven. My desk and chair were against the far wall, the short wall. Two tall book-cases towered at my left, laden with everything from ancient Japanese philosophies to the latest bestseller from my favorite author. The right wall was adorned with my tie-dyed Jimi Hendrix wall hanging, right next to a Japanese silk print of two samurai battling. Home, sweet home.