The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4) by Gay Hendricks
Authors: Gay Hendricks
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babbling. I’m going to be late. Is that still okay?”
“I’ll put her on,” Julie said. Nothing else.
What were you expecting, a parade?
“Ten?”
Her voice still sounded weak, but I definitely detected more Martha in there. Julie must be working her magic.
“How are you doing, Martha? Do you still want me to come over?”
“No, sorry, I’m going to bed. Tomorrow, okay? If it’s not too much trouble?”
“Of course.” I was shocked at her timidity.
“Don’t worry, Julie won’t be here. She’s taking the girls to Griffith Park for the day.”
No, but, but … I wanted to say, but didn’t. “I understand. I’ll stop by in the morning. And Martha?”
“Yes?”
Up ahead, the solid block of cars shifted from a frozen to a flowing state, for absolutely no discernible reason.
“Whatever you’re feeling right now? It will change, that I can promise.”
I hung up, my attention pulled like a dowsing rod to the fresh, bittersweet pressure newly lodged in my chest. Bill was gone, and Martha was hurting, but neither was the cause.
Julie was back, and my heart had suddenly remembered how to hope.
My car and I flew home. Tank was waiting at the kitchen door. He stalked, stiff-legged, to his empty bowl.
“I shouldn’t do this,” I said, removing the container of liver bits from the refrigerator. Usually he only gets liver every few days. A pair of sharp cat paws scaled my leg as I chopped the raw meat into bite-size pieces. “Ouch! Stop!” I moved him aside with one foot. “Guess who’s back in L.A.?”
Tank rolled onto his back and aimed all four legs skyward, his feline salute of approval.
“That’s right. Julie.” I set the bowl on the floor and Tank flipped upright and raced to his dish before I could change my mind. “Eat up. I’m going to meditate. We both need to build our inner strength for whatever’s coming next, buddy.”
I stepped around the screen and offered a small bow of acknowledgment to my personal shrine. The battered suitcase, now topped with two planks of redwood, was repurposed into a meditation altar, covered by the discarded maroon robe from my earlier incarnation as a novice Tibetan lama. Though the small statue of the Buddha still occupied the center, my collection of offerings had multiplied over time and now included two photographs I had brought back from India following my father’s death. I’d discovered the picture of my mother while clearing out my father’s things. Valerie was maybe 19. She smiled into the camera, her gaze direct, unclouded as yet by alcohol or pills. Light-brown hair fell in waves to her waist, and her tall figure was graceful, as if designed for the sari draping her slender curves. But it was the light around her that entranced the camera’s lens. She glowed as if illuminated from within; she was transcendently beautiful. No wonder my father had fallen so hard.
The other photograph was of Appa and me, more than a decade later. His outstretched arms looped a white silk khata around my ten-year-old neck, the reward for completing my ordination as a novice monk. My head was bowed, my father’s expression stern. If I squinted my eyes, he almost looked proud.
I scanned the rest of my mementos. The red-tailed hawk feather from my first hike in Topanga Park, a shell from Zuma. A tiny jade carving of the Goddess Tara, also from my father’s things, now sat in serene silence next to the mangled bullet that had grazed my right temple and changed my life. I enjoyed the irony of the juxtaposed symbols.
A kind, grizzled face caught my eye. I picked up the program from John D’s memorial service two months ago and studied his features, smiling in the photo printed on the back. My heart caught as I remembered his final 24 hours of life. I’d spent most of them at his side, holding his papery, mottled hands in mine as I matched the reedy ebb and flow of his breath. John D was my first paying client and would probably always be my favorite.
“I’ll put her on,” Julie said. Nothing else.
What were you expecting, a parade?
“Ten?”
Her voice still sounded weak, but I definitely detected more Martha in there. Julie must be working her magic.
“How are you doing, Martha? Do you still want me to come over?”
“No, sorry, I’m going to bed. Tomorrow, okay? If it’s not too much trouble?”
“Of course.” I was shocked at her timidity.
“Don’t worry, Julie won’t be here. She’s taking the girls to Griffith Park for the day.”
No, but, but … I wanted to say, but didn’t. “I understand. I’ll stop by in the morning. And Martha?”
“Yes?”
Up ahead, the solid block of cars shifted from a frozen to a flowing state, for absolutely no discernible reason.
“Whatever you’re feeling right now? It will change, that I can promise.”
I hung up, my attention pulled like a dowsing rod to the fresh, bittersweet pressure newly lodged in my chest. Bill was gone, and Martha was hurting, but neither was the cause.
Julie was back, and my heart had suddenly remembered how to hope.
My car and I flew home. Tank was waiting at the kitchen door. He stalked, stiff-legged, to his empty bowl.
“I shouldn’t do this,” I said, removing the container of liver bits from the refrigerator. Usually he only gets liver every few days. A pair of sharp cat paws scaled my leg as I chopped the raw meat into bite-size pieces. “Ouch! Stop!” I moved him aside with one foot. “Guess who’s back in L.A.?”
Tank rolled onto his back and aimed all four legs skyward, his feline salute of approval.
“That’s right. Julie.” I set the bowl on the floor and Tank flipped upright and raced to his dish before I could change my mind. “Eat up. I’m going to meditate. We both need to build our inner strength for whatever’s coming next, buddy.”
I stepped around the screen and offered a small bow of acknowledgment to my personal shrine. The battered suitcase, now topped with two planks of redwood, was repurposed into a meditation altar, covered by the discarded maroon robe from my earlier incarnation as a novice Tibetan lama. Though the small statue of the Buddha still occupied the center, my collection of offerings had multiplied over time and now included two photographs I had brought back from India following my father’s death. I’d discovered the picture of my mother while clearing out my father’s things. Valerie was maybe 19. She smiled into the camera, her gaze direct, unclouded as yet by alcohol or pills. Light-brown hair fell in waves to her waist, and her tall figure was graceful, as if designed for the sari draping her slender curves. But it was the light around her that entranced the camera’s lens. She glowed as if illuminated from within; she was transcendently beautiful. No wonder my father had fallen so hard.
The other photograph was of Appa and me, more than a decade later. His outstretched arms looped a white silk khata around my ten-year-old neck, the reward for completing my ordination as a novice monk. My head was bowed, my father’s expression stern. If I squinted my eyes, he almost looked proud.
I scanned the rest of my mementos. The red-tailed hawk feather from my first hike in Topanga Park, a shell from Zuma. A tiny jade carving of the Goddess Tara, also from my father’s things, now sat in serene silence next to the mangled bullet that had grazed my right temple and changed my life. I enjoyed the irony of the juxtaposed symbols.
A kind, grizzled face caught my eye. I picked up the program from John D’s memorial service two months ago and studied his features, smiling in the photo printed on the back. My heart caught as I remembered his final 24 hours of life. I’d spent most of them at his side, holding his papery, mottled hands in mine as I matched the reedy ebb and flow of his breath. John D was my first paying client and would probably always be my favorite.
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