A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

"Sign me up; why not, right?"

"Have you ever been on a silent retreat?"

"No, but I live in silence. I wear these headsets…"

"You may want to try a weekend retreat first."

"This sounds fine, perfect, my doctor recommended it."

"It's non-refundable. So, if you can't take it and have to leave, you lose; is that clear?"

"Non-refundable," he says, and reads her the digits of his credit card.

HE LEAVES a message for Cynthia with the receptionist at the Golden Door. "Tell her that Richard from the produce department called. Tell her he's going on a silent retreat starting tomorrow and wanted her to know where he was. In an emergency she can call him at… He'll be out by the weekend. He hopes all is going well and that she's enjoying herself."

He calls Lusardi. "Got your message, took your advice, I'm going."

"Bring your own toilet paper," Lusardi says.

"What does that mean?"

"Theirs is very Zen — one-ply. Also bring snacks — nuts, protein bars, things that you can consume inconspicuously to keep your energy up — and if you're a caffeine person, get some NoDoz; it can be very difficult going cold turkey."

"I'm not a caffeine person."

"One less thing to worry about."

He phones Cecelia: "I'm back from Boston, but am going away again until the end of the week. How're you faring?"

"I got my teeth cleaned, my mammogram, and if you take a real vacation, I could get my hip replaced."

"I didn't know you needed a new hip."

"Have you ever noticed how I walk?"

"I guess so."

"Well, it's not exactly comfortable-looking, is it?"

"Go ahead and take care of it — if there ever was a good time, this would be it."

"I'll look into it; I'm not sure they have hips just sitting around."

"Do you need me to send you a check?"

"I'll get it next time I see you."

"Well, if there's anything you need…"

"You sure you're all right? You know if anything happens you can call Cecelia. Just because I get paid to work doesn't mean I don't care."

THE MOVIE STAR stops by. "I was wondering where you were. I keep ringing your bell — nobody home."

"Visiting my brother in Boston."

"How come you're packing again?"

"I'm going on silent meditation starting tomorrow."

"Really? I played the Dalai Lama once. I met him to get a feel for things — his gestures, his walk. You know how he's supposed to be kind of permeable, letting things pass through, no attachment? But, frankly, I was a little disappointed." He pauses. "I never would have pictured you as a cushion kisser."

Richard shrugs.

"Are you bringing your own zafu or zabuton?"

"My what?"

"I'll lend you mine — the ones they have at those places are really beat up. I've got a nice cushion, buckwheat, that you put on top of the zabuton — helps your ass if you're going to be on it for a while. Also, bring your own pillow; the pillows in those places suck. Bring sheets, a pillow, and a blanket."

"It's not supposed to be about comfort."

"The goal isn't to make yourself miserable either."

The movie star goes home to get the cushion, and Richard rolls up his bedding and ties it with a shoelace, like a hobo. He puts sweatpants, socks, T-shirts, and a cozy sweater into his bag, along with a notebook, a pen, and a little Booklight. He feels like he's getting ready for sleepaway camp.

The movie star returns. "Maybe, when you're done, we can have dinner or something?"

"Yeah, that would be great."

"I'm a really good cook. That's what I do — when I'm not making a movie I cook. They wanted me to do a cookbook, but my manager said it was a bad idea. It's not an up-and-coming kind of a thing, it's more like a save-a-sinking-ship. Is there anything that you especially like?"

"I'm pretty easy."

"I do a marinated swordfish with a kind of avocado-citrus salsa and a wheatberry-nut salad; it's a nice lunch."

"Sounds fantastic."

"When are you back?"

"Sunday, I'm not sure what time."

"So come for late lunch; bring a friend if you want:"

The crying woman, he'll bring the crying woman to the movie star's house; it makes no sense. "Can I bring anything?"

"You won't have anything; you'll be empty from meditating."

He calls the Golden Door again. "I need to add something to my message. Tell her to come to Richard's house for lunch next Sunday."

HUNGER. He realizes he hasn't eaten anything all day. The fridge is empty: Cecelia cleaned it out before they left. The freezer. The Carvel cake from the night he met Cynthia is still in the freezer. He takes a spoon to it — the spoon bends. He takes a fork, spearing the chocolate.

His nephew's voice echoes in his head: "How come we're not having cake?"

There is the sound of a party in the distance. The swimmer's backyard is strung with colored paper lights, filled with people milling. Would he recognize her up close?

When she's doing her laps, he imagines throwing something — a flower, a pebble, something to let her know that he's there. He imagines going to the edge of the hill, calling out, "Good morning. Hi there."

He imagines trying to break the ice. And now she is having a party — a good excuse. It makes sense until he gets there, until he goes in and realizes that he doesn't know a single person. "Can I get you a drink?" someone asks. "Wine," he says, "a spritzer." He looks around; his eye catches a ham. He can't remember when he last had ham. He cuts himself a slice, puts on some mustard, and pops it in his mouth — delicious. He makes another slice and tops it with cheese.

"So," he says to a blonde woman standing next to him, "do you know all these people?"

"Most of them. Who do you know?"

"No one. I'm the neighbor up the hill — I'm crashing."

He eats his way around the table — ham, cheese, carrots, zucchini, dip, chips, nuts. He eats in a circle, going around and around, realizing how hungry he is. He munches, listening to conversations, amusing himself — this is his idea of wild. Finally he spots a familiar gesture, the turn of her head, the flicking of her hair.

He goes to her. "I just wanted to say hello."

The minute she turns towards him he wishes he hadn't come; she's different in person — her eyes are brown when he was expecting blue, and there's a harshness that leaves him with a sinking sensation. She's not who he thought she would be. He feels out of place, and he's got a cashew stuck in his throat. He coughs. "I'm your neighbor, up the hill."

"Are we being too loud?" she asks.

"No, no. I heard the party and I just wanted to say hello. I see you swimming every morning. I'm up early."

"Which house?"

He points up the hill — from here his house looks good. "The one with the sinkhole. Last week a horse fell in and Tad Ford came and got him with a helicopter — that was a big adventure. Maybe you saw it on TV?" She shakes her head no. "Well, hopefully, the house won't slide down the hill; then we'd really be neighbors." He laughs. She doesn't. "Anyway, I just wanted to say hello, to introduce myself." He's talking as he's backing towards the door. "I'm Richard. I see you every morning, I stand at the glass, I watch you doing your laps." He meant it as a compliment: she was his inspiration, his muse, his mermaid. He goes home wishing he'd left it as it was — in his mind's eye.

IN THE MORNING, he takes a taxi to Anhil's.

"Why didn't you call? I would have picked you up from the airport."

"I came home yesterday."

"Even better — a very slow day in donuts. Did you know that Fudgie the Whale is also Santa Claus? The famous icecream cake — if you turn it around, the whale becomes Santa Claus; that's genius. Right now all I can do is add green to the donuts on St. Patrick's Day, pink on Valentine's; I can't make a man into a whale." He shakes his head. "I am not your stereo-tropical man who comes to America with poor ideas."